The Granddaddy

I’m on a plane to Russia right now for an FIVB, which means I’m going to miss the Manhattan Beach Open. So as a consolation, here is a short story I wrote about the tournament.

THE GRANDDADDY

Grand pounded through the sand, dismissing the cramp in his side. He checked the timer on his watch: twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes to make it home before the morning sun reached a deadly height. His doctors had warned him against training outside; melanoma had planted its flags, claiming territory across the surface of his war-torn face. Who knew the sun, the spotlight he’d performed under his whole life, had been an assassin all along?

Grand still snuck out of the house for a morning run. What was the point of living on the beach if you couldn’t touch the sand? And what sand it was. Manhattan Beach boasted some of the deepest sand in the game. Grand had always felt its pull–slowing him, sapping the spring from his legs–and he’d played on nearly every beach that had ever hosted professional beach volleyball. Most morning runners ran along the waterline, where the waves flattened the sand to concrete. Grand trudged through the center of the beach, his bare feet disappearing into the thick sand with every stride.

Up ahead stood the Manhattan Beach Pier, the halfway point of his morning run. The iconic pier was the home to the most historical beach volleyball tournament in the world: the Manhattan Beach Open, beach volleyball’s Wimbledon, the “granddaddy of them all.” And if you walked along the top of the pier, you’d step over the names of every winner, immortalized in bronze plaques.

Grand never walked the pier.

Grand “Canyon” was considered the greatest player in the history of beach volleyball. He had the record for most wins, four Olympic gold medals–two with the indoor national team and two on the beach–eight King of the Beach titles, eleven MVP of the AVP honors, and the FIVB named him the best player of the sport’s first 50 years. But he never won the Manhattan Beach Open. He played in the grandaddy fourteen times, making ten finals, but he never won.

Grand checked his watch: twenty-two minutes. He picked up his speed, sprinting the next fifty yards. He took a break under the shade of the pier, resting against a concrete pillar. Sometimes he questioned why he ran this direction, subjecting himself to the ghosts of his past: memories of tournament losses, points missed, shots he should have taken that still haunted him. Yet he ran this same route every morning, stopping under the pier as if to pay respects to the graveyard of his dreams.

Grand was about to start the run home when he heard a familiar sound. Thunk, thunk…thunk. A pattern engraved in his brain. Without looking, he could picture the play: a topspin serve, a pass, a silent set, a hard spike to the sand.

Two teams played on the south side of the pier. New school volleyball, with its smaller court, rally score, and the horrendous let serve rule–how anyone could justify a missed serve that hit the top of the net and rolled over as an ace still baffled Grand. He didn’t follow the modern game, so he didn’t recognize the four players training, but they were clearly professionals. The skills were there, sure, the way they moved on the court, the velocity of their serves, but it was their size that stood out. At six foot two, Grand had been a formidable blocker in his day. Now, athletes had shot up to NBA sizes. The smallest of the four guys playing was still taller than Grand.

Thunk, thunk…THUNK! A six foot nine, bald giant, crushed the ball. Part of Grand was relieved he never had to play against monsters of this size. The other part wished he had the chance.

It was early, the marine layer hung like a curtain over the sun. Apparently, that was reason enough for all four players to dawn black spandex tights under their knee-length board shorts. But as Grand watched, he saw past the rules and style changes. The core of the game remained. The beauty of bodies moving through the sand, athletes controlling a ball without catching it, the mix of power and finesse. The game was still there, even if the size and colors were different.

For a moment, Grand was transported back forty years. It was on this same beach that he learned to play by bumping a ball with his father. They kept count of their touches, beating their record again and again. By fifteen, Grand was good enough to play with adults. He spent his summers driving up and down the coast, playing tournaments with his father. They frustrated teams who couldn’t believe they had lost to “that guy and his kid.” Grand’s name didn’t stay unknown for long.

Grand checked his watch: sixteen minutes. He had to get home before the sun reached the height where it tried to kill him. But before he could start running, someone screamed.

He turned back to the volleyball court. Three of the players stood around the fourth who was folded like a beach chair.

“I’m sorry are you okay, Nick?”

“Damn it!” the guy yelled, clutching his ankle. He tried to stand, hobbled a couple of steps, cursed then sat back down.

