Volleyball Quotes

I’m stuck babysitting turtle eggs while a volleyball player slash grease monkey slash aquarium volunteer tries to hit on me.” I’m not hitting on you,” he protested. No?” Believe me, you’d know if I was hitting on you. You wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from succumbing to my charms.

There should be a class on sex education, a real sex-education class. There should be a class on police brutality. There should be a class on apartheid. There should be a class on why people are hungry. But there are not. There are classes on gym. Physical education. Let's learn volleyball.

What were the odds that she'd turn away at the same instant the ball came flying her way? And that she'd be holding a soda in a crowd at a volleyball game she didn't even want to watch, in a place she didn't want to be? In a million years, the same thing should probably never happen again. With odds like that, she should have bought a lottery ticket.

Compassion speaks with a slight accent. She was a vulnerable child, miserable in school, cold, shy … In ninth grade she was befriended by Courage. Courage lent Compassion bright sweaters, explained the slang, showed her how to play volleyball.

He stands confidently in his hot pink mankini. When I told him it was the only suit left, he literally shrugged and put it on. Tan skin, ripped abs and stylish wayfarers- he instantly looked cool even wearing that damn thing. And the girls playing water volleyball even gawked at his ass

Liam cleared his throat again and turned to fully face me. “So, it’s the summer and you’re in Salem, suffering through another boring, hot July, and working part-time at an ice cream parlor. Naturally, you’re completely oblivious to the fact that all of the boys from your high school who visit daily are more interested in you than the thirty-one flavors. You’re focused on school and all your dozens of clubs, because you want to go to a good college and save the world. And just when you think you’re going to die if you have to take another practice SAT, your dad asks if you want to go visit your grandmother in Virginia Beach.” “Yeah?” I leaned my forehead against his chest. “What about you?” “Me?” Liam said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m in Wilmington, suffering through another boring, hot summer, working one last time in Harry’s repair shop before going off to some fancy university—where, I might add, my roommate will be a stuck-up-know-it-all-with-a-heart-of-gold named Charles Carrington Meriwether IV—but he’s not part of this story, not yet.” His fingers curled around my hip, and I could feel him trembling, even as his voice was steady. “To celebrate, Mom decides to take us up to Virginia Beach for a week. We’re only there for a day when I start catching glimpses of this girl with dark hair walking around town, her nose stuck in a book, earbuds in and blasting music. But no matter how hard I try, I never get to talk to her. “Then, as our friend Fate would have it, on our very last day at the beach I spot her. You. I’m in the middle of playing a volleyball game with Harry, but it feels like everyone else disappears. You’re walking toward me, big sunglasses on, wearing this light green dress, and I somehow know that it matches your eyes. And then, because, let’s face it, I’m basically an Olympic god when it comes to sports, I manage to volley the ball right into your face.” “Ouch,” I said with a light laugh. “Sounds painful.” “Well, you can probably guess how I’d react to that situation. I offer to carry you to the lifeguard station, but you look like you want to murder me at just the suggestion. Eventually, thanks to my sparkling charm and wit—and because I’m so pathetic you take pity on me—you let me buy you ice cream. And then you start telling me how you work in an ice cream shop in Salem, and how frustrated you feel that you still have two years before college. And somehow, somehow, I get your e-mail or screen name or maybe, if I’m really lucky, your phone number. Then we talk. I go to college and you go back to Salem, but we talk all the time, about everything, and sometimes we do that stupid thing where we run out of things to say and just stop talking and listen to one another breathing until one of us falls asleep—” “—and Chubs makes fun of you for it,” I added. “Oh, ruthlessly,” he agreed. “And your dad hates me because he thinks I’m corrupting his beautiful, sweet daughter, but still lets me visit from time to time. That’s when you tell me about tutoring a girl named Suzume, who lives a few cities away—” “—but who’s the coolest little girl on the planet,” I manage to squeeze out.

The center snaps the ball to the quarterback!" "No he doesn't!" "He doesn't?" "NO! Secretly, he's the quarterback for the other team! He keeps the ball!" "A traitor!" "Calvin breaks for the goal." "Wheeee! He's at the 30... the 20... the 10! Nobody can catch him!" "Nobody wants to! Your running toward your own goal!" "Huh?!" "When I learned that you were a spy, I switched goals. This is your goal and mine's hidden!" "Hidden?!" "You'll never find it in a million years!" "I don't need to find it as a traitor to your team, crossing my goal counts as crossing your goal!" "Ah, so you might think so..." "In fact, I know so!" "But the place I hid my goal is right on top of your goal, so the points will go to me!" "But the fact is, I'm really a double agent! I'm on your team after all, which means you'll lose points if I cross your goal! Ha ha!" "But I'm a traitor too, so I'm really on your team! I want you to cross my goal! The points will go to your team, which is really my team!" "That would be true... if I were a football player!" "You mean...?" "I'm actually a badminton player disguised as a double-agent football player!!" "And I'm actually a volleyball-croquet-polo player!" "Sooner or later, all our games turn into CalvinBall." "No cheating!

I'm Hinata Shouyou from the concrete.

Ronnie:" I guess I'm okay with that.But it's not going to be easy for you. They don't have a lot of fishing or mudding around here. Will:" I figured." Ronnie" And not a lot of beach volleyball,either. Especially in January." Will" I guess I'll have to make some sacrifices." Ronnie."Maybe if you're lucky, we can find you some other ways to occupy Your time.

I have periods now, like normal girls; I too am among the knowing, I too can sit out volleyball games and go to the nurse's for aspirin and waddle along the halls with a pad like a flattened rabbit tail wadded between my legs, sopping with liver-colored blood.

They were all on the volleyball team together and tall and fit as colts and when they went for runs it was what the track team might have looked like in terrorist heaven.

TOGETHER we stand, TOGETHER we fall, TOGETHER we win, and winners take ALL. -Temple College Volleyball Team

If volleyball was easy, they would call it football.

We went about our usual routines - combat practice, volleyball practice, archery practice, strawberry-picking practice (don't ask), lava-wall-climbing practice ... You'll find we practice a lot here.

