10/25/25

Well… no one from the NJ volleyball community reached out to us for the “Volleyball Comedian” contest so we contacted some of our old friends to make some contributions. Hope you like their stuff…

Hey, I am ok today, but when I was in high school I played volleyball…

My volleyball skills were so bad, I tell ya. So bad! The team got drug tested last week, everyone else got tested for steroids. They tested me for a pulse.

My setting was awful. Just awful! I set the ball so bad it hit the ceiling fan. The ref called it a “technical homicide” of the ball. First time they’d ever held a memorial service during a timeout!

I tell ya, my volleyball career was so pathetic, college scouts came to our game and offered me academic scholarships on the spot. They said, “Please, for the love of God, focus on your studies instead.”

My coach had no faith in me. During our championship game, he put me in and the other team’s coach called a timeout. Not to strategize, he was offering my coach his condolences. They hugged at half court while I just stood there!

My volleyball uniform was humiliating. Everybody else had their number on their jersey. Mine had an apology. Big letters across the back: “WE’RE SORRY.” The front just said “LOOK AWAY.”

My volleyball career was going nowhere. I tell ya Nowhere! I finally got my picture on the NJP website… as a “before” photo in an athletic trauma study. The “after” was just an empty court.

My team had required drug testing. I know I drink too much but the last time I gave a urine sample, it had an olive in it.

I was so ugly when I was born, the doctor slapped my mother.

Our high school was in a real tough neighborhood. Once a guy pulled a knife on me. I knew he wasn’t a professional…  the knife had butter on it.

My spike was pathetic. Just pathetic! Last game I went for a kill shot and hit the ball so soft, the other team sent a thank-you note.

Our volleyball fans were brutal ya know. Last game I made a diving save, and someone yelled “That’s the first time he’s moved that fast all season!” It was my mother.

The team doctor had no confidence in me. Before games, everyone else got their ankles taped. He just handed me a complete body cast and said, “Let’s save some time.”

My volleyball dreams were crushed. Totally crushed! I applied for a volleyball scholarship, and the university sent back a cease and desist letter. They said my highlight reel violated their online harassment policy.

I got no respect on the court. None! During our team physical, the doctor took one look at my vertical jump test and wrote me a prescription for gravity reduction. Said it was the only medical intervention that could help.

Our volleyball program was struggling financially. We had to install a swear jar specifically for when I rotated into the front row. That jar paid for the entire team’s new uniforms, a bus, and the coach’s retirement fund, all from one tournament.

My defensive positioning was horrible. Just horrible! Last game, I was so out of position that Google Maps created a new feature called “anti-directions” based on my movement patterns. They used it to show people exactly where NOT to stand.

My volleyball reputation was shot. College recruiters used my highlight reel as part of their hazing ritual. If players could watch the entire thing without crying, they were mentally tough enough for their program.

I was such a liability on the court that our team’s insurance premium doubled when I checked into the game. The policy specifically excluded “any incidents resulting from #14’s attempts to play volleyball.” They classified my sets as “acts of God” because no human could intentionally make something that disastrous.

I got no respect from officials. During pre-game warmups, refs held a moment of silence for the points we were about to lose when I rotated to the service line. One ref made the sign of the cross when I picked up the ball.

Our team strategy revolved around my weaknesses. The playbook had two sections: “Normal Volleyball” and “When She’s On The Court.” The second section was just a series of disaster response protocols and evacuation plans.

Ok, OK… I don’t get no respect at all… thanks

A Jerry Seinfeld Stand-Up Set

What’s the deal with high school girls volleyball?

Have you seen this? Have you heard about this?

You’ve got these teenagers diving across hardwood floors like they’re trying to save someone from a burning building. But it’s just a ball. A BALL. It’s not going anywhere! It doesn’t have a family waiting for it. Yet they’re throwing their bodies at it like Secret Service agents taking a bullet.

And what is with those team huddles after EVERY SINGLE POINT? What could they possibly be discussing? “Great job hitting the ball over the net. Let’s try that revolutionary strategy again: hit the ball OVER the net. Groundbreaking stuff, ladies. Hands in!”

The parents at these games are something else. Have you noticed how volleyball parents don’t just clap? Nooo, they’ve developed this entire sign language of volleyball parent approval. [Mimics making fists and pulling down] “Good serve!” [Claps twice then points] “Nice spike!” They’re like air traffic controllers who’ve had seven espressos.

And the team bench! There’s always that one player who never gets in the game but has developed an entire choreography for celebrating points. Have you seen this. She’s got more routines than Broadway! This girl hasn’t touched a volleyball in three weeks, but she’s perfected seventeen different celebrations involving jazz hands!