“Did you roll it?”

“Yes, I rolled it, Adam!”

Grand felt himself being pulled into the scene. How many times had he sprained his ankles? The left one still clicked to this day.

“Two days before the tournament and you come under the net.”

“Me?” The accused motioned to the footprints under the net. “I was on my side.”

“Everyone shut up,” the bald guy said. He bent down over his injured partner. “Nick, what do you want to do?”

Nick moved his hands and examined his ankle. “I’m done. It’s already swelling.”

“Stick it in the ocean,” Grand said.

All four players turned toward him, surprised to find him standing at the edge of their court. Grand stepped back, surprised himself.

“The cold water will help prevent swelling,” he said. “You should stick it in the ocean.”

“Great, thanks for your help, Doc,” Nick said.

Yeah, big help, old man. Grand glanced at his watch. What was he still doing there?

“Hey,” one of the players said. “Aren’t you Grand Canyon?”

“Whoa, it is him! I grew up watching you play. Is that your real name?”

Grand smiled weakly. “Have a good practice.”

He jogged back to the pier, but someone ran after him.

“Hey Grand, wait up.”

It was the tall, bald one. The guy towered over Grand, but looked as thin as the flimsy antennas they stick on the sides of the net. “We’re practicing for the tournament this weekend, and we’re short a guy now. I know it’s asking a lot, but is there any chance you could fill in?”

Grand stared blankly. Had he heard him right? Did this kid have any idea how old he was?

“Come on, it’ll be fun. And it would mean a lot to us.” The tall guy smiled, sheepishly. “You’re actually one of the reasons I got into this sport.”

Grand checked his watch; he had to get home. Even with the clouds, he was risking a lot. Much more sun exposure and you’ll have no skin left to scrape off, the doctors warned.

“I haven’t played in a long time,” Grand said, looking at the bright new volleyballs scattered around the back of the court.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll do all the blocking, we just need an extra body.”

Grand looked up. The sun was still hidden behind the morning fog. What could a couple of extra minutes hurt? He took a deep breath and scratched what was left of his nose.

“Okay,” he said. “One game.”

* * *

Grand swung his arm in circles, trying in vain to warm up his shoulder. After three shoulder surgeries, the joint was as stripped and rusted as an old bolt. He jumped up and down a few times and his knees cursed him for it. He’d kept in shape running, but jumping was a whole different thing. His knees were protesting all the years of box jumps and plyometrics he’d put them through. He barely got out of the sand. His body was heavy and the sweats and sweatshirt only added to the weight, but he kept the layers on as protection from the sun. He was already sweating through those layers as the other team got set to serve.

This was a mistake. He was going to embarrass himself and likely get injured. And for what? To prove to himself that he still had it. It certainly wasn’t because he enjoyed playing. Volleyball had ceased to be fun a long time ago. It became a job, then a burden, then, as he stretched himself past his prime in pursuit of that elusive Manhattan Beach win, a mark of failure.

It wasn’t too late. He could call it off, just walk away and never see these guys again.

Then they served the ball, and his mind shut off. Instinct took over, like a lion charging after his prey with no thought of what his legs were doing. Phil passed the ball forward, and Grand was already sliding into position, reading where the ball would travel off his partner’s platform. Grand’s hands and wrists came together and his arms straightened completely parallel. At thirteen, Grand had dislocated his right elbow falling backward in basketball. Not only did he take it as a sign to abandon all other sports, but the injury granted him increased rotation in his right elbow, allowing his forearms to touch and create the world’s most perfect platform. The ball greeted Grand’s arms like an old friend. He lifted his arms in one smooth motion, hanging the ball up in the sky, three feet from the net. Phil exploded out of the sand and picked it off, still on his way up, spiking the ball sharp angle around the block.

“Nice set,” he said, slapping Grand’s hand.

He was being polite; the set was too low. Grand had never played with a partner of Phil’s size. He noted the necessary adjustment and would make the change next time.

They took it easy on Grand at first, serving mostly his partner. But as Phil and Grand’s lead increased, they sent a few balls Grand’s way. Grand didn’t have the power he once had, but his control was still there. Passing on the shortened court helped, he only had to take two steps to reach any ball. He put away the first serve he received with a short poke over the block—an old man’s trick. On his next attack, the defender moved into the line and Grand slapped a cut shot. The ball hit the sand, uncontested.

