Volleyball
I look up slowly, and feel the sweat slip and fall off my forehead. Ignoring this, I shout, "Twelve, Four," and someone shouts back, "Eleven." I contemplate for an instant and respond, "Eleven, Four." Silently, I toss the ball three feet above my head, and lean forward, waiting for it to fall back. I strike the ball with the palm of my hand, and then my fingers, hoping for enough topspin to confuse the front men on the opposing team. The ball arcs through the air, and my strategy works. The ball is bumped, though not a very good one. As it sails toward the back wall, I relax, knowing that the other team will have a very difficult time recovering. To my surprise, they pull off an excellent shot. It doesn't appear strong enough to clear the net, but I edge forward, anticipating a short play. I am correct in my assumption. The ball is sent over, right to me. I bump it to my partner on the left and quickly take my station at the net. As the ball comes down on her outstretched arms, I assume a crouch position, preparing to leap. The set is a good one, so I calculate the time and make the jump, grunting as I do so. As I reach the peak, the ball is descending at a rapid pace. I thrust my arm forcefully down and feel the power surging through my body. The spike is placed perfectly; the other team doesn't even attempt a return. Unfortunately, in all my glory, I bring down the net and the school prohibits me from participating in any athletic events in the gym.
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