Do you really think you can "spike" on my ass? Really?

Winthrop's first annual Sweet Elite Has-Been Athlete Reunion was a complete success. I arrived home sandy, sun-burned and sweaty Saturday night from my first volleyball outing in about a year to a living room packed full of boys watching Beckham. And I'm not kidding you, the soccer channel was on THE ENTIRE WEEKEND, wake or sleep. They were only too happy to engage in an orgy of soccer, beer and belching. I, on the other hand, missed the Blake-Federer final of the Cincinnati Open due to their futbol bender.

Janette (our temporary roommate, fellow Big South Intern and vballer) concurs that it was definitely a bit much.

But I would be lying through my freshly whitened teeth if I tried to say that having so many people around our place wasn't satisfying.

We felt loved. We felt popular. Like we are the cool kids living in the big city.

Well, at least a city bigger than Rock Hill, South Carolina.

Back to Janette. Man, that copper Chevy coup pulled up in my driveway just in time. Finally! Another set of XX chromosomes set at the office. The boys were driving me nuts, God bless em'. Just too many fake golf swings every time you try and have a conversation. And too many boasts about how they would sooooooooooooooooo spike on my ass if we ever played volleyball.

Right. I was the starting Libero (i.e. the most bad-ass defender on a team) at a top 30 division I school, made the all-conference team, went to the NCAAs every year and you are going to spike on my ass? I don't think so. Give yourself a reality check and admit that you will not beat me at my game unless you actually played it. Especially if you weren't an athlete.

And who even says "spike" anymore? Is it 1990? Have I just mistakenly fast-forwarded my personal reality 17 1/2 years?

I'm just saying...