“Nice shot,” Phil said. He wasn’t being polite that time; it was a nice shot.

Soon, it was tied at 20-20. The serve to Grand came harder–they didn’t want to lose to an old man. Grand got his platform on it, but the light ball pinged off, flying too tight to the net. Phil faced the net and handset the ball sideways. It came out clean but veered off the net. The blocker pulled, ready for Grand’s shot. Grand leaped out of the sand, ignoring his body’s arguments and swung with all the heat he had in him, driving the ball up the middle between the two defenders. They both dove for the ball, but it landed just out of reach. 21-20.

Phil’s next serve hit the top of the net and rolled over for a let serve ace. And just like that, the game was over. A stupid rule, but Grand would take it. He wiped the sweat from his brow and shielded his face. The sun had burned through the clouds and was now shining its full radiation on him.

“Hey now!” Phil shouted.“Grand Canyon’s still got it!”

“Come on, we can’t end on that,” said Adam. “One more game,”

Grand frowned. “Sorry, I have to run.”

“Thanks,” Phil said and shook his hand. “That was the most fun I’ve had playing in a long time.”

“Real cool, Phil,” Nick called from the side of the court. “If you tried that hard when you play with me, we’d never lose a tournament.”

“Good luck this weekend,” Grand said, shaking everyone’s hands.

“Are you going to come down?” Adam asked.

“I don’t know,” he lied. He’d promised to let the tournament go, to pretend the Manhattan Open didn’t exist. He slept better that way–a little better, anyway.

Grand ran home, ducking his face from the sun’s rays. His knees were already swelling, his shoulder stiffening in its socket. He was going to regret playing the next day when he woke up sore and aching, when his face burned from exposure. But Grand didn’t think about the pain. His mind was busy analyzing every play, every touch of the ball, every result. Though he ran home late and on heavy legs, Grand couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

Grand lived in a glass box on the strand. The great glass walls were designed to give an unobstructed view of the ocean while simultaneously giving every jealous passerby an unobstructed view inside. Clean and modern were the words his then-wife had used to describe it. To Grand, it felt like a zoo enclosure. He was constantly on display. There he is, making coffee in the kitchen. Now, watch him move to the living room and read a book. Instead of creating a feeling of openness, Grand felt like the last ant in an abandoned ant farm.

Two women passed on the strand with their matching poodles. Grand turned away from their gaze with practiced instinct as he moved through his normal daily routine, which didn’t sound like much but still filled the hours. For lunch, he made a burrito bowl with heavy slices of avocado paired with a protein smoothie that filled two glasses. He ate at the kitchen island while glancing at emails he’d never answer. All that afternoon, his mind wandered back to the morning’s volleyball. The plays he made, the mistakes, and silly as it was, strategies in case he faced those players again. Looking back, he decided he hadn’t been half bad. For an old man.

Later, after a nap in the privacy of his bedroom, Grand woke with rare energy. He had the urge to get in a workout. He headed downstairs to grab his kettlebells from the trophy room. The room was just as his wife left it: a shrine to Grand. Rows of medals hung from long nails. Trophies from every tournament filled the walls, boasting each city’s uniqueness: a surfboard trophy from Huntington Beach, a Space Needle trophy from Seattle, a giant gold peach from Atlanta. But the only thing Grand noticed was what trophy was missing.

Grand’s pocket buzzed. He pulled the phone out and saw he’d missed a call. He didn’t recognize the number. As if in answer, a text bubble appeared on the screen. It was from Phil, the player he trained with that morning, asking him to call him back “ASAP” and “thank you.”

Grand stared at the phone. What could he want? Grand denied all media–what little was still asked of him. With his sponsors long gone, he saw no need to subject himself to the same questions over and over. Volleyball had been his life, but once he quit he stopped following it. Better to close the wound than to let it fester.

Grand swiped to unlock his phone and suddenly it was calling Phil. Before he could cancel the call, Phil’s voice came over the line.

“Grand, thanks for calling me back. I got your number from MD, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No…that’s okay.”

“Great. The reason I’m calling is I have kind of a crazy proposition.”

