Sand in my Suit: Charged up Cherry
The author, after swallowing her sorrows in a Kettle muffin. 1 p.m.“Slab” goes the butter on what may be the most naughty side dish in all of Manhattan Beach: a muffin at the Kettle. I don’t want the muffin. I don’t need the muffin. But a girl whom I train with slid the sugarbomb my way — as irresistible to me as a bowl of peanut M&M’s at a dinner party. She told me she couldn’t pass a ball to save her life that morning in the National Volleyball League (NVL) qualifying tournament. I told her I played like s**t. Straight and to the point. Let’s rewind… 12 p.m. “Clink” goes the first round of white wine sangrias at Simmzy’s. My partner for the day, whom we’ll call Roxy, and I practically bee-lined it from the court we lost at to our bar seats like we were committing a mid-morning walk of shame. Truth is, I did feel shame – shame for scrambling for a partner who I should’ve done well with and throwing away a golden opportunity to qualify for a 16-team main draw tournament in Baltimore. Let’s rewind again… 9:15 a.m. Our first match begins. A bit breezy and cold, but nothing to initiate an official, “what are we gonna do about this wind?” strategy talk. I think I even shanked that…
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