There was no 'I' in team, but there was meat in team. And we were all dead meat.

On the other hand, she never looked as -big- as she did at that moment. "What?" Rose demanded, glaring up at him. The warning signal flashed bright red in Kane's head. Telling a woman she was as big as a beach ball wouldn't win any points. How did one describe how she looked? A basketball? Volleyball? He studied her furious little face. Yeah. He was in big trouble no matter what he said. Description was out of the question. He needed diplomacy, something that flew out of the window when he was near her and she said the words like contractions.

If you're the king that rules the court, I'll have to defeat you, and I'll be the last one standing!

The (volleyball) player is not a soloist, but a member of an orchestra. When that player begins to think, 'Im special,' (The player) is finished.

Something is not right,' Weavyr announced. She crouched lower over one spot in the Wyrd and tugged, redirecting the threads. In the moments that followed, throughout the world, hearts were broken, brilliant careers were launched and dreams were dashed. A volleyball serve also went awry.

When you dedicate yourself to pushing higher, you’re going to have to expect the hard times to outweigh the fun. It gets to the point where you begin to believe that if it isn’t hard, if it isn’t rough, then you aren’t giving everything you can. Yet, without any rhyme or reason, from time to time, something fun will just hit… out of nowhere. It’s that fun that keeps pulling me onward. Volleyball is fun. Every time I forget that, it comes back to remind me.

Fencing is different to sport like Tennis or Volleyball. In those sport, if scores are tied before the final point, it's called "Deuce". Which means "Two" because a player must be two points ahead to win... to compensate for the advantage of serving. But in fencing, there is no Deuce. Because there's no advantage. Both fencers start off equally. Equal footing. Equal opportunity. What separates them is just skill and the psychology of the match. The difference between winning and losing is just one point

This is all made worse by the fact that I’m competitive. Not normal-people competitive. Not friendly competitive. Scary-psychotic competitive. Never hand me a volleyball. Don’t ask me to play a fun hand of cards. I have never heard of a casual round of Scrabble.

Dead Uncle Steve?” I grit my teeth. “He’s not dead. He looks like Tom Hanks from Castaway, though. Minus the volleyball.

They remembered volleyball as a laid back backyard barbecue pastime, or a gym requirement. They had no idea how fierce and cool the sport had become, how girls had taken it over.

You’re so much better than a volleyball.

The (volleyball) player is not a soloist, but a member of an orchestra. When that player begins to think, 'Im special,' (The player) is finished.

At the edge of the pit, she launches herself into the air: Jane of the Jungle, the Human Volleyball, Centrifugal Force Girl. For four seconds, she flies. And of those four seconds, she only screams in terror for three.

Sport, on the other hand, is straightforward. In badminton, if you win a rally, you get one point. In volleyball, if you win a rally, you get one point. In tennis, if you win a rally, you get 15 points for the first or second rallies you’ve won in that game, or 10 for the third, with an indeterminate amount assigned to the fourth rally other than the knowledge that the game is won, providing one player is two 10-point (or 15-point) segments clear of his opponent. It’s clear and simple.

How are you holding up?" "I'm good.And still untouched," she added. "Are you alone in that bed?" "Except for the six members of the all-girl Swedish volleyball team.Helga's got a hell of a spike.Aren't you going to ask what I'm wearing?" "Black Speedos,sweat,and a big smile." "How'd you guess?So,what are you wearing?" Slowly,she ran a tongue around her teeth. "Oh,just this little..very little..white lace teddy." "And stiletto heels." "Naturally.With a pair of sheer hose.They have little pink roses around the tops. It matches the one I'm tucking between my breasts right now. I should add I've just gotten out of the tub.I'm still a little..wet." "Jesus.You're too good at this.I'm hanging up." Her response was a long, throaty laugh."I'm going to love driving the Jag.let me know when to expect the shipment." When the phone clicked in her ear,she laughed again,turned, and found herself nearly face to face wth Kate. "how long have you been standing there?" "Long enough to be confused.Were you just having [hone sex with Josh? Our Josh?" Carelessly,Margo brushed her hair behind her ear. "It was more foreplay really.

liberosis n. the desire to care less about things—to loosen your grip on your life, to stop glancing behind you every few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you before you reach the end zone—rather to hold your life loosely and playfully, like a volleyball, keeping it in the air, with only quick fleeting interventions, bouncing freely in the hands of trusted friends, always in play.

She wanted to feel normal. She wanted to feel like everyone else. She wanted more than this even; she wanted to be pretty. She wanted to be like the girls who ran laps in gym class, climbed ropes, jumped, and were asked out on dates. When some girls were wondering if their shorts or skirts were too tight, Sarah was worried about her underpants: granny panties, she called them. When the prettiest and most popular were trying out for cheerleading or volleyball, Sarah went home and read, gorged herself between meals in front of her computer and television.

It happened right then; he looked at me and it was the thing I’d been waiting for but didn’t know it. I don’t mean anything corny like I fell in love or even into a crush or anything like that. It was more a feeling like when I’d get picked first for volleyball or find one of those stupid school candygrams in my locker. It was knowing someone else thought about me for more than one second, maybe even about me when I wasn’t there.

Laurel: Check it - we're in charge of the volleyball court. Holly: We keep it ready to go. Laurel: Makes me sick. Holly:The court? Laurel: No, that campers play for fun, as in - Holly: Don't say it! Laurel: - recreationally. Holly: Gross! Pointless! Laurel: Totally goes against our heritage.

Naturally torturers giggle while they work: The body’s dumb obedience to physics (pull hard enough and this comes off, squeeze tight enough and that pops out) against which the nuances of the victim’s personality count for nothing has in it one of the roots of comedy—the spirit’s subservience to the flesh. You can cut a head off and shove it in a bag, stick it on a pole, play volleyball or footie with it. Hilarious, among other things.

One of my greatest pleasures there was enjoying the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing and knowing that white folks were doing the preparing instead of me. There was swimming in the man-made lake, volleyball, square dancing. It was quite enjoyable to be with at Highlander. We forgot what color anybody was. I was forty-two years old, and it was one of the few times in my life up to that point when I did not feel any hostility from white people.