“Mhmm.”

“Nick sprained his ankle pretty bad. He’s not going to be able to play this weekend.”

“Hmm.”

“Because it’s so last minute, everyone else is already registered.”

Grand said nothing.

“I know this is crazy. But…would you want to play?”

Grand said nothing.

“We’d be in the main draw and with my points, we’d still be a good seed. Anyway, I thought it’d be fun.”

Grand was holding his breath. 

“Grand? Are you still there?”

Grand steadied himself on the wooden mantle that held his six “Best Defender” trophies.

“Look, hitting the ball around at practice was one thing,” he said. “But I’m not in any kind of shape to play a tournament.”

“I’m not trying to win the thing. I just want to play. There’s no pressure. We could finish last and it wouldn’t matter.”

No pressure. A saying used by people who don’t play.

There was a long pause on the line. Then, “I’d hate to miss the Manhattan Beach Open, Grand. I’m not sure how many I have left.”

The Manhattan Beach Open. The granddaddy of them all. The one hole in his record that all Grand’s medals and accolades could never cover up. The sting of never winning his hometown tournament returned as he looked out the glass to the pier in the distance. It looked like a creature, protruding out over the water on stone legs. An unconquerable dragon.

You’re still afraid of me, it seemed to say. I can feel it.

When Grand finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll play.”

* * *

It was 9:00 am on a Friday and people were packed around outer court five. Grand expected some acknowledgment–it was his first tournament in fourteen years–but he didn’t expect this. Once word got out that Grand Canyon was playing, he had gotten calls from everyone asking if it was true. The AVP had called to verify it wasn’t a hoax. One of his old rivals even came to his house to talk him out of it.

“Whatever they’re paying you to embarrass yourself, it isn’t enough.”

“Embarrass myself? I thought you said our old school crew would pulverize these delicate flowers?”

“Yeah, thirty years ago in a big court side out game where endurance mattered. Now, they’re going to chuck up their garbage sets and run circles around you.”

“It’s just for fun,” Grand said.

“Now you’re just lying to yourself.”

Grand watched him slowly climb up from the patio chair, waiting for his spine to catch up with the movement. How had their bodies eroded so much? They used to be gods; now all they had left were crooked, sun-damaged husks.

“It’s over, Grand,” he said. “It didn’t happen back then–because Mike and I always beat the Primitive Prints off of you in the finals–and it’s certainly not going to happen today. Just cry yourself to sleep with your Olympic medals and forget Manhattan.”

Despite all the arguments and logic against it, Grand was back on the sand for the Manhattan Beach Open. People squeezed around the court to get a front-row seat to see him make a fool of himself. And he certainly felt like a fool; his face and neck were painted white with zinc sunscreen to guard against the direct sunlight.

But as Grand warmed up, he found the crowd was on his side him.

“Welcome back.”

Grand nodded, jogging back and forth behind the end line, warming up his old muscles.

“Go, Grand, you got this!”

Grand dipped into a lunge stretch.

“We’re rooting for you Grand. Do it for us old guys!”

Grand extended his arms and spun them in shoulder circles.

“Grand Can. Grand Can.”

And when Grand pulled out his trademark purple visor, the crowd went nuts. He wasn’t trying to make a fashion statement, to bring back the retro look with his short, neon green shorts and deep tank-top. It was simply all he had to wear.

Grand had worked up a good sweat by the time Phil and their first-round opponents showed up to the court. The guys they were playing weren’t monsters; they were both six foot four. As they warmed up, they kept glancing across the net at Grand. Don’t think about them, Grand told himself. Don’t think about the crowd or the result of this game. Just see the ball. When Grand learned to narrow his focus to the next task–the next movement, the next read, the next contact–he was able to compete on any stage. Screaming fans, hecklers, gold medal points, it all faded away. That was how it was in the old days. That was how it could be today.

“Let’s have fun,” Phil said, offering his hand.

Fun. Grand slapped it his palm. “Okay.”

And it began just like it had before. All the nerves and fears and doubts were blown away by the sound of the ref’s whistle. Grand snapped back into game mode, like an unflinching gladiator staring down any opponent.

