It was Friday the 13th. A date usually reserved for masked slashers, accidentally walking under ladders, or breaking mirrors over black cats. For Sovicos Ladies 2, however, the omen was far more terrifying: a match starting at 21:30h.
In the grand, cosmic scheme of things, 21:30h is the exact moment the human soul begins its transition from “Productive Member of Society” to “Comatose Log.” But there we were, eight brave souls and one Coach Daan, crossing the mystical border into Rijswijk to enter the Altis arena—a place that exists in a slightly different time zone where physics are optional, coffee is a religion, and every floorboard creaks with the weight of a thousand ancient grudges.
Act I: The Great Slumber of Set One
We began with a pace that could best be described as “Glacial, but with Intent.” Despite moving like we were wading through a giant vat of custard—possibly cursed custard—we somehow found ourselves eight points ahead.
Then, the Friday the 13th jinx struck. We realised we had left our energy in The Hague. While Rijswijk isn’t technically “abroad,” it was apparently far enough for our stamina to decide it didn’t have the proper visa to cross the border. Our internal biological clocks—cruel mistresses that they are—began chiming “Bedtime!” with the haunting persistence of a grandfather clock in a deserted mansion.
Coach Daan’s blood pressure began a steady ascent as Inter Rijswijk clawed back points. It turns out that playing volleyball while your body is actively trying to enter REM sleep is a difficult feat of multitasking. Fortunately, we woke up just before the universe collapsed, clinching the set before Inter could pull off a supernatural stunt.
Act II: The Service Weaponry
If the first set was a sleepy drama, the second was a blitzkrieg. We didn’t actually move much (movement requires calories we were saving for post-match drinks), but on this cursed night, our serves had developed a sentient, homing-missile quality.
We dismantled them 25-11. We were slightly miffed we let them get into double digits, frankly. We can only assume the eleventh point was awarded to them by a sympathetic ghost.
Act III: The Romane Empire
Statistically, the third set is where Ladies 2 usually enjoys a nice mid-match collapse. But since we’d already done our collapsing in the first set, we decided to try something radical: winning easily.
It was a repeat performance of the second, featuring:
• Deceptive tip balls that hovered briefly in defiance of God, before being dragged to the floor by the invisible hands of a very bored Victorian poltergeist.
• Precision shots into corners that Inter Rijswijk seemed convinced were filled with invisible tripwires.
• A mounting pile of unforced errors from our opponents, as if their side of the court was cursed by a broken mirror.
A special mention must go to Romane, who occupied the Outside Hitter position with such effortless grace that one might suspect she was a ringer brought in from a higher dimension. We cruised to 25-14, largely because Inter Rijswijk seemed to be handing out points like sweets at a haunted house.
Act IV: The Race Against the Clock
By the fourth set, the madness of the date truly took hold. Even though it wasn’t yet 23:00h, our brains were convinced it was approximately 4:00 AM in the middle of a Tuesday.
The “Set 1 Sluggishness” returned with a vengeance. We spent a fair amount of time “faffing about”—a technical term for “looking at the ball and wondering “if it would make a good pillow” We gifted Inter some points out of pure, sleepy-headed charity, but eventually dragged ourselves over the finish line 25-20.
The Aftermath
Five points in the bag. A clean sweep. We gathered our belongings and fled back across the border to The Hague before our legs turned permanently into pumpkins or we accidentally summoned a demon in the changing rooms.
Final Score: 4-0 to the Sleepwalkers of Sovicos.
With love (and a very heavy yawn), Milene