Want to play volleyball?

I played volleyball the other day, for the first time in ages.  In the library.

It had been a long morning of testing - or watching testing.  I don’t think there is a school thing that I find more excruciating than proctoring a standardized test.  I am always tempted to take a personal day, but I usually don’t, hoping instead that I may be able to offer some small amount of calm amid the joyless and stressfully quiet cacophony of number 2 pencils filling in circles and calculator buttons clicking out answers and “you have 5 minutes remaining.”  

Three and a half hours is a long time of sitting, especially when you are not engaging with anything but inane questions indifferent to your existence. Or the direction manual for those inane, indifferent questions.

I was in my office afterward, and I spotted the giant tennis ball I have been meaning to bring up to my classroom (because you never know when one of those might come in handy). I picked it up and walked out into the library, just tossing it up and catching it.  Then I saw Hannah coming across the room. When I threw the ball to her she hit it back to me.  Thus was born library volleyball.

Neither of us actually said, “hey, you want to play volleyball?” But a game ensued.  Not a game of winner and loser, more like “we’re in this together - let’s keep the ball in the air,” which I much prefer. And we dove into a few minutes of pure, joyful play.  Release.

At first nobody seemed to notice; there is always more noise in our library than you might expect in a library.

Then I saw some smiles; we were being watched (we were pretty much in the middle of the library).  

Suddenly, as I jumped to catch a ball that was about to go astray, my joyful release turned to “Everybody in here is looking at me.”  My heart started pounding harder than the play warranted. “I don’t do this,” I thought.  “All these people, and me jumping around, bringing attention to the once-upon-a-time-but-not-anymore-athletic body. Should I be embarrassed? I am embarrassed.  I think somebody is taking a video. Oh man. What am I doing? I have to go back into my office.”

I don’t know how long that internal monologue went on.  It felt like an hour’s worth of chatter, probably crammed into a minute, maybe 30 seconds, maybe 20.

I looked back over at Hannah, whose smile was still authentic and joyful. And so were those of the Faith and Jae watching from the couch.  And Joe, a student in one of my classes who was playfully scolding: “Mueller, this is a library.” And so were those of the boy and girl who I didn't know, but who wanted to join in the game. I don’t know what anybody else in the room was thinking, and I didn’t want to care.

I tried to focus, and I asked myself what I ask every day - fear or love?

Fear of embarrassment, mockery, shaming, disrespect?

Or play and joy and connection?

School needs more play and joy and connection.

I took a deep breath and tossed the ball back to Hannah.  And she hit it back to me, and the game went on.