The team served Grand, as they should. When the choice was between the number one ranked player in the world and a fifty-six-year-old has-been, you serve the has-been. Grand extended his arms, and the ball rebounded off his perfectly flat platform. It sailed tight to the net, too tight. It was going to be a difficult ball to set. Phil elevated out of the sand and crushed it on two.

The ball hit the sand and bounced four rows deep in the crowd. 1-0. The fans erupted.

“Nice set,” Phil said. He slapped Grand’s shoulder and jogged back to serve.

Say what you wanted about Grand not being ready for this tournament, but at least he picked the right partner.

The match went fast. Rally scoring felt like a blitzkrieg of points with little room for mistakes or strategy or wearing down an opponent. Grand sided out just well enough while Phil scored all the real points with his serve and block. Grand had never played behind such a big blocker; guys were hitting it right to Grand just to avoid getting stuffed.

It was weird in this new rally scoring era to be siding out for match point, but that was where Grand found himself at the end of the second game. He handled the serve, approached hard and swung low line, tooling the elbow of the blocker. The ball landed just out of bounds.

The crowd was on their feet, clapping and chanting the old cheer.

“Grad Can! Grand Can! Grand Can!”

Then, to Grand’s surprise, it was all smiles. Grand shook hands with their opponents, and they seemed almost grateful to have lost to him. That might even be as strange as the new rules: the general friendliness of the game. Players clapped hands with their opponents as they crossed under the net; there was no trash talk or mental warfare. It was as if today’s players were too polite to win!

Voices in the crowd yelled above the applause.

“Great playing, Grand.”

“You still got it!”

“Keep it going.”

Grand removed his purple visor and waved it in salute. The crowd ate it up.

Maybe playing wasn’t a bad idea after all. He didn’t embarrass himself. He hadn’t even finished in last place.

* * *

Then, something strange happened, something no one could have foreseen. They continued to win.

Match after match, they found a way.

Grand wasn’t dominating like he once did. Teams were digging him plenty; a few of his shots were thrown back harder than he hit them. But he played consistent, not making unforced errors or giving away free points. He passed well and relied on his vision, hitting shots he never needed in his prime.

Phil took care of the rest.

“A Cinderella story,” the announcer called from the sidelines. “What has to be the greatest comeback in the history of our sport. Like his namesake, Grand Canyon is breathtaking to behold.”

For the first time in Grand’s career, he was playing as the underdog. And it felt great. Even if his body didn’t as he hobbled out of bed Sunday morning.

The semi-final match was as close as it gets. The lead swung back and forth in overtime. Rally scoring certainly added urgency, a missed serve could end the game. Grand and Phil took the lead at 28-27. Grand focused on the leftside attacker, scanning through his mental database of shots the player had hit thus far. He could shoot well, hitting flat shots even over Phil’s block. But this was game point; he wasn’t going to go down shooting. Not on center court, not getting dug by a white-faced old man in a purple visor.

Grand stepped up to the end line and stared him down through his Killer Loop sunglasses. There’s nothing to hide, kid. This serve is coming to you. The ref blew the whistle. Grand didn’t move, he just kept staring the player down, pushing the limits of what the ref would permit. The seconds ticked by in tense silence.

Then, right when the leftsider moved to protest, Grand popped in a short serve.

Thump.

The passer lunged after the ball, dropping to a knee and losing much of his approach.

Thump.

Grand hid behind Phil’s block, guarding the middle of the court for a shot.

It was a low pass but the setter got there and lifted the ball into the air. The leftside approached like a freight train barreling down the track.

Grand abandoned his position and slid into the extreme sharp angle, hands out, palms to the sky.

THUMP!

The hitter swung with everything he had. Grand flinched backward, the ball exploding into his chest like a missile then sailed up and over the net. Grand fell to the ground, but his eyes stayed on the ball, tracking it. Sunscreen sweat into his eyes, the sun burned, melting his white mask and causing irreparable damage, but he didn’t look away.

The other team scrambled for the ball, but it was out of reach. It bounced on the end line.

The stadium exploded with noise.

Grand lay in the sand, unable to move. He couldn’t believe it.

Phil tackled him, laughing. Then the other team was there, helping Grand to his feet. 

“That was a hell of a dig,” the leftsider said.

“Great game,” the rightsider said, shaking Grand’s hand. “Now go win it.”

