How long does it take to learn Italian? Rosetta Stone here I come...

I almost made it. Less than a week away. I was so close. There’s really no other way to look at it. I’ve already concluded that my headache isn’t going away anytime soon, so at this point, it can only help to try and be somewhat positive.

Next weekend, the tour starts up again for the 26th “Official” time and allows every athlete playing the game a new chance to earn some scrill, or, a chance to pay off some bills. You see, the unthinkable happened this past Tuesday and unfortunately I now have to face the cold hard facts of the matter and consequently deal with the aftermath - only days before I could have played and possibly bought some additional time in the financial relief category.

Now, this isn’t generally headline news for a guy like me, a guy with a column in DiG Magazined titled, “The Groveler’s Report;” so, what has changed? What could be dramatic enough to get me up before 7:00 AM to write a blog about it? Or, more like, what could possibly be so stressful that I wasn’t able to sleep at all, and at around 5:00 AM I just finally gave up, got up, and tried to figure out what else I could do hours before the sun rose? Well, I’ll tell you what… An overdraft notice from the bank in my email inbox, that’s what. First time since, well… ’93, I would guess? Back when I was doing Hail Mary’s at the ATM in a desperately religious effort to secure $10 for a pizza with Steiny on the way to an away football game, most likely in Tipton. Yup, more than fifteen years later, I’m right back where I started. Wondering if Peanut Butter and Jelly really can get you through the day? Only now, it’s not just me. It’s me +1. So, now, it’s not quite so funny when the cash machine Gods say, “NO! YOU WILL NOT AFFORD FOOD TODAY, LET ALONE YOUR CAR PAYMENT ON THE 23RD!” instead of “NO, YOU WILL NOT DRINK COORS LIGHT OUT OF A ‘GOLF BAG’ COOLER AND EAT GARLIC CHEESY BREAD ON YOUR WAY TO A FOOTBALL GAME YOU WISH YOU WERE BIG ENOUGH TO BE PLAYING IN, THUS ALLOWING YOU TO HIT ON A GIRL AND ACTUALLY BE SUCCESSFUL.” Man that cheesy bread was good. Damn.

So, that’s it. That’s all she wrote. I got the girl, without ever having to take a snap behind center or being forced into getting hit going across the middle, and she even gave up her career for me in the gloriously wonderful – and sunny – state of Minnesota. Said like, Minn-EEEE-soooo-ta. It really is. Their accent is ridiculous; and a close second to the absolutely ludicrous rhetoric being generated north of the border. Canada is, in fact, a third rate Minnesota. Sorry Canadians. You know it, I know it, we all know it. Nobody likes the cold that much. Nobody. Although, I’d give anything for social health care right now and a chance to figure out what is pinching this damn nerve in my neck. Okay, maybe not anything. I mean, a guy has to have limits. And Canada is one of them.

Back to the bank, and the notice they send out after you blaringly attempt to purchase something so miniscule that it might almost go unseen in their monetary transcripts, like, say, a donut. Only, like always, they catch you, and that brash attempt to use $1.25 (why aren’t donuts 50 cents anymore?) that you don’t have can only lead to a $35 penalty that, once again, you don’t have. Either way, this isn’t the problem. The problem is the fact that up until this point, something like this had never happened. Or, at least, it’s never happened while I’ve been playing volleyball while also being married to a woman who has supported the madness associated with my dream of one day playing in a final for as long as she’s known me. You see, up until this point, she was shockingly quite comfortable with how outrageous my American Express Card bill had become in this pursuit, but I had always been able to pay off the minimum due so she never really knew the total damage being done. You know, mum’s the word. But when that goes, or, actually, when that payment is the one that sends a man over the top and into financial crisis lockdown mode at Wells Fargo, let’s just say, what transpires can only be described as a full blown intervention. With giant white sign and all.

So, what does that mean? It means my time is up. It means it’s time to stop talking about getting a job and actually go out and get a job. And most importantly, it means that volleyball is not a job and that it never was a job. That’s what it means.

Back to hotels? Back to a private school for some substitute teaching and Junior High Volleyball coaching? Back to Asia for a little English as a Second Language instructing? Or something new? Something I’ve never done before? Something I’ve always wanted to try? Like, say, radio disc jockey? Or Editorial Assistant at a magazine? Or an entry level position at a publishing house, like Penguin Putnam, Random House or Harcourt? So I can work my way up the ladder and one day make something of myself? After-all, playing in a final on the AVP Tour wasn’t my only dream for the past nine years. I still want nothing more than to publish my novel one day so that I can see it in print and for sale at the Airport book store as I’m flying to New York to discuss the details of my second, forthcoming literary contribution. And that dream can be completed regardless of my actual, legitimate occupation. Well, I can finish it, who knows if I will ever be able to get it published, but first steps first. Bottom line, I don’t have to give up on all of my dreams in order to face reality. I had a good run. The Pan Am Silver Medal with Loomis, a couple final fours on the AVP, a win over the Gold Medalists in Hermosa with Wachtfogel… I’m not bummed out about it. And hell, the Pan American Games final was as legit a final as any in the world. We played Ricardo and Emanuel in front of a packed stadium in Rio for God’s sake, but it still would have been nice to be announced by Geeter walking out on Center Court right here on American soil. Who knows, maybe the dream isn’t over; maybe I’ll have a tall, springy kid who can live the dream for me?

As for me now, I’m going to play Panama City Beach with my good friend, Jesse Rambis, because I made a promise to him and I intend to keep it. Then play the Norceca in Guatemala with Anthony Medel because I already have my ticket and I’ve never been to Central America. Then compete in Riverside and San Diego with Anthony, because they are close and require zero travel expenses – besides a tank of gas for my hybrid. And then play it by year. Houston might be out if I’m able to secure employment and keep my short-lived marriage intact, but Huntington is immediately following so I can’t foresee cashing in my chips altogether before that one. I’ll wear the Sponsored by the People t-shirt for the duration of my playing days in support of John Braunstein’s new project that I spoke about in my podcast – new athletes signed on could perhaps include tournament winner Matt Olson and 3rd place finishers, Katie and Tracy Lindquist, amongst others. As for Anthony, he will no doubt have to find a new partner, which I will be sorry about, but not as sorry as I’ll be to my wife for dealing with me over the past four years and the lack of financial assistance I was able to contribute.

It’s a new beginning. A fresh start. But one that will probably not take me away from writing on this site periodically. Although, I doubt anyone will care what I have to say if I am no longer spiking. So, maybe it’ll only be here for myself, which for me will be just fine, I’ll view it as therapeutic. Especially if I can get my wife to go overseas with me for a while; maybe teach some English, maybe get a job for an English language newspaper like Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, or maybe I’ll rent Vespas to tourists in some small Italian village south of Tuscany like Franka Potenta at the end of The Bourne Identity? Well, her shop was in Greece, but I prefer Italy. Either way, I’ll be writing something… And that reminds me, I’m giving my car to my wife when her lease expires in June and I’m getting a Vespa, regardless of its social acceptability in the USA. It’ll cost me nothing to ride and I’ll feel like a kid again; Lord knows I look and act like one already. My scarf will have a straightened wire hangar in it giving the appearance that the wind is always blowing, even at stoplights… And if all goes right on the job front, I’ll be wearing a suit, preferably khaki with a dark blue tie.