Friday, May 30, 2008
I am covering volleyball. The athletes are all blond -- one called me dude -- and I think tomorrow, if the weather permits, they will all go surfing together and celebrate this championship whosoever may win.
I've never even watched volleyball for more than one or two sets. I remember watching this really cute black girl on the Stanford team a couple years back. She, for reasons round and wide, held my attention for a spell. But there are no girls here. Just a 17-year-old kid named Mike with the moustache of a 45-year-old man named Harry. Wish I were kidding about that.
And it is so loud. They are chanting. Ever heard rhythm-like chanting in a small gym with 600 people packed inside of it? The crowd is chanting and yelling with every lull and break and wild finish to each play. God, can you hear me? It's hard to have a Little Talk with Jesus with several hundred Gentiles screaming in your ear.
But my editor likes to send people like to events like these. Says that reporters that cover events with fresh eyes can give a fresh perspective, and yeah, I am cool with that. Were it not for this internet connection, a crumpled bag of former Doritos and a 20 oz. bottle of lemonade, I would be lost. Now all I have is time to ruminate about what it is I'm looking at. Take in the sounds and the sights. Figure out my lead. And wish I had watched more of that match. The one with the chick from Stanford. continue...