Grand’s hands shook as he removed his visor. His shoulder was so sore he could barely raise it over his head. Even the refs were clapping. For a moment it seemed as if the entire population of Manhattan Beach was chanting his name.

“Grand still Can! Grand still Can! Grand still Can!”

This was his home: Manhattan Beach, the most iconic volleyball tournament in the world, the granddaddy of them all.

And Grand Canyon was in the finals.

* * *

Grand sat alone in the back corner of the player’s tent. He always liked the late Sunday calm of the tent when the tournament field had been whittled down to the two best teams. It was quiet. No one approached Grand. Even his partner gave him space. Everyone knew how special this was. They knew what was at stake.

He still couldn’t believe it. After all these years, he had done the impossible to give himself one more shot at winning the Manhattan Beach Open, the tournament that had eluded him his whole career. But Grand was not feeling joy. One more shot meant one more chance to fail. The tournament was fine when he had no expectations. Now, he had the opportunity to rewrite history. Now, he could cement his name in a bronze plaque for all eternity.

Now, he was afraid.

That was the way it had always been. Outside the lines of the volleyball court, his confidence washed away like the sand from his body. If someone listened inside his head, they’d be shocked by what they heard. No matter how many wins, no matter what he accomplished, it was never enough. He still felt like an impostor.

“Grand?” a meek voice said. A trainer from the medical staff stood a few feet from him, hunched over as if he were bowing. “How’s the body?”

Grand’s legs felt like flattened tractor tires. His calves cramped every time he wiggled a toe. His back seized up with every deep breath. His eyes burned from the zinc sunscreen. His rotator cuff was hanging on by a thread, and he didn’t know how many swings he had left before it tore away completely.

“It’ll hold,” he said.

“Is there anything you need?”

He needed a full body massage, a cortisone shot, an IV bag, new knees, a fresh shoulder, a jar of ibuprofen, and about sixty hours of uninterrupted sleep in a cryogenic chamber.

“I’m okay,” Grand said.

The trainer grinned and shook his head. “It’s amazing what you’re doing. We’re all rooting for you.”

“Thank you,” Grand said.

The announcer’s voice carried out of the stadium, preparing all of Manhattan Beach for what they were about to witness. The final was starting soon. Grand wasn’t going to warm up; he didn’t want to waste any of the small amount of energy he had left. He slowly reached into his bag for sunscreen, breathing away the cramps that were threatening to overtake his abs. He tossed the lotion back. He wasn’t going to win the Manhattan Beach Open looking like a ghost. The crowd wanted Grand Canyon not some circus mime. And he would give them all he had, no matter the cost. If he couldn’t walk after that, if his face was so scarred it looked like the surface of the moon, it didn’t matter. He was going to get his plaque for all eternity.

This was his beach, his pier.

Grand Canyon rose and trudged across the deep sand to stadium court.

* * *

The first game was a massacre. Their opponents were by far the best team they’d played in the tournament: top-level players who weren’t slowed down by any childhood affection for Grand. They came out attacking Grand with jump serves from the good side with the wind in their faces, then driving deep floaters from the bad side that pushed Grand to the end line and took away the on-two play to Phil.

Grand and Phil lost the first 11-21.

The crowd gave a supportive cheer, but their spirit had been sapped by a sudden dose of reality.

Grand stormed to his seat and slammed his water bottle into the sand. Phil didn’t speak. What was there to say? It was a miracle they got this far; did they really think they had a chance of winning the whole thing?

Yes. Grand had allowed himself to believe. For a moment, he’d held onto a ray of hope; now, he knew it was never to be. He’d always have an asterisk by his name. Sure, he was great, but he never won Manhattan. Every time he looked outside his glass house, he’d see the pier–the monument to his failure.

“Grand, Phil, that was a tough first set for you guys.”

Grand raised his head from where it was buried in his hands to find a girl kneeling in their player box. At first, Grand thought she was lost. Behind her, a video camera pointed in their faces. The girl held a microphone out expectantly.

“Yeah,” Phil said, leaning forward. “They’re a tough team and they played a great first set. We’re going to have to play better this next one.”

“Grand, what adjustments are you going to make to get back in this game?”

