CALL ME SNAKE

Much has been said, of late, about the inner game of volleyball. (It is, after all, the main subject of a number of celebrated blogs.) But what of the outer game of volleyball? Today I went rollerblading (I refuse to say “inline skating”) along the Charles River to Boston’s premier outdoor volleyball hangout–a place I’ve played off and on for nearly 30 years. I was saddened to see just two nets up on such a beautiful day, whereas some years ago there would easily have been a dozen nets or more. Why the precipitate (I’m told through New Yorker fact-checking circles that that is the correct word, not the commonly misused precipitous) dropoff? In a word, geese. In two words, Canadian geese, which have taken over the riverfront, leaving it largely covered in fowl (as well as foul) excrement. The only players left standing are a hardy lot and, apparently, a macho lot. As I bladed by, I saw one guy score on a short “dump” shot. “He hit like a woman,” one of his opponents complained from the other side of the net. “Yeah,” the opponent’s doubles partner agreed. “My grandmother who’s dead, bless her soul, hits harder than him.” This was not, I admit, a great display of sportsmanship, but as the hour of this writing is now late, I’ll leave that topic for another post.