FIELD-DEPENDENCE

My father got this idea of organizing a volleyball game between singles and married people from the village. I went to cheer and (maybe) engage in sports photography. Well, not in so many words or ways, but still..

My dad.. I'd seen him play before, but never so well. The married team won of course, since they get a better chance of keeping up the team spirit in their everyday lives. That's one interpretation. There's another one, though. Technically speaking, my dad kind of earned a cross of merit for all this and more. It's his doing that people who rarely say hello in the street played a sport together, laughing and frolicing in this pseudo-Polish dialect teeming with (yes, they're alive) strong, but charming expressions and inventive departures. The locals don't grope for words. No villagers do, I suppose. And their sense of humour, their energy.. Can't think of a possible source. All I know is that it's renewable.

I guess that's exactly how the summer solstice could and should be celebrated. That's it. Togetherness, nature (forest: 20m, river: 50m), a bonfire and traditional beverages. The local youth competing against old boys. Girls on the field, too. Children running around instead of being chased away to play in the mysterious somewhere else place. A big, family picnic. So the spirit of folklore is alive, yay!

Honestly, I think sport did that through my dad. Sport. Breaking sweat on your own request. Experiencing a curious deterioration of your usually sophisticated locution (beyond repair until the game is over). And then.. cooling down on the evening grass. I want it so bad..

Today would have been perfect but for one thing, one flaw. I didn't play. Again, it made me feel like a Christmas decoration, one useless effigy hanging idiotically from another. It's like this wheelchair they put me in years ago has turned out to be one big mistake. But I'm blocked in my (sore) spot. Too much to lose. Or is there?