She held the microphone close enough that he could have taken a bite out of it. Grand fought the urge to hurl it into the Pacific.

“I’m going to have to side out,” he mumbled.

She beamed.

“It’s an amazing story to have come this far,” she said. “After such a long absence, to come back and make it to the finals of the Manhattan Beach Open. You have to feel proud to be here.”

“No,” he snapped.

She recoiled a bit. “I’m sorry?”

Grand stood to his full height and flipped his purple visor up. “I’m here to win.”

* * *

Grand employed the last tactic he knew–he got pissed off. He kicked over the cooler in his player’s box and stormed out onto the court. He balled his swollen hands into fists and punched his quads like he was trying to start an antique lawnmower. He pounded harder, summoning their strength, demanding their obedience. He didn’t care how good these punks were. He knew more about volleyball than they could dream of. He was a legend, a wonder of the world. He was the Grand fucking Canyon.

His focus returned with his anger. The game slowed down and Grand took in every single moment. The chanting crowd, the course, warm sand between his toes, the sun on his blistered face. He breathed it all in. And exhaled it in one single focus. See the ball.

His body followed his mind. He saw the game earlier, and his legs moved one step quicker. He touched balls on defense that had previously fallen. He jumped as if each one would be his last. And when he got the chance to attack, Grand put everything he had into his swings, shoulder be damned.

It wasn’t a game anymore; it was a battle. Each play took its toll on Grand’s body, but he kept fighting. Blow by blow, they hung with their opponents. Grand found a way to side out, using every trick he knew and some he made up on the spot. He approached out of the middle and contorted his shoulder, slicing the side of the ball, carving it just out of the blocker’s reach. He hit cobras; he pokey jumboed. And when the blocker delayed and reached high to throw back his next shot, Grand swung straight into his face, breaking his glasses and sending the ball into the crowd.

The renewed energy raised Phil’s game as well. He took risks with his serve that paid off. And when Grand hurled his body at the ball on defense and stumbled up to put it away, Phil was right behind him, covering his blocked shot and putting it away for the game.

They stole the second game, 21-18.

Grand wasn’t done yet.

* * *

Grand had a wet towel over his head and was pouring cold water on his feet when Phil came back from the coin toss.

“One game to fifteen Grand,” he said, clapping Grand on the shoulder. “You got anything left in the tank?”

“I’ll find it,” Grand said.

And he did. Their opponents were rattled, Grand saw it in their body language. They had this match won; they were already imagining their names on the pier and now it was slipping away. Things turned quickly.

The final game seesawed back and forth, never extending past a two-point lead one way or the other. Grand was magnificent. They served him every ball, and he ate up the challenge. It wasn’t a game of skill or power; it was a game of sheer will. And nobody wanted anything more than Grand wanted this win. He sacrificed his arthritic body on every play. It took him twice as long to rise out of the sand, and the refs graced him with all the time he needed. His opponents didn’t complain; after all, they were just players. Grand was the star.

The score was 14-14. There wasn’t a fan left in their seat; the pier overflowed with onlookers jostling for a line of sight. The leftsider passed the ball. Thunk. He got a good set and went for the attack. Suddenly, Phil rose like an eclipse and stuffed a seam hit to the sand before either he or the attacker landed. Tha-thunk!

The beach shook with screams of celebration. Nothing was left of the announcer’s voice but a hollow rasp as he screeched, “Unbelievable, it’s now…championship point!”

“One more!” Phil yelled.

The ball boy tossed Grand the ball. He cradled it in his arm like a newborn as he limped back to the service line. It was match point of the Manhattan Beach Open. Grand couldn’t breathe. He punched his chest to get the air flowing. The ref waited until Grand was ready. A slow-clap spread through the stadium. It matched the beat of Grand’s own heart. These were his people. They were there for him. They wanted it as bad as he did.

Grand looked over his opponents’ heads, up above the stands to the Manhattan Beach pier reaching out to the horizon. He was finally going to get it.

Stop! He warned himself. Don’t get ahead. Stay here, in this moment.

But how could he not think about it? The plaque under his feet; his name forever enshrined on the pier. He thought of the last time he’d been there, serving for the Manhattan Open title. How it slipped through his fingers. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Focus on the ball! It’s all that matters.

