Friday evening. Half past seven. Sporthal Steenwijklaan.
The floor gleams ominously, the net hangs with intent, and Sovicos Ladies 2 stand ready to face Netwerk Ladies 1, currently sitting in eighth place, where they appear to be quite comfortable. Miraculously, no one has cancelled. No mysterious ailments, no freak accidents, no “I sneezed and now my knee is gone.” Eight players. Eight. Almost fully assembled. A sight so rare it is usually spoken of only in hushed tones.
The plan is straightforward: calmly secure a 4–0 victory and then pretend this was never in doubt.
We begin calmly. Too calmly. So calmly that one might suspect we are experimenting with competitive slow motion volleyball. Movement is optional. Not strictly necessary, but still — we appear to be playing through treacle. Netwerk, perhaps out of politeness, decides to match our pace and moves even slower. A peculiar atmosphere settles over the court. Everyone is technically present, but spiritually still parking their bikes.
The instruction is clear: high pass to the middle. This works rather well. What happens after that is… less clear. Scoring proves difficult, but that is hardly new. Luckily, Netwerk generously joins us in not scoring and contributes a healthy number of unforced errors. Salvation eventually arrives in the form of Alessia and Romy at the service line, who decide they have had quite enough of this nonsense. We crawl from behind to ahead and, with some effort and mild confusion, drag the first set across the finish line.
The second set bears absolutely no resemblance to the first, aside from involving a ball and a net. Service pressure remains relentless, Netwerk has no reply, and we sprint into a commanding lead. A convincing 25–12 reminds everyone why we are number one and they are… well… eighth.
And yes, there were moments of beauty.
Enter the Chanti. I cannot explain exactly how it works — should Punch be reading, this knowledge remains safely classified. What I can say is that Chantal repeatedly places the ball in precisely the one spot the opposition least desires. “Good vision,” we say, as if this were accidental. There is also the Italian duet: Elisa slipping under the ball, setting swiftly behind her, while Alessia is already airborne, hammering the ball into the corner of position one. Bellissimo.
Onwards to the third set. The spirit of Dolce Far Niente still lingers, but the five points must stay in The Hague. Full honesty: a sloth would look at my movement and feel competitive. I move so slowly that tomorrow feels imminent. What I do not see coming is the ball — thanks in part to an increasingly unpleasant headache from a concussion acquired last week. Fortunately, there are five other players around me who are paying attention. Mostly.
Rallies stretch on for what feels like geological eras. Defensively we are solid, but offensively we appear to have misplaced both energy and accuracy. We keep playing the ball straight at Netwerk’s defenders — excellent for drills, less so for winning matches. The score stays level and irritation creeps in. A few service errors appear, but Nelleke, Romy and Lieke decide enough is enough. With powerful hits, clever tips and a generous helping of chaos on Netwerk’s side, we close the set 25–20.
The fourth set. Let’s not repeat the third — let’s repeat the second. Agreed.
What Chantal can do with the Chanti, I can do from the outside. I showed it last week, and when Alessia whispers, “use the Force,” I know exactly what is about to happen. Sure enough: from the outside, a delicious diagonal drop within fifty centimetres of the net. A beach volleyball trick on a hard court. Turns out physics allows it.
We never really get into trouble again. In fact, it barely feels like sport at all. More like a group gathering where occasional movement happens by coincidence. Still, we comfortably take the set 25–11. Match won. Five points secured. Top of the league, with a two-point lead over number two.
Friday the 13th, we play Inter Rijswijk at half past nine in the Altis.
If you have nothing better to do and fancy a classic Friday-the-13th disaster (hopefully for the other team), come and cheer us on.
Just leave your black cat and ladder at home.
Love, Milene
