Hello, You know just when you thought there was nothing left in the world to write about, up jumps an idea.
By Dean Meyer
It happened to me while watching the Olympics. I know, I know. I’ve written about the Olympics before. Remember when Shirley and I did the ice skating routine to “Achy Breaky Heart”? In our overshoes and Carharts on the stock dam. Shirley never did fully recover from that. But that was the Winter Olympics. This was summer!
Swimming. Maybe Shirley and I could do the synchronized swimming. She insisted I start out alone. I complained vehemently that alone would not work. But as I floundered around trying to turn a somersault, I realized she might be right.
Water polo. I convinced her we could play water polo. It may bring down my blood pressure and perhaps we would lose a little weight. I found out they play in water over their heads and that idea quickly died away.
Running. No way. Hard on knees. Diving. No way. Scared of height. Gymnatics. The rings! Have you ever seen a 280-pound fat man try to hold himself up on the rings? Shirley even smiled at that. Perhaps the pommel horse. Yeah, right.
I watched intently for days. Trying to find a sport that the family could do together. Then there it was! Right before my eyes. A sport fit for all. A sport closely watched by sporting fans all across the world! Beach volleyball! We would go beyond the Olympic venue. We would have Couples Beach Volleyball. I mean this is a sport meant for me. It is like peeking under the hoochey coochey tent at the state fair fifty years ago, except you don’t have to pay for parking. And the carnies don’t chase you away with a stick.
We could afford the uniforms. They can’t cost more than a few cents. Sunglasses would be the biggest expense. Also the biggest piece of clothing. With no rain the past several months, our hay field is pretty much a sand pile. There are a couple of the grandkids balls lying around here. Some net wrap off of one of Jeff’s bales would form a net. The investment would be nil.
Shirley was at a meeting. I strung up the net wrap and marked off the court. Since Shirley is a little slow, I made the court pretty small. I thought I would surprise her, so I slipped into my beach volleyball uniform.
Have you ever seen a 280-pound fat guy with a farmer’s tan wearing a “Speedo”? Or whatever they call them. Trust me, if you haven’t, you are sooooo lucky!
When Shirley drove into the yard, I was standing there bouncing a ball. Sunglasses, little pants that crept up my….. Well, you know. Lace up boots….the sand was too hot for my bare feet.
What does it say about you spousal relationship when you wife looks at you and falls down on her hands and knees in laughter? That hurt. That really hurt.
I’m going to go back in and watch the reruns of the Olympic volleyball. Serving!
Dean Meyer is a rancher in western North Dakota and his column has been featured in papers all over the state.