Volley-bawling.

What is it about volleyball that instantly attracts anyone within fifty miles that cannot, for the life of them, hit a ball?

I'm serious.
In high school, there were always a few in P.E. that were a tad challenged in regards to coordination. But that only happened because they were forced to play, right? Right?

So how is it that now we're well out of high school, the masses still hoard to take a whack at it?

Let me lay out the typical game:

Each side holds at least 28 players.
The more the merrier, they say.

Roughly 2% of these players are actually able to send the ball back over the net.

The game commences with a mighty serve from the kid with a lazy eye. Not only does the ball miss the net, it it actually propelled in a completely opposite direction, hitting a girl texting on her phone.

"No biggie, no biggie." the do-gooders smile, "Have another go."

"Two for tards!", I yell.

The cross-eyed kid tries again. Any luck?

OF COURSE NOT.
Why should my life contain any joy?

Okay. Now we're really pumped. The blood's rushin', the vibe is hyped and... hoo-SHA! The serve is beautiful! The ball streaks just over the top of the net and gracefully curves slowly to the ground, immediately in the path of at least four players.

Know what happens next?
I know what you're thinking. Someone calls it while their backup stands ready and the others watch attentively, ready to pounce should anything go amiss?

WRONG.

They all dive in opposite directions, covering whatever body part they deem to be the most valuable.

"Oh look, a pretty ball. Watch it fly through the air.", I mimic sarcastically.

"Hahaha." they laugh jovially, "I thought you had it. I though you had it. My bad..."

FRICK.

Luckily, the person with actual talent gets to serve again.
I say a silent prayer of gratitude.

Unfortunately, as you may well guess, playing a game of volleyball where each serve instantly pounds the ground on the other side of the court, knocking the opposing players sideways like bowling pins, isn't exactly gratifying. Connecting with the ball at some point is kind of an integral part of the exchange.

So, in a show of pure pity, the ball is forfeited to the neanderthals.
In slow movements, so as not to frighten them, the ball is gently tossed to their side.

As soon as it crests the net, their arms turn into giant chicken wings that they flail frantically in hopes of eventually making contact.

Those who aren't cowering under their arms, desperately try to kick at the projectile, oftentimes taking out the nearest teammate.

And I'm not even mentioning the numerous concourses who try to jauntily pop the ball into their waiting hands. Many a volleyball hour is wasted trying to punt the ball into the server's grasp.

"Maybe this time, doh. Maybe this time, DOH."

By now, I'm begging for someone to knock me out.

"Just spike it straight at my face!", I plead, fingers knotted in the net pathetically.

I'm given the stink eye. Many times over.

And so it goes. The weaklings slowly peppering out over time until only six total players remain.

"Yay!" you'd think, now we can actually start to PLAY!

Uhn, no.
Not even close.

The last few survivors have spent every last drop of empathetic energy trying not to strangle the happy-go-lucky, wannabe soccer ball player, dumb as a rock, ball kicking nut jobs that shouldn't have even been playing in the first place.

Trying to remain strong, they drag themselves from one position to the next, hopeful that their energy will return.

But it's all for naught.

Not even the strongest last.

And so I ask again. What is it about volleyball that instantly attracts anyone within a fifty mile radius that cannot hit a ball?

For the love of Pete, I just don't know what.