A gray haze hung over the heavens on Wednesday, August 5. If radio static had somehow become a feature of nature, it would have sounded much like the sky above Stonebridge Park.
Once again, the threat of rain had taken up residence over the young Volleyball circuit. Moisture was in the air. So was revenge. And, if the reliable dope around the grounds could be trusted, more than a little unfinished business.
The Chosen vs. Serves Him Right
The call went forth at 6:30, and two of the circuit’s most opposite aggregations took the field. The Chosen arrived in their familiar assortment of flamboyant colors—tall, imposing, and looking every inch the powerhouse they had become. Across the net stood Serves Him Right, a smaller band dressed largely in dark green.
In appearance, they could scarcely have been more different. In purpose, they were remarkably alike. Both had something to prove. Captain Bethany of The Chosen was absent once again. Reliable scuttlebutt suggests she has developed a healthy respect for a certain small-time reporter who, despite several attempts upon his person, remained inconveniently alive and quite probably on the volleyball field. In her place stood sturdy Scott, backed by the dependable Dutch-tree-frog contingent from Monee.
Across the net lined up the weary but determined dwarves of Serves Him Right. Grace, Jenna, Arden, Ashley, Brynn, Noah, and Owen stood behind their skipper. Captain Ian, however, was a changed man. The furious fire that had so often marked the Oak Forest field general seemed to have burned itself down to the last ember. His face was gray and haggard. He looked less like a field marshal and more like a fellow who had spent the previous evening losing an argument with a freight train. Still, the whistle blew.
Serves Him Right had the opening serve. Noah, one of the taller and more confident of the halflings, swung hard and sent the ball sailing out of bounds. The ball went to The Chosen. And with it came the old Monee rhythm.
The giants reeled off seven straight points before Serves Him Right could answer. It was rough medicine for the Oak Forest aggregation. Captain Ian called orders, but the customary thunder was missing from his voice. Arden and Grace managed a series of excellent rallies, pulling their side back into the contest at 5–10, but The Chosen remained firmly in command.
Chris, the Monee ace, retained his trademark good humor. Emily and Rachel brought their usual intensity. Scott, Matt, and Brian continued hammering the ball across the net with the regularity of factory presses. The Chosen reached game point with Serves Him Right sitting at eight.
Then Brian, after a phenomenal run of serves, finally made a mistake and sent one astray. The ball came back to the green-clad battalion. A brief rally followed. Captain Ian, looking like a fellow recently raised from the grave but moving with the precision of an Olympian, threw himself into the play. He executed a beautiful set only to have an uncomfortable realization. The ball was going nowhere.
It sailed beautifully through the air and dropped onto the clear green grass beneath the shadow of the net on his own side. Ian simply stared at it. No shout. No gesture. Not even a grimace. He merely looked upon the impotent sphere and, by all appearances, began wondering about next Friday’s weather.
It was not the Oak Forest club’s evening. The second affair proved scarcely kinder. The Chosen stormed to ten points while Serves Him Right had managed only three. The green-clad campaigners continued swinging hard, but the cohesion necessary to halt the Monee machine simply wasn’t there.
Game point came at 20–8. Matt, a dexterous Nephilim, stepped to the line and served cleanly into open green grass. Game over. The Chosen had taken both tilts with clean brutality.
Heads hanging low, even allowing for their diminutive stature, Serves Him Right left the field. Captain Ian shook his head slowly. Reports indicate his disappointment was directed not at his men but at himself. That may have been the lowest point yet for the Oak Forest aggregation. Yet there was something encouraging in what followed. As the players gathered around their skipper, they began quietly discussing what could be done. For weeks Ian had lifted them when they were down. Now it appeared to be their turn to lift him.
Meanwhile, The Chosen departed the field with their confidence restored. The Monee giants intended to put their recent setback against Net+ behind them and march through the remainder of the campaign without another blemish. Or so they figured.
Cool Beans vs. Net+
For the second hour, the blue battalion of Net+ arrived beneath a much brighter cloud of morale. The Wheaton outfit was still riding high from its spectacular upset of the previously undefeated Monee club. A few dirty looks drifted their way from the departing members of The Chosen. The blue battalion either failed to notice or answered each glare with a friendly smile.
Cool Beans, meanwhile, arrived in somewhat less orderly fashion. Captain Jeremy, fresh from two victories over Serves Him Right at the previous engagement, was absent. Family business had claimed the Joliet skipper, and the captaincy had passed to the reliable Sam. As 7:30 approached, only Sam, Erik, and Adam were present. Three men. Three men do not make a volleyball team.
The league officials would require at least four. Just as the whistle was about to sound, steadfast Zach arrived, bringing the Joliet contingent up to the minimum. League officials David and Audrey permitted acting Captain Sam to select willing substitutes from the teams of the previous hour.
Several members of The Chosen stepped forward. There was opportunity in the offer. There was also revenge. Sam was not blind to the glint in the eyes of the Monee monsters. He remembered well what it felt like to stand across the net from them. He glanced toward the remaining members of Serves Him Right, but saw a battered and exhausted aggregation.
The temptation was too great. Sam accepted the help. Surely, he reasoned, borrowing members of the league’s winningest club could only improve his chances. He took on Emily, Rachel, Chris, and in a surprise choice Brynn, the only member from Serves Him Right.
The rock-paper-scissors contest went to Cool Beans, and Sam took the opening serve for his curious coalition of Joliet bruisers and Monee giants, plus a Oak Forest serving strong-woman. Emily, one of the borrowed Chosen aces, served first. Cool Beans claimed the opening point.
Net+ answered immediately. Jackson delivered a return that landed in open grass on the Joliet side, and the blue battalion took possession. Eric, known around the circuit as a serve master, then began dealing in trouble of his own. The score reached 3–3.