Yes, I hate blown glass art and I happen to live in the blown glass art capital of the world, Seattle, Washington. Being a part of the Seattle artistic community, I often get invited to galleries that are displaying the latest glass sculptures by some amazing new/old/mid-career glass blower. I never go. Abstract art leaves me feeling stupid and bored. Perhaps it’s because I grew up inside a tribal culture, on a reservation where every song and dance had specific ownership, specific meaning, and specific historical context. Moreover, every work of art had use—art as tool: art to heal; art to honor, art to grieve. I think of the Spanish word carnal, defined as, ‘Of the appetites and passions of the body.’ And I think of Gertrude Stein’s line, ‘Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.’ When asked what that line meant, Stein said, ‘The poet could use the name of the thing and the thing was really there.’ So when I say drum, the drum is really being pounded in this poem; when I say fancydancer, the fancydancer is really spinning inside this poem; when I say Indian singer, that singer is really wailing inside this poem. But when it comes to abstract art—when it comes to studying an organically shaped giant piece of multi-colored glass—I end up thinking, ‘That looks like my kidney. Anybody’s kidney, really. And frankly, there can be no kidney-shaped art more beautiful—more useful and closer to our Creator—than the kidney itself. And beyond that, this glass isn’t funny. There’s no wit here. An organic shape is not inherently artistic. It doesn’t change my mind about the world. It only exists to be admired. And, frankly, if I wanted to only be in admiration of an organic form, I’m going to watch beach volleyball. I’m always going to prefer the curve of a woman’s hip or a man’s shoulder to a piece of glass that has some curves.

Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this to my advantage. But physically, I’d never fit in anywhere. I should be tan, sporty, blonde—a volleyball player, or a cheerleader, perhaps—all the things that go with living in the valley of the sun. Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft somehow, obviously not an athlete; I didn’t have the necessary hand-

Lucia opened the door. "They say not to discuss politics and religion on the first date." “Well, then.” I gave her a huge smile. “We’re screwed.

Did Tom Hanks talk to the volleyball because he'd gone mad, or to stop himself going mad?

I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how many injuries I had sustained—and inflicted—playing volleyball, I felt faintly nauseated.

I guess teaching maths at Chandan Classes didn’t keep me as fit as when I was the volleyball captain at IIT Delhi.

volleyball. Even being “almost the best” would be alright.

I imagined myself a professor's daughter, riding a bike to my classes. I could wear a camel's hair coat at last, have a roommate, play intramural volleyball, all paid for in advance.

I had a crush, but I'm not sure I actually had a crush on Sam Hunt. He was the face attached to it, but I don't really know much about him at all. I thought he played basketball, but I think it may have actually been volleyball. No matter. I took what I knew, and I filled in the details to my liking. It was fun. And also ridiculous. When you have a crush on a half-real, half-imaginary boy, you will always be disappointed.

The temperature in the gym reached 125 degrees, qualifying anyone there to be served rare. "Could we," Dr. Henneman said, wafting her hands about, "open those back doors, let a little air in? Please?".... Miles Paterini and Pete Couvier ... pressed down on the metal bars. The doors didn't open. People actually gasped. Dennis began calculating the amount of oxygen left in the gymnasium. Dr. Henneman's doctorate in school administration had prepared her for this. "Is Mr. Wrona here?" Mr. Wrona, the school custodian, was not here. He was at home watching women's volleyball with the sound turned off and imagining the moment everyone realized the back doors were locked.

In 1979 Griselda Drown was a senior volleyballer at Boise High, a terrifically tall girl with trunky thighs, slender arms and a volleyball serve that won an Idaho State Championship despite T-shirts claiming it was a team effort.

At high school I was never comfortable for a minute. I did not know about Lonnie. Before an exam, she got icy hands and palpitations, but I was close to despair at all times. When I was asked a question in class, any simple little question at all, my voice was apt to come out squeaky, or else hoarse and trembling. When I had to go to the blackboard I was sure—even at a time of the month when this could not be true—that I had blood on my skirt. My hands became slippery with sweat when they were required to work the blackboard compass. I could not hit the ball in volleyball; being called upon to perform an action in front of others made all my reflexes come undone. I hated Business Practice because you had to rule pages for an account book, using a straight pen, and when the teacher looked over my shoulder all the delicate lines wobbled and ran together. I hated Science; we perched on stools under harsh lights behind tables of unfamiliar, fragile equipment, and were taught by the principal of the school, a man with a cold, self-relishing voice—he read the Scriptures every morning—and a great talent for inflicting humiliation. I hated English because the boys played bingo at the back of the room while the teacher, a stout, gentle girl, slightly cross-eyed, read Wordsworth at the front. She threatened them, she begged them, her face red and her voice as unreliable as mine. They offered burlesqued apologies and when she started to read again they took up rapt postures, made swooning faces, crossed their eyes, flung their hands over their hearts. Sometimes she would burst into tears, there was no help for it, she had to run out into the hall. Then the boys made loud mooing noises; our hungry laughter—oh, mine too—pursued her. There was a carnival atmosphere of brutality in the room at such times, scaring weak and suspect people like me.

She listens, and I wish I could give her a little gold trophy for it, but I can’t, because of all the things Fuckwits gave trophies for, they never thought listening like nothing exists but time and words was half as important as losing a volleyball tournament.

Pray with a quorum of 10 Debate withassembly of 9 Scottish dance with a collective of 8 Party with a gathering of 7 Play volleyball with a group of 6 Rank on a scale to 5 Practice music with a band of 4 Perceive in a dimension of 3 Make love with the intimacy of 2 Write poetry for an audience of 1

Before you start your full day of watching Equestrian Square Dancing, Soccer Balling, Hoop Dreaming, Cricket Batting, Rugby Punching, Volleyball Chopping, Skateboard Falling, Martial Arts Bowing, Bicycle Peddlers, and College Football Hecklers, maybe we have time to learn something Scientifically.

