short and tall like mountains and hills
quick and swift like toddlers on a sugar rush
players feel the rush when playing
volleyball
petite setters
solid hitters
skyscraper blockers

bumps and bruises cover the skin as big as a baseballs
floor burns that 
burn like hot grease on bare skin in the shower
pungent kneepads but never willing to invest in fresh, mint condition ones.
riding the bus home
looking at the jumble of bruises
lesions and discolored shades of violet and blue that cover the body
almost the dark shade of an eggplant
potato chips and soft drinks before games
the other teams with fruit bowls
the other team who think we’re insane
telling by the looks on their deprecating faces
Looking like they are smelling old socks 
riding roads rarely taken
back roads, short cuts but always getting lost
the modern uniforms, modern as in not used by
Ten teams before us
that we’re suppose to be in soon 
soon as in three weeks ago
early morning tournaments
sleeping for five minutes
but appreciating every minute-second
seconds counting down to the next game
hearing bump, set, spike
and saying the threes words like they command
your body to do so
getting tired of the sound of skin to waxed floor
but never loosing the determination