(At a farewell dinner for fellows at the Center
for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences)
After optional work and compulsory lunch
Comes the hour of the Center’s volley-ball bunch.
Not all of us young, some a little effete,
But each of us fired with an urge to compete.
Not expert, perhaps at this juvenile sport,
But making the most of our expensive new court.
Learning the basics, the bump and the dink,
Perfecting the shots that more than we think,
In the heat of the game, the thrust and the parry,
We resort to ad lib, the throw and the carry.
Illegal, immoral, but there’s no referee.
Interpretations, frankly, tend to be free.
And casualties, yes, there have been a few,
Dick Anderson’s foot, Nate Huggins’s too,
Twists and sprains and bruises pro rata,
And Jack Green’s gory, digital stigmata.
But knock on wood, at least so far,
Nothing cardiovascular.
The regulars, through thick and thin
Who rate a gold attendance pin,
Converse, Green, Holt and Moore,
Plus Rohwer formed the harder core.
Coach Treanor’s instructions were always astute
But, alas, for some of us, just wouldn’t compute.
And those who Lynn Gale’s spikes embarrassed
Can claim that they’ve been sexually harrassed.
“See Xenon,” is the cry, to wit,
Scapegoating while we all commit.
A solipsistic Banacerraf set,
Or perfect serve into the net.
But all in all a healthy way
To spend an awkward time of day,
And learn in Doctor Lindzey’s school
To psych a foe or bend a rule,
And larger lessons, if you choose:
It isn’t if you win or lose,
And much less how you play the game,
But really how you dodge the blame.
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