He had been a little drunk himself. Not enough to play volleyball with the drinkware, but enough that his eyes had gleamed with a distant sadness. He pulled me close, and I nestled against him the way I had as a little girl, breathing in the cedar-salt scent of him. “I love your mother,” he said then, present tense. He loves her.

With rough gentleness the big boys taught her to shoot craps and chew tobacco without losing it. The big girls giggled behind their hands most of the time and whispered among themselves a great deal, but Jean Louise considered them useful when choosing sides for a volleyball match. All in all, it was turning out to be a wonderful year.

I mean, have you ever imagined the ocean is alive, and needs to tell us something important, and the only way it can talk is by making waves crash, and we just lounge there, drenched in cocoa butter, on towels with crappy novels and volleyballs, sipping spritzers, as the ocean uses all its strength to repeat the same warning over and over?

Margo tilted her head toward her husband asking, “What is it about beach volleyball that captures your attention?” More than anything I’m amazed how they’re able to keep everything in the proper place when spiking the ball. Makes me want to invest in spandex . . . and of course, their fitness is enviable,” he said, his face broadening into a playful smile.

...In addition, we are fortunate to teach a sport that emphasizes selflessness, teamwork and response to adversity. In what other sport is there a group hug after every point?

I mean, have you ever imagined the ocean is alive, and needs to tell us something important, and the only way it can talk is by making waves crash, and we just lounge there, drenched in cocoa butter, on towels with crappy novels and volleyballs, sipping spritzers, as the ocean uses all its strength to repeat the same warning over and over? (from the poem "The Berlin Mall")

I don’t know what the beach of Laguna is like now but in the thirties it was a fine place to pass summer days. There was constant volleyball, there was surfing and surfers, there was an artist colony and there was so on and so forth and all of it was delightful. It seems to me that the best part of all was riding our bikes up the canyon at first dark in those days when the sky was still a poem. And

We went about our usual routines – combat practice, volleyball practice, archery practice, strawberry-picking practice (don’t ask), lava-wall-climbing practice … You’ll find we practise a lot here. We would have spent the evening in the usual way, too, with a campfire sing-along, if not for an offhand comment Nico di Angelo dropped at dinner. We were talking about what changes each of us would make if we ran the camp, and Nico said: ‘First thing I’d do is make sure the poor newbie demigods don’t have to suffer through the orientation film.’ All conversation stopped. ‘What orientation film?’ Will Solace asked. Nico looked puzzled. ‘You know …’ He glanced side to side, clearly uncomfortable with everybody watching him. Finally he cleared his throat and sang in a warbly voice to the tune of ‘The Hokey Cokey’: ‘It lets the demigods in! It shuts the monsters out! It keeps the half-bloods safe, but turns mortals all about! It’s Misty, and it’s magic, and it makes me want to shout: the border is all about!’ He punctuated the last line of the song with some half-hearted claps. We stared at him in stunned silence. ‘Nico.’ Will patted his boyfriend’s arm. ‘You’re scaring the other campers.’ ‘More than usual,’ Julia Feingold muttered

Forget about showering with my fellow students in Tribeca Alternative’s prison-style showers—one nozzle for four to six girls at a time—in the locker room. It was impossible to work up a sweat during what passed for physical education class at TAHS, so there was no need to shower, anyway. Well, impossible for me, considering that, in the past, whenever a volleyball or whatever came near me, I’d always make sure to step calmly away to avoid it. See? No sweat. No need for a shower. Problem solved.

The very best thing about landing in that grave? Perspective. So I peer through this morning's prism: a science test looming in second period, an a-hole of a coach who probably could have used more childhood therapy than I got, and a tell-tale tampon under my foot. I consider the clawed tiger on the bed, the one wearing the zebra-printed sports bra - the same tiger that every Sunday transforms into the girl who voluntarily walks next door to help sort Miss Effie's medicine into her days-of-the-week pill container. The one who pretended her ankle hurt one day last week so the backup settler on her volleyball team would get to play on her birthday.

Where the hell did the Pack find you two? At a beach volleyball tournament? Great tan. Love those curls.” LeBlanc shook his head. “He’s not even as big as I am. He’s what, six foot nothing? Two hundred pounds in steel-toed boots? Christ. I’m expecting some ugly bruiser bigger than Cain and what do I find? The next Baywatch star. Looks like his IQ would be low enough. Can he chew gum and tie his shoes at the same time?” Clay stopped playing with his chair and turned to face the mirror. He got up, crossed the room, and stood in front of me. I was leaning forward, one hand pressed against the glass. Clay touched his fingertips to mine and smiled. LeBlanc jumped back. “Fuck,” he said. “I thought that was one-way glass.” “It is.” Clay turned his head toward LeBlanc and mouthed three words. Then the door to his room opened and one of the officers called him out. Clay grinned at me, then sauntered out with the officer. As he left, a surge of renewed confidence ran through me. “What did he say?” LeBlanc asked. “Wait for me.” “What?” “It’s a challenge,” Marsten murmured from across the room. He didn’t look up from his magazine. “He’s inviting you to stick around and get to know him better.” “Are you going to?” LeBlanc asked. Marsten’s lips curved in a smile. “He didn’t invite me.” LeBlanc snorted. “For a bunch of killer monsters, the whole lot of you are nothing but hot air. All your rules and challenges and false bravado.” He waved a hand at me. “Like you. Standing there so nonchalantly, pretending you aren’t the least bit concerned about having the two of us in the room.” “I’m not.” “You should be. Do you know how fast I could kill you? You’re standing two feet away from me. If I had a gun or knife in my pocket, you’d be dead before you had time to scream.” “Really? Huh.” LeBlanc’s cheek twitched. “You don’t believe me, do you? How do you know I’m not packing a gun? There’s no metal detector at the door. I could pull one out now, kill you, and escape in thirty seconds.” “Then do it. I know, you don’t like our little games, but humor me. If you have a gun or a knife, pull it out. If not, pretend to. Prove you could do it." “I don’t need to prove anything. Certainly not to a smart-mouthed—” He whipped his hand up in mid-sentence. I grabbed it and snapped his wrist. The sound cracked through the room. The receptionist glanced over, but LeBlanc had his back to her. I smiled at her and she turned away. “You—fucking—bitch,” LeBlanc gasped, cradling his arm. “You broke my wrist.” “So I win.” His face purpled. “You smug—” “Nobody likes a sore loser,” I said. “Grit your teeth and bear it. There’s no crying in werewolf games. Didn’t Daniel teach you that?

