Sinterklaas has come, the Dutch law is clear, everything must rhyme. So rhyme it shall, my dear.
To Sporthal Kerkpolder we travelled, through Delft’s noble grime,
a sports hall so ancient it had clearly mislaid time.
The floor was so dusty we slid without trying,
a perfect start, really, if you’re fond of near-dying.
Coach Daan was in Lyon, for reasons unknown,
so Wim and dear Rob took the coaching throne.
Two sages of volleyball, wise, keen, and loud,
guiding us forward like a slightly confused cloud.
Set one was a breeze, Delta struggled to cope.
With tips from our coaches (“Hit straight! Bend your hope!”),
we wrapped up 12–25 in calm, regal style,
and moved to set two with a grin and a smile.
Set two was a masterpiece, a volleying spree—
we found every empty space with suspicious glee.
7–25 and done—clean as could be,
(or as clean as one gets in this dusty old gym, you see).
In set three Romy and Nelleke joined the parade,
with blocks and with hits beautifully displayed.
Despite some rotation mishaps—new tricks and all—
14–25 put us well in control.
Then came set four, our notorious curse,
where momentum packs its bags and hops in reverse.
8–3 appeared on the board—quite the scare—
but Ladies 3 swept in, singing us back into flair.
We clawed our way back, regained our composure,
though chaos ensued with alarming exposure.
At 21–21 Wim and Rob called a time-out,
and after that moment, we left no room for doubt.
22–25 sealed it: a 0–4 win bright,
five points for The Hague on a cold Delft night.
And so to our coaches—thank you, sincerely—
for guiding us wisely (and sometimes severely).
A splendid success, with a festive veneer,
a pre-Sinterklaas triumph to round off the year.
-Milene