Why do they need SIX positions on the court? Six! It’s like they specifically designed this sport to ensure there’s always one girl who has no idea what she’s doing. There’s always that one player who rotates to a new position with this look of absolute terror. [Makes wide-eyed terrified face] “Wait, am I supposed to be in the front now? What do I do in the front? WHY AM I IN THE FRONT?!”

The volleyball uniform situation is fascinating. You’ve got these knee pads that make it look like they’re about to enter a construction zone, paired with shorts so tiny they wouldn’t qualify as a handkerchief in most countries. What is that about? “We need maximum protection for the knees, but minimal coverage for… everything else.”

And don’t get me started on the serving ritual. Every player has developed this elaborate OCD routine before serving. [Mimics bouncing ball three times, taking deep breath, spinning ball] It’s like watching someone disarm a bomb! Just hit the ball already! The other team is aging over there!

The libero, that’s the defensive specialist with the different colored jersey, why does she need a different colored jersey? Is she going to get lost? Is she in the witness protection program? “Don’t mind Jenny in the blue jersey while the rest of us are in white. She’s hiding from the volleyball mafia.”

And finally, why does every volleyball team have to do that weird low-five line under the net after the game? You just spent an hour trying to destroy these people with spikes to the face, and now you’re giving them gentle low-fives like “Sorry I tried to annihilate you with that last serve. No hard feelings, Kaylee!”

You have been great, thanks…

Volleyball Regrets

An Amy Schumer Stand-Up routine

So, I played volleyball in high school. Yeah, don’t look so surprised! This body was once an athletic machine… if the machine was designed to move as little as possible while still technically participating in a sport.

My volleyball career peaked at age 16 when I managed to serve the ball over the net AND stay upright at the same time. The coach gave me a standing ovation. Literally just stood there clapping slowly like I’d cured cancer instead of doing the basic function of the game.

High school volleyball is basically just an excuse for your body to hurt in places you didn’t know could hurt. I had bruises in shapes that mathematicians couldn’t identify. My knees looked like I’d been intimate with sandpaper. And don’t get me started on what those tiny spandex shorts did to my thighs. You know that sound when your thighs rub together? Mine were basically starting fires during games.

The volleyball uniform is a special kind of torture designed by men, guaranteed. Tiny skin-tight shorts that ride up so far they practically give you a free gynecological exam, paired with these skin-tight jerseys that showcase every single Dorito you’ve eaten since seventh grade. Meanwhile, the boys’ basketball team gets to wear basically parachutes as uniforms. How is that fair?

My team had this tradition where we’d all circle up before games and scream “TOGETHER WE RISE!” Which is ironic because the only thing rising was my anxiety about having to dive for a ball in front of the boys’ soccer team. My version was “TOGETHER WE HIDE BEHIND THE TALLER GIRLS!”

I was a middle blocker, which sounds impressive until you realize it just meant I was tall and uncoordinated. My coach would scream “BLOCK! BLOCK!” and I’d just throw my arms up and close my eyes like I was in a horror movie. Sometimes I’d accidentally touch the ball and everyone would act shocked. “Oh my god, Amy made contact with something besides the bench!”

Sex ed should just be replaced with making boys watch girls play volleyball. You want to teach teenage boys about female anatomy? Make them watch twenty girls adjust their spandex shorts every thirty seconds because they’re constantly riding up into places shorts have no business being.

The locker room after games was like a crime scene. Hair ties everywhere, knee pads that smelled like death, and at least three girls crying in bathroom stalls about their performance. Meanwhile I’m just happy I didn’t get hit in the face again.

The team hierarchy was brutal. There were the girls who actually played volleyball, and then there were girls like me who were essentially professional bench warmers with a side hustle in enthusiastic cheering. I developed a whole routine of looking engaged on the sideline. “Oh wow! Great set! Amazing spike! I totally understand what’s happening right now!”

My volleyball coach once told me I had “untapped potential.” Yeah, it’s still untapped. It’s so untapped it’s practically sealed shut. The only volleyball skill I use in my adult life is the ability to hold my pee for unreasonably long periods of time because our coach never let us use the bathroom during tournaments.

Dating was weird as a volleyball player. Guys would be like “Oh that’s hot, you play volleyball?” expecting some bronzed goddess with abs, and then they’d see me play and realize I was basically just a tall obstacle that occasionally deflected balls with my face.

After four years on the team, I got a participation trophy and permanent trauma anytime someone throws something at me. Now when someone tosses me a set of keys, I either flinch violently or assume the volleyball position. My therapist says it’s PTSD: Post-Traumatic Spike Disorder.

But hey