Contractions. Kane’s stomach dropped right out of his body. He stared down at her, his mind going fuzzy. That was one of those words like menstruation, period, or female products . The list just wasn’t uttered in male company. Contractions fit right in there. God. This was not happening. He forced his brain under control, ignoring the pounding in his head and the roaring in his ears. He studied Rose’s body carefully. She wasn’t due for another four or five weeks, right? He knew when she got pregnant. When he’d first seen her, she had looked slim, but that had been an illusion. On the other hand, she never looked as— big —as she did at that moment.“What?” Rose demanded, glaring up at him. The warning signal flashed bright red in Kane’s head. Telling a woman she was as big as a beach ball wouldn’t win any points. How did one describe how she looked? A basketball? Volleyball? He studied her furious little face. Yeah. He was in trouble no matter what he said. Description was out of the question. He needed diplomacy, something that flew out the window when he was near her and she said words like contractions.He’d jump out of a plane without hesitation in the heart of enemy territory, but damn it all, ask him to kill someone, not deliver babies. She didn’t take her eyes off him, and that expression on her scowling face demanded an answer.

It was in the Cornish summer of his twelfth year that Peter began to notice just how different the worlds of children and grown-ups were. You could not exactly say that the parents never had fun. They went for swims - but never for longer than twenty minutes. They liked a game of volleyball, but only for half an hour or so. Occasionally they could be talked into hide-and-seek or lurky turkey or building a giant sand-castle, but those were special occasions. The fact was that all grown-ups, given half the chance, chose to sink into one of three activities on the beach: sitting around talking, reading newspapers and books, or snoozing. Their only exercise (if you could call it that) was long boring walks, and these were nothing more than excuses for more talking. On the beach, they often glanced at their watches and, long before anyone was hungry, began telling each other it was time to start thinking about lunch or supper. They invented errands for themselves - to the odd-job man who lived half a mile away, or to the garage in the village, or to the nearby town on shopping expeditions. They came back complaining about the holiday traffic, but of course they were the holiday traffic. These restless grown-ups made constant visits to the telephone box at the end of the lane to call their relatives, or their work, or their grown-up children. Peter noticed that most grown-ups could not begin their day happily until they had driven off to find a newspaper, the right newspaper. Others could not get through the day without cigarettes. Others had to have beer. Others could not get by without coffee. Some could not read a newspaper without smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Adults were always snapping their fingers and groaning because someone had returned from town and forgotten something; there was always one more thing needed, and promises were made to get it tomorrow - another folding chair, shampoo, garlic, sun-glasses, clothes pegs - as if the holiday could not be enjoyed, could not even begin, until all these useless items had been gathered up.

My worst day was in seventh grade, when Tommy Hewitt pissed on my gym clothes and then the gym teacher said I had to wear my uniform or I’d fail the class. Seventh-grade gym, right? There are worse things to fail. But it was a big deal then, and I was crying, and trying to explain to the teacher what happened, but it was so embarrassing, and he just yelled and yelled and yelled until I put on these piss-soaked shorts and T-shirt. That was the day I stopped caring what people did. I just never cared anymore, about being a loser or not having friends or any of that. So I guess it was good for me in a way, but that moment was awful. I mean, imagine me playing volleyball or whatever in pee-soaked gym clothes while Tommy Hewitt tells everyone what he did. That was the worst day.

My dad will win, I silently countered, even as I smiled sweetly. I couldn’t wait to spike the ball right through her block, no matter how tall she was. In health class we’d learned that if Barbie were human, she’d be six feet tall and weigh one hundred pounds, and Gisele seemed pretty close to those dimensions. By contrast, my doll representation would be more like Barbie’s Fat Mexican-American Republican sidekick.

After Wilmington, the daily drinking stopped. He’d go a week, sometimes two, without anything stronger than diet soda. He’d wake up without a hangover, which was good. He’d wake up thirsty and miserable—wanting—which wasn’t. Then there would come a night. Or a weekend. Sometimes it was a Budweiser ad on TV that set him off—fresh-faced young people with nary a beergut among them, having cold ones after a vigorous volleyball game. Sometimes it was seeing a couple of nice-looking women having after-work drinks outside some pleasant little café, the kind of place with a French name and lots of hanging plants. The drinks were almost always the kind that came with little umbrellas. Sometimes it was a song on the radio. Once it was Styx, singing “Mr. Roboto.” When he was dry, he was completely dry. When he drank, he got drunk. If he

PRESCRIPTION 5 Low Back and Trunk   This prescription can be used to treat these symptoms and restrictions: Abdominal pain Compromised breathing Hip extension range of motion Hip pain Low back pain Sciatica Spinal rotation, flexion and extension range of motion   Overview Methods: Contract and relax Pressure wave Smash and floss Tools: Small ball Large ball Small bouncy ball or under-inflated soccer/volleyball Total time:  14 minutes   This prescription is great for treating low back pain and supporting the hardworking muscles of your trunk. We’ve established that poor spinal mechanics and sitting can cause adaptive stiffness and irritation in the discs, ligaments, and muscles around your spine and trunk. And when that happens, low back pain is often the result. Although there are other contributing factors to consider, like previous injuries, arthritis, obesity, and stress, we would argue that one of the leading causes of low back pain and trunk-related problems stems from poor posture, prolonged sitting, and a lack of basic self-maintenance. Having spent the majority of this book outlining a protocol for preventing and resolving the issue from a mechanical standpoint, let’s turn our attention to the maintenance side of things. This prescription targets the muscles that are responsible for keeping your spine braced, as well as the muscles that may get stiff when you move poorly or sit for too long.

