After a two-week hiatus—which felt suspiciously like a sabbatical in the high mountains, far from volleyball, reality, and human decency—we returned to the sacred arena of Sporthal Steenwijklaan. At precisely 19:30, the time when mere mortals consider eating dinner but champions consider the fate of the ranking table, we were ready. Ready to prove, once and for all, that we belong at the top. Our top fans, those stoic souls with season passes (the sort that would make a football hooligan blush with envy), had gathered to witness this spectacle. And, naturally, to see us claim the five glorious points that would remind the universe who we are.
Our opponents: Monza. A team of respectable ability, who, while starting the season at a snail’s pace, had lately discovered the concept of “playing volleyball.” Too late, though, because we are undefeated since the first match. And today, defeat is as foreign to us as civility is to a cat.
Set One: The Meteor-Sized Opportunity
The first set, however, went about as well as a penguin trying to juggle flaming swords. Monza left a gap on position 1 the size of a small country—or perhaps a conveniently placed wormhole—but none of our players seemed to notice it. From the bench, we shouted advice with the fervor of a crowd at a medieval tournament: “HIT THERE! NO, THERE!” Yet the ball, stubbornly sentient as it is, refused to obey. Monza took the first set. We stared. The universe seemed amused.
Set Two: Nerves, Middling Blockers, and Comfort Zones
The second set found me still on the bench, a position as stressful as watching someone defuse a bomb while being tickled. The middle-blocker from Monza performed feats that should be in a circus brochure, racking up points with alarming efficiency. We, meanwhile, excelled at… not scoring. Even when ahead by a respectable margin, we grew too comfortable. Too cozy. Too distracted by thoughts of post-match snacks, perhaps. Suddenly, Monza was ahead. Second set gone. If this were a movie, there would be ominous foreshadowing music now.
Set Three: Chaos Descends
By the third set, Monza had fortified their gaps; the wormholes were sealed, the meteors gone. We played better, defended more aggressively, and served with the intensity of caffeinated squirrels. And yet… mistakes abounded. Passes launched themselves over the net in what can only be described as acts of betrayal. Chaos had arrived, uninvited, and refused to leave. Third set lost. OMG indeed.
Set Four: Redemption in Diesel Mode
Finally, one set for honor. One set for dignity. One set to remind the universe that, yes, we do in fact know how to play volleyball. And play we did. Services thundered like divine decrees, hits landed with precision, and mistakes were minimal. Monza, bewildered by our sudden competence, had no answer. Victory: 25–10. We had warmed up. Slowly, like a diesel engine starting on a winter morning, we were back.
Conclusion: valuable points lost, tension retained, and the number 1 spot still clung to us like a stubborn badge of honor. Punch is closing in, the season nears its climax, and we now face a solemn truth: no more points may be lost if we hope to emerge victorious.
And thus ends this tale of volleyball, chaos, and diesel engines.
With love, Milene