Volleyball addictive, has indefinable quality

Few things can evoke such a strong reaction as volleyball. The rapidity of rally play, intensity of kills, superiority of athleticism, deftness of back-row strongholds: they all remain uncontested on the highest levels of things to see before one dies. However, there is a certain inexpressible quality about the sport that is difficult to pinpoint, but which contributes to its addictive nature. The fans know of its existence, and only through a naturalistic study may we began to understand it. Following is a three-part description of a typical match, presented in the hopes that someone will finally uncover the secret of volleyball.

Before the doors even open to let in the foaming-mouthed fans, a line of purple has begun to stretch out in front of Ahearn Field House. These loyal Purple Pitters are awaiting the soon-to-come fight for the best seat in the house. When the doors finally concede, the crowd, once peaceful and fair, becomes a jostling herd of fans with one thing on their minds: volleyball. And they can only satisfy their addiction by rushing into Ahearn.

This leads to at least a dozen life-threatening injuries before the match has even started, but that is the nature of the sport. A crew of the most elite paramedics and bystanders who stayed in a Holiday Inn Express last night tend to the wounded patriots, and most are patched up in time to witness more bloodshed, which begins when the rushing crowd makes it to the bleachers. Now, it is a melee for seat dibs. Anarchy rules in the backlands of the Purple Pit, so anything goes, and that anything is mostly elbow throwing, nose pinching and a few uppercuts to the gut.

Finally, once seats have been chosen and mortal enemies have shaken hands and joined together for one common purpose, the volleyball team rushes the court to a deafening roar. It goes through its warm-up rituals, after which the Ahearn staff must mop around the bleachers, as the fans have drooled excessively in their stupor. Once the band has played its rousing version of the school song, the lineups have been announced and the team has increased the excitement exponentially with its cheers, the match gets underway.

This is where the weak of heart take their leave. Game after game, the players leap around in poetic beauty, diving for miraculous saves, arcing an awe-inspiring set that confuses the opposing team and putting that set away with such speed that one can hardly even tell where it went. As such, the line judges standing on opposite corners usually leave their flags down when K-State is hitting, because they know that nary a team can sustain hope when the likes of the Wildcats get going.

After two riveting games, the Wildcats sprint back to their locker room to plan the next victory, and the opponents hobble and limp to their own area, where they regret their misfortune of being put in the Big 12 Conference and having to face the terror known as K-State volleyball. When the Wildcats return, they put back into place their A-game and make quick work of those who dare to face them, leaving the court to a jubilant chorus of tear-stained fans with mouths agape and hearts torn apart.

After K-State has successfully pummeled the other team, Ahearn workers must kick into high gear. Fans need to be peeled off the floor, blood and tears need to be mopped up from where the opponents stood and civility needs to be restored. As the Purple Pit crew wanders out of the arena and into the world, its members stop to recall what life is and what they need to do next, for they have forgotten the rest of the world outside of volleyball. As soon as they return to their respective homes, they quickly check the calendar for the next match and count out how many days they must wait, much like enthusiasts await the next day of their television show, but with a great deal more zeal. And when that day finally comes, that day of sweet terror, the cycle repeats anew.