Do I have to give you hair torture to get it out of you?” What is that? From the light in her eyes and the jaunty uptick of her mouth, I had a sense it would be pleasurable. “Do what you must.” In a dash, she pinned my wrists above my head. Her head dipped and her thick hair engulfed me, sweeping across my face and filling my mouth. “Nooo!” I half-heartedly pressed against her hold. “Give it up, Dane.” I could hear the laughter in her voice. “Never!” I thrashed my head from side to side, trying to breathe through the black curtain blinding and drowning me. “You’re killing me!” “Jeez, you take this even worse than Matty.” I groaned. “With a sister like you, I feel sorry for him.” There was a sharp rap on the door. “Are you okay in there?” China asked. Lucia glanced at me, and we both cracked up.

Fidel Castro, who always enjoyed sports, promoted programs that helped Cuba become a front-runner in Latin America. The island nation fields outstanding baseball, soccer, basketball and volleyball teams. It also excels in amateur boxing. Believing that sports should be available for everyone, not just the privileged few, the phrase “Sports for all” is a motto frequently used. When Castro took power, he abolished all professional sports. Only amateur baseball has been played in Cuba since 1961. An unexpected consequence of this initiative was that many players discovered that they could get much better deals if they left Cuba. As an attempt to prevent this, Fidel forbade players from playing abroad and if they did leave the island, he would prevent their families from joining them. Originally, many Cuban baseball players played for teams in the American Negro league. This ended when Jackie Robinson was allowed to play with the Brooklyn Dodgers during the late 1940’s. Afterwards, all Cuban baseball players played for the regular leagues regardless of their race. The Negro National League ceased after the 1948 season, and the last All-Star game was held in 1962. The Indianapolis Clowns were the last remaining Negro/Latin league team and played until 1966. Cuban players with greater skill joined the Major League Baseball (MLB) teams. If they defected to the United States directly, they had to enter the MLB Draft. However, if they first defected to another country they could become free agents. Knowing this, many came to the United States via Mexico. In all, about 84 players have defected from Cuba since the Revolution. The largest contract ever given to a defector from Cuba was to Rusney Castillo. In 2014, the outfielder negotiated a seven-year contract with the Boston Red Sox for $72.5 million. Starting in 1999, about 21 Cuban soccer players have defected to the United States. The Cuban government considers these defectors as disloyal and treats their families with disrespect, even banning them from taking part in national sports.

She played pretty much every sport, her favorite being volleyball. My favorite part of her: she had that smart, I'm-too-good-for-this-I-read-Vonnegut attitude about her.

First, they understand the importance of setting specific goals. Most people say that they understand this concept, but few actually put the concept into practice. For example, average volleyball players set goals to improve their “concentration” (exactly what is that?), whereas top performers decide they need to practice tossing the ball correctly—and they understand each of the elements in the toss. As part of this focus on specific levels of achievement, top performers set their goals to improve behaviors or processes rather than outcomes.

Despite all this you should try to get one internship under your belt. But do so according to the following rules: -The nanosecond you realize the majority of your work is merely to do filing, faxing, scanning, etc., leave. Don’t tell them, don’t inform them. Leave. Also, file a complaint with that company’s HR department and inform the career services center of your college about the false advertising of that firm. -Keep trying to find an internship that does give you experience. This may take three or four tries, but inevitably you will find one that is worthwhile. -Do not spend more than six months at an internship. Get it on your resume, establish a good rapport with your boss, but then cite college as your primary responsibility. Only if they offer you full-time employment after graduation should you stick around. -Only get one internship. Additional internships add nothing to your marketability. Spend your time instead drinking, chasing girls/boys and playing volleyball.

There is an impressive vein of concrete that winds from the hills of Palos Verdes and ends in Malibu. It ribbons through all the beach cities in between and plays host to anyone who is drawn to the ocean. Josie and Max ambled down Hermosa's portion of that mile-long bike path after they left Faye's place. A quarter of a mile from her own house, Josie stopped. A guy on a fifteen hundred dollar bike whizzed by her, intent on breaking the land speed record to Malibu. The smell of grilling onions filled the air. Lunch was being served up at The Strand Café. Four men with gorgeous bodies played volleyball with a vengeance, yet somehow unable to get their game into a rhythm. Josie could have shown them how it was done, but even a pick up game wouldn't cure what ailed her.

Coach huddled the team together. “You ladies should be very proud,” he told them. “I know it wasn’t a win, but I saw some wonderful teamwork, and you’re all getting out of your comfort zones. Great job,

Whether you’re a serious player or just a camper looking for a little fun competish, there’s no better place than the volleyball court to feel the sun on your back, the wind in your hair, or a ball in your face.

Right when I was about to serve (which was traumatic enough, because I am even worse at volleyball than I am at Jenga), Xander started singing, “THAT CUTE LEATHER VEST…

Since I decided to buy an island and move there with my favorite volleyball,” Deacon shot back, watched his friend’s lips twitch, ignored it, and moved into the room, shrugging off his coat and throwing it on the bed.

Changing Topics Changing topics gracefully is the hallmark of an excellent conversationalist. Changing topics keeps the conversation fresh and allows you to explore further ideas of mutual interest. And if you detect that your conversational partner is uncomfortable with a subject, or not interested in it, changing the topic will be tactful and greatly appreciated. Good conversations usually move naturally from one subject to the next. Sometimes, the movement will be to a somewhat unrelated area. The important thing is to go with the flow. The best way to change the subject is to guide the conversation based on information you were given earlier. Suppose your conversation focuses on volleyball, and your partner mentions having enjoyed volleyball on the beach in Florida last month. As the discussion of volleyball winds down, you might elect to return to the topic of Florida—when and where your partner visited, what places you are familiar with or would like to see, and so on. A second way to change subjects is to branch off from the “available” topics by referring to the event at hand: At a party: “Have you tried the crab dip? It’s really terrific.” “Can I freshen your drink?” “I simply must have some more chicken wings. The sauce is amazing!” At a book club meeting: “I wanted to go and compliment the author. I see he’s free now.” These are friendly gestures, and leave open two possibilities: the chance for a graceful exit on either part, or the possibility of continuing the conversation at the refreshment table or in line near the author. It’s important to be able to change subjects quickly if you sense that your companion is losing interest or is sensitive to something you’ve touched upon (body language will tell you if words do not). Providing easy outs is the considerate thing to do.

guests of the Palace, almost all of them Hollywood actors, European royalty, music greats, or the superrich and powerful. He found it all of only mild interest, although he did note that novelist Anne Rice’s picture was above and in a much more prominent position than Brigitte Bardot’s. The doctor entered a ballroom set up for a banquet and continued along with the throng out onto a terrace that overlooked Avenida Atlântica, the beach, and the ocean. Night had fallen. Across the street, under spotlights, men were playing beach volleyball. There

Volleyball was clearly a sport invented by the devil," I tell Tristan. "Satan plays volleyball. Satan loves volleyball. Satan holds volleyball championships in hell, possibly everyday.

