W
hy do I even try? If there’s one thing I should have learned, it’s, try or not, I’ll probably “screw up”. Mom says, “Loni, a lady shouldn’t say things like ‘screw up’”. That just proves my point.
I know, I have so much going for me. Dad brags about my grades, and Mom’s proud of the person I am and all my activities. Grandma goes on and on about my pretty face. Yeah, too bad about the rest of me, I think to myself.
I’m not, like, big enough to be featured as a man in The Guinness Book of World Records, but I am big enough not to like shopping with my friends. “How cu-u-u-u-ute!” they squeal over every rack of clothes. They know they’ll fit into any clothes, but I can’t choose anything until I find the largest size.
I pretend that clothes don’t matter to me. That explains why everyone stares at my chosen style. To me, no outfit is complete without a sweater, flannel shirt or sweat-shirt tied around my waist to cover up... oh...everything.
So, when we go to the mall, I’m the designated shopper. You know, like the designated driver who goes to a party but doesn’t partake I stand outside the changing rooms to ooh and aah when they emerge for the mirror check. Only after a careful inspection do I reassure them that their thighs, legs, waist or bottom do not look too big in that outfit; otherwise, it would be taken as insincere.
They make me feel ashamed when they hand me a piece of clothing and plead, “Can you see if this comes in a smaller size?” Give me a break. Where should I look? The children’s department?
I really did screw up, though. Being a self-appointed good sport, I tried out for the volleyball team with my friends. Here’s the bad part: I made it.
It seems I have a killer serve. We keep winning. This is the first winning season of any girl’s sport in our school’s history. Volleyball fever took over, and attendance soared. Just my luck. Jumping around high-fiving while my name echoes over the PA system.
In our small town, making it to State Finals is news-worthy. Our team was pictured sitting in the bleachers in a “V for Victory” formation. I was the connecting bottom of the “V,” front and center in all my glory.
“Loni Leads the Charge to State!” read the headline. Not bad. I didn’t even pretend to protest when Mom bought copies for the relatives. I was pleased when the team framed the picture and hung it in the tunnel between our locker room and the arena. It soon became our team gesture to blow kisses at our picture every time we passed it.
It was the night of the final game, and we had home-court advantage. The series was tied two games to two. I led the team’s run for our triumphant entrance. Cheers stormed down the tunnel to meet us. We glanced at the banners posted along the walls, taking energy from the words.
YOU GO, GIRLS! YES YOU CAN! WE’RE #1!
We were ready to blow kisses at our picture when shock froze me. Two words were written in red on the glass. Two words that totally changed the headline.
“Loni THE BULL leads the charge to State!”
The horns drawn on my head completed the insult.
I felt myself emptying until I wasn’t me anymore. I was nobody. The team bunched behind me.
“Who did this?”
“Who would be so mean?”
Their questions had no answers. They thought they were as upset as I was, but they were wrong. I wasn’t upset at all. I was in shock.
“So this is the truth”, I thought. “This is who I am.”
And all the words around me didn’t heal the hurt because nobody said the three words I needed to hear most: “That’s not true.”
There was no time to sort myself. The real seemed like a dream, and I couldn’t shake myself awake. The chants of “Loni! Loni!” sounded hollow. I let the cheers of the many be muted by the jeers of the few.
We won the coin toss for my first serve. Around me the team was pumped and ready to go. I rolled the volleyball in my palms and mechanically went into my serving stance. All I could see were the words ... THE BULL. THE BULL. THE BULL.
I tossed the ball up, but before my fist made contact the shout “OLE!” hit me. I stutter-stepped and missed the ball.
I told myself not to look, but my eyes were drawn anyway. I couldn’t pick out who it was. The team tried to buck me up with back slaps and “that’s okays.” But it didn’t help.
I went through the rotations until I was at the net. My concentration scurried between the game and the bleachers. When the ball skimmed the air above my head, a loud snorting sound came from the front row.
“That’s taking the bull by the horns!” someone yelled. The player behind me made the save and set up the ball for me to spike. But I wasn’t looking at the ball. I was staring into the faces of the five guys who were mocking me. My humiliation only fueled their taunts.
“Give me a B, give me a U, give me a double L, too. What’s that smell? LONI! LONI! LONI!”
Why didn’t someone shut them up?
The coach called a time-out. “Loni, can you get your head in the game?”
I shrugged.
“Why are you letting a few people who don’t even know you decide for you who you are?”
I shrugged again.
“Loni, you’re valuable to your team. Unkind words don’t change who you are unless you decide they change you,” she said.
Sounds good in theory, I thought, but this is the real world.
“I’m keeping you in, but if you can’t work through this I’ll pull you.”
I nodded.
I walked past the boys to take my place in the game.
With each step I took, they stomped their feet to shake the floor. I got the point. Very funny.
I also had to walk past my teammates, and in spite of my weak showing, they were still rooting for me. “You can do it.” “You’re the best.”
Something in me gave way. The quote on my grandma’s refrigerator popped into my thoughts: “God don’t make no junk.”
I knew what I knew, and I knew myself - I wasn’t junk. I felt my value from the very depths of my soul. Who was I anyway? What did some immature boys know about me? There were so many people who loved and supported me, and it was time to do my best for them and for myself.
And just like that, I was free of them. Oh, they continued to stomp their feet with each of my steps. I didn’t like it, but it didn’t matter. They were powerless over my life.
The game was close, and we played hard. The winning serve fell to me. It was my moment, and I took it. The ball went up, my fist came forward and hit it right on. It was a perfect power serve unreturnable by the other team. The crowd went wild. The pep band started beating out our school song. The team huddled around me.
Shouts of “Loni! Loni!” vibrated the arena. The funny thing is, the cheers didn’t feed me like they used to. They were great, but the joy I felt, the freedom I felt, the sense of myself I had filled me more than any cheers.
There was more than one victory that day, and the game was not the most important one.
- Loni Taylor