The ref blew the whistle. Grand served the ball deep middle, letting the two players fight for who wanted to side out with the championship on the line. The leftside took it and ran a back set. It all happened in slow motion. Phil shuffled over to front the hitter. Grand slid into the angle, right in the line of fire. The hitter came in hard and unloaded. Grand lifted his platform, trying to line up the swing. It pinged off of his bicep, sailing backward to his own end line.

Suddenly, Phil was on the move. He charged off the net in a mad dash toward the back of the court. Grand watched in awe. How could a seven-footer move like that? But it was too late, the ball was nearly to the sand. Then, Phil dove; his long frame flew horizontally as he extended his arms and bumped the ball as hard as he could.

The crowd gasped. Grand hardly heard it, all his focus was on the ball flying back on a direct path to the net. Grand went for it; throwing footwork and technique out the window. It was a mad scramble for the ball. He charged for it, his muscles straining in the deep sand. He leaped off one foot and twisted in the air, stretching his arm out of its socket to make contact. Grand slapped the ball in a hook shot-like arc with no vision of the court. The ball cleared the net, but he hit it harder than he intended–too much momentum, too much adrenaline. The ball flew over the defender’s head and landed out of bounds. The line judge raised his flag.

Grand crumbled to the ground.

There was a collective moan from the fans. Two inches shorter and Grand would have won. It was right there for the taking and he hit it out.

Don’t think about it. Move on.

Grand gritted his teeth and climbed to his feet. But he couldn’t shake it. Why did it go out? Why!

“Grand,” Phil said, shaking Grand back to the moment. “Come on, let’s side out. We got this.”

Grand walked back to his side and set up in serve receive position, but his heart was beating too hard in his chest. The crowd was too loud. He tried to clear it away, but he couldn’t focus. A glare came from the pier, reflected straight into his eyes. How was that possible? 

They served Grand. He tracked the ball late, it bounced off his left arm more than his right and careened off the net. Phil did his best to roll Grand up, but it was a trouble set. Grand was fifteen feet off the net with no approach. He went for it anyway, taking an angry swing. The ball hit the middle of the net.

The packed stadium moaned again, but it was nothing compared to the sound inside Grand. It was now 15-16, the other team had match point. Things turned quickly.

No. Not again. I won’t let it happen.

Phil looked to Grand. “Timeout?”

“No,” Grand growled from somewhere deep inside him. “I got this.”

The truth was he was afraid to stop. Muscles spasmed across his body; he was on the verge of a full-body cramp. If he sat now, it would shut down. Better to keep going–don’t give it a chance to surrender. He just had to get his mind right.

This ball. That’s all that matters.

Grand took a deep breath and focused. The world went silent. His eyes fixed on the ball in the server’s hand. That was all that existed, no stands, no score–just the ball. Grand had passed the ball millions of times in his life, he could do it once more. He was a kid again, passing back and forth with his father, counting the touches. One more.

The server tossed the ball. Grand narrowed in. His focus was so intense, he could see the individual stitches in the seams of the ball. He read the server’s shoulder, his hand contacting the ball. He saw the spin and the direction and moved into position before the ball even left the server’s hand. He was in the zone; the individual parts of his body flowed as one instrument built for this very purpose.

It was Grand’s time. He could feel it.

* * *

Only a small number of sportswriters cover beach volleyball, and their pleas for its inclusion among the world’s elite sports typically go ignored. But anybody that happened to be in Manhattan Beach that day knows they witnessed something monumental. There are times when sports can rise above a game and reveal our very humanity. To the people in attendance, it felt more like they were watching a myth play out than a beach volleyball match. The sport’s legendary hero, unarmed and outmatched, still holding his ground against all odds. And maybe one day, when their children or grandchildren are old enough, they’ll dig into their memory and tell the tale of Grand Canyon.

The listeners might not believe it. They might think the storyteller was exaggerating, building the event up into some great Greek tragedy. But if they find the video of that year’s Manhattan Beach final, they’ll see the last point where the serve hit the top of the net and trickled over untouched, ending the game on a let serve ace. Then, even years later, when they hear the horrible noise that comes from the man in the sand, they’ll believe it’s the sound of a heart splitting in two.

Thanks for reading. You can check out my books here!