All the royal tales got their own special festivals. In honor of the Sleeping Beauty tale, Ever After High held the yearly Beauty Sleep Festival. Everyone put on their pajamas and lay down on their beds, and a magical sleep spell rained over the castle, putting them into a restful slumber for two days. Briar rolled her eyes. "I'd prefer my story got a dance festival with some kicky music and a chocolate fountain." "It's kind of like a massive slumber party, so that's cool," said Ashlynn. "Kinda," said Briar. "But the best part of a slumber party isn't the part where you're unconscious. I'm already facing a hundred years of sleep. Worst. Festival. Ever." "You recall that the royal festival for the Cinderella story is basically just an excuse to get the students to clean the high school," said Ashlynn. Briar laughed, putting her arm around Ashlynn. "That's true! But at least your Spring Cleaning Festival ends with a Ball." Apple always enjoyed the Apple Festival in her story's honor- so many pies and turnovers and breads, and none of them poisoned. The whole school smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg for days. The Spring Cleaning Festival was an excellent opportunity to clean out her sock drawer and then wear a ball gown and dance till midnight. The Little Mermaid Festival took place every summer at Looking Glass Beach with swimming, beach volleyball, and a clam dig.

Tobio-chan, you should have at least learned by now that volleyballi s not a sport where just one gifted person on a team makes a difference when it comes to winning a game." Kageyama scowls. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Oikawa pats his head. "Still as useless as ever; I'm telling you a universal truth about volleyball. Something I'm willing to bet every player in Japan believes." "What does that mean?" Oikawa rolls his eyes. "It means we have a lot of phone calls to make. And by 'we' I mean me, since God knows you're not going to be any help.

Wounding moments happen when others project their own perceptions onto us and we take those projections to heart. When you were young, for example, a parent or friend might have asked, “Are you going to wear that?”, or your parents might have asked you why you wanted to play volleyball or disapprovingly questioned why you were

liberosis n. the desire to care less about things—to loosen your grip on your life, to stop glancing behind you every few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you before you reach the end zone—rather to hold your life loosely and playfully, like a volleyball, keeping it in the air, with only quick fleeting interventions, bouncing freely in the hands of trusted friends, always in play.

I received a volleyball scholarship to Penn State.

We must've been on the north shore of Long Island, because on this side of the house, the valley marched all the way up to the water, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn't process everything I was seeing. The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture—an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena—except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover's were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings.

Wander the aisles in person, however, and you’re going to move way more than you would by letting your fingers do the walking on your keyboard. • Park far from your destination or get off public transportation early. There’s no rule that says you have to be delivered to the doorstep of where you’re going; that’s just something most of us have gotten used to. Break the habit. You may not be able to walk the whole way to your destination, but it doesn’t mean you can’t get some steps in. • Use wait time to walk. If you’re taking someone to the doctor or dentist, don’t just hang out in the waiting room. Take the time to walk. Likewise, if you’re at your kid’s volleyball tournament and there’s downtime (and there almost always is), walk around the venue a few times. If you have to wait for a table at a restaurant, give them your cell and tell them to call you when your table is ready (a lot of restaurants do this now anyway) while you walk around the block.

Life is a beach & you are that much needed vacation I look forward to taking. Your eyes, the sky I float through on the plane. Your lips, the way the water splashes against me. Your heart, the volleyball I hope that bounces off my head and into my hands.

was running out of valuable athletic clichés. Would beach volleyball say much about proposals for federal health care reform? Could I use mumblety-peg comparisons to explain the North American Free Trade Agreement negotiations? Golf, however, is ideal for these purposes. “Christian fundamentalists put a wicked slice in the Republican party platform.” “Somebody should replace the divot on the back of Al Gore’s head.” “Let’s go hit Congress with a stick.” I also wanted a sport with a lot of equipment. All truly American sports are equipment intensive. Basketball was strictly for hoop-over-the-barn-door Hoosiers and Jersey City Y’s until two-hundred-dollar gym shoes were invented. And synchronized swimming will never make it to network prime time because how often do you need new nose plugs? I’m an altruistic guy, in my own Reaganomics way. Sports gear purchases are about all that’s keeping the fragile U.S. economy alive, and you’d have to get into America’s Cup yachting or cross-country airplane racing to find a sport that needs more gear than golf. I’ve bought the shoes, hats, socks, pants, shirts, umbrellas, windbreakers, and plus fours—all in colors that Nirvana fans wouldn’t dye their hair. Then there are the drivers, irons, putters, and the special clubs: parking-lot wedge, back-of-the-tree mashie, nearby highway niblick. MasterCard has installed a plaque on the wall of its headquarters to commemorate my taking up golf.

conversation, anyway. You don’t play any sports. What do you know about it?” “According to your definition, football must be the only sport,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “I play volleyball. But how would you know? You’ve never come to watch me play.” “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I forgot you play volleyball.” Pete lowered his head and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “Anyway, that doesn’t change the complexion of things. I still think that Jabber owes it to Dad’s memory to be a football player.” “And I don’t think he does,” said Karen. “You may not understand Pete’s feelings, Karen,” said Mrs. Morris. “You’re seventeen years old, and you’re a smart girl, I’m not taking that away from you. In fact, I’m very proud of you. But at seventeen you’ve still got a lot

shrug. I’m not worried about the game. I’m good at sports. I don’t have to work hard at basketball. In fact, I can lazily toss the ball toward the hoop, and it always goes in.