A fierce serve from one of the borrowed giants produced a long rally, but Jackson eventually delivered another killing blow into open territory. Net+ took the ball. Deepthi stepped behind the line and began a powerful serving run. The blue club moved to 8–3 before scrappy Adam finally stopped the procession. Cool Beans picked up two points before Net+ regained possession at 9–5.
From there the game settled into a steady pattern. Cool Beans fought. Net+ answered. The Joliet aggregation, despite its borrowed muscle, could not quite find the communication necessary to operate as a single machine. Net+, meanwhile, moved with the confidence of a club that had been playing together all season.
The Wheaton battalion took the first game, 21–14. Sam stood afterward with sweat running down his face. The victory had not come. The help had not been enough. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the acting skipper knew he’d borrowed trouble from the very fellows he’d soon have to fight. He felt, in his own words, a little like Faust.
The second game began with an omen. Cool Beans had the first serve, and Rachel, another borrowed Chosen ace, sent it immediately out of bounds. Net+ took the first two points.
The Joliet outfit answered with grit. The score climbed to 4–4. Cool Beans reclaimed the lead briefly, reaching eight before Net+ answered with eight of their own.
At 8–8, something changed. The blue battalion found a new gear. Net+ moved ahead 10–9. Then 11–10. 14–11. 15–12. 17–13. Cool Beans fought, but the blue machine was rolling. Finally Net+ reached game point at 20–14.
Sam looked across at Zach, Adam, and Erik. The four longtime teammates exchanged concentrated nods. No borrowed giant could win this for them. If Cool Beans was going to make its stand, it would have to come from the unit they had built themselves over the course of four league meetings.
Erik stepped behind the line. He knew the Joliet club’s evening—and perhaps its standing in the league—was hanging by a thread. He took a breath and clenched a fist. Then he served.
15–20
16–20
17–20
18–20
19–20
The gallery began to stir. Nobody had expected it. Adam and Sam worked furiously to keep the ball alive while Zach began dropping one punishing return after another.
Erik kept serving. Sweat rolled down his temples. The pressure mounted with every toss. Net+ returned the next ball. Sam and borrowed Rachel combined to hammer it down. 20–20.
The comeback was complete. The scrappy Joliet quartet had dragged themselves all the way back from the brink.
Erik lined up for the deciding serve. He exhaled. The ball rose. Net+ returned it. Sam refused to let it settle. One exchange. Another. Then a miscalculated strike from the blue battalion sent the ball down into its own court. The ball hit grass. Game.
Cool Beans 21, Net+ 20. The Joliet club erupted. Across the court, Captain Sherri and Aleia could only acknowledge the achievement. The blue battalion had been beaten in a fight it had nearly finished twice. The players shook hands. Sam admitted that the baby-blue battlers had given them one devil of a run. And the scorebook recorded one of the greatest comebacks of the young campaign.
Looking Forward
With the league tilts finished, the evening relaxed into mixed-team games. For a few minutes, there were no Joliet bruisers, no Monee giants, no Wheaton battalions, and no Oak Forest dwarves. Just volleyball.
Sam breathed easier. He had not completely let down Captain Jeremy. Yet as he watched Chris—the ever-jovial Monee giant—laughing across the net during the informal play, another thought occurred to him. Some of the very fellows who had helped him tonight would soon be standing across the net from him. The next league engagement would be Cool Beans against The Chosen. And this one would count.
As matters presently stand, The Chosen sit at 9–1, while Cool Beans have climbed to 6–4 in total win. Two victories over the Monee giants in the coming tilts could bring the Joliet club almost neck and neck with the powerhouse heading into the finals. The opportunity is there. Whether Captain Jeremy’s aggregation can seize it remains to be seen.
Elsewhere, Captain Ian sat at the edge of the street staring into nothing in particular. He looked thoroughly put out. After some time, Sam approached and sat beside him. For a while there was nothing but the quiet sounds of the summer evening. Then Sam placed a firm hand upon Ian’s shoulder.
“There’s always time for a comeback.”
With that, Sam rose and walked away. Witnesses report that the shadow upon Captain Ian’s face lifted, if only slightly. Perhaps the Oak Forest skipper isn’t finished yet.
And now, faithful readers, we come to tonight. At 6:30, the two winningest clubs will finally meet again. The Chosen vs. Cool Beans.
The Monee giants will attempt to prove their recent stumble was nothing more than a bad break in an otherwise magnificent campaign. Captain Jeremy’s Joliet bruisers, meanwhile, will have their chance to show that the club which nearly toppled The Chosen once is now ready to finish the job.
At 7:30, the marching sunrise of Net+ will square off against the Oak Forest campaigners of Serves Him Right. Can Captain Ian summon one more reserve of strength? Can his little green or black clad aggregation recover from the bruising defeat suffered last meeting? Or will the Wheaton battalion continue its remarkable late-season surge?
Tonight represents the final regular-season set of tilts before the finals. And if the first weeks of this campaign have taught us anything, it is that the circuit has a few more shocks tucked away in its back pocket.
This reporter owes the faithful an apology for the tardiness of this account. It ought to have been in print considerably sooner. Life, however, has been somewhat more stringent since a certain Monee giant placed this humble correspondent upon a rather undesirable list. Nevertheless, duty remains duty. Until there is no longer air in these lungs, this reporter intends to bring the faithful the accurate account—no matter how many alleys must be crossed, how many collars must be raised, or how many suspiciously large fellows in tie-dye shirts happen to be waiting around the corner.
I intend to be there tonight. Hopefully, I’ll see you there. Hopefully, you won’t see me. Until then, keep your ear to the ground and your eye on the circuit. The championship is coming into view. And if the dope around the grounds is worth a nickel, there are still a few shockers waiting just over the horizon.