A group of the popular senior girls who included cheerleaders, volleyball players, and the girl's soccer team came through the door.

Meaning is not creating a cool place to work with free food, Ping-Pong, volleyball, and dogs. Meaning is making the world a better place.

Cobb County made national headlines in 1993, when the county commission passed a resolution condemning gay lifestyles as “incompatible with the standards to which this community subscribes.” That action caused the Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games to move its volleyball venue from Cobb for the 1996 Summer Games.

The chaos came to an abrupt halt as everybody held their breath when Brian pulled the trigger on one of the Nerf guns Paulie had brought and accidentally shot Beth in the forehead. “Brian,” Lisa shouted at her third son. Beth blinked in surprise, then carefully set her gifts to one side and rose from her chair. Kevin stood, too, in case she was going to try to lock herself in the bathroom or make a break for the front door. She did neither. Grabbing a gun from under the tree, she very calmly started loading darts into the clip, and then she smiled at Brian and cocked it. “You are so gonna get it.” Brian screamed and took off toward the dining room, Beth on his heels. Bobby grabbed his gun with a whoop and took after them as the sounds of running headed toward the kitchen. Joey and Danny, being older and wiser, headed in the other direction with stealth, readying to cut the others off. “Epic Nerf Gun Battle of Doom!” Keri shouted, and all the adults laughed. Joe’s new bride had already suffered through the Tandem Cannonballs of Doom and the Annual Kowalski Volleyball Death Match Tournament of Doom over the summer, but she wrestled Stephanie’s gun away from her and took after the crowd.

Sarcasm duly noted. What happened? You were fine this morning.” Camille hated to see her sister in obvious pain. It had been four years since she shattered her kneecap during a practice session for the Olympic volleyball team. Their world had been rocked and almost destroyed, along with their relationship. Without their parents around, Camille had taken onto her shoulders the role of mothering her sister, something Paige had not enjoyed. It had been a tenuous rebuild for them, but they were slowly getting there. Needless to say, though, Paige still did not like Camille’s mothering tactics. “I’m fine. It’s just a little stiff.” “But

Right,” said Kami, undaunted. “So a girl in my class called Amber Green, and our headmistress, Ms. Dollard, are both sorcerers. Amber’s with Rob, but we could use Ms. Dollard.” “I never trusted Amber,” Angela remarked darkly. “Only the evil are that enthusiastic about volleyball.

Surprised at Kaye’s belated display of maternal instincts, Sean relented, promising he’d get in touch with Lily. Besides, he knew his own mother would never forgive him if he refused such a simple request. As he made his way down the narrow streets to the pensione opposite the Pantheon, where Lily and her roommate were staying, Sean steadfastly refused to acknowledge any other reason for agreeing to take Lily out. It had been three years since they’d left for college, not once had she come home to visit. But Sean still couldn’t look at a blonde without comparing her to Lily. He’d mounted the four flights of narrow, winding stairs, the sound of his steps muffled by red, threadbare carpet. At number seventeen, he’d stopped and stood, giving his racing heart a chance to quiet before he knocked. Calm down, he’d instructed himself. It’s only Lily. His knock echoed loudly in the empty hall. Through the door he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Then it opened and there she was. She stood with her mouth agape. Her eyes, like beacons of light in the obscurity of the drab hallway, blinked at him with astonishment. “What are you doing here?” The question ended on a squeak. As if annoyed with the sound, she shut her mouth with an audible snap. Was it possible Kaye hadn’t bothered to tell Lily he’d be coming? “I heard you were spending a few days in Rome.” Sean realized he was staring like a dolt, but couldn’t help himself. It rattled him, seeing Lily again. A barrage of emotions and impressions mixed and churned inside him: how good she looked, different somehow, more self-confident than in high school, how maybe this time they might get along for more than 3.5 seconds. He became aware of a happy buzz of anticipation zinging through him. He was already picturing the two of them at a really nice trattoria. They’d be sitting at an intimate corner table. A waiter would come and take their order and Sean would impress her with his flawless Italian, his casual sophistication, his sprezzatura. By the time the waiter had served them their dessert and espresso, she’d be smiling at him across the soft candlelight. He’d reach out and take her hand. . . . Then Lily spoke again and Sean’s neat fantasy evaporated like a puff of smoke. “But how did you know I was here?” she’d asked, with what he’d conceitedly assumed was genuine confusion—that is, until a guy their age appeared. Standing just behind Lily, he had stared back at Sean through the aperture of the open door with a knowing smirk upon his face. And suddenly Sean understood. Lily wasn’t frowning from confusion. She was annoyed. Annoyed because he’d barged in on her and Lover Boy. Lily didn’t give a damn about him. At the realization, his jumbled thoughts at seeing her again, all those newborn hopes inside him, faded to black. His brain must have shorted after that. Suave, sophisticated guy that he was, Sean had blurted out, “Hey, this wasn’t my idea. I only came because Kaye begged me to—” Stupendously dumb. He knew better, had known since he was eight years old. If you wanted to push Lily Banyon into the red zone, all it took was a whispered, “Kaye.” The door to her hotel room had come at his face faster than a bullet train. He guessed he should be grateful she hadn’t been using a more lethal weapon, like the volleyball she’d smashed in his face during gym class back in eleventh grade. Even so, he’d been forced to jump back or have the number seventeen imprinted on his forehead. Their last skirmish, the one back in Rome, he’d definitely lost. He’d stood outside her room like a fool, Lover Boy’s laughter his only reply. Finally, the pensione’s night clerk had appeared, insisting he leave la bella americana in peace. He’d gone away, humiliated and oddly deflated.

Let the women play in more feminine clothes like they do in volleyball... They could, for example, have tighter shorts.

Thanks. I might score." He didn't mean volleyball. When he used our ancient slang I never knew whether it was affection or derision. I guess when I was twenty-one I could do both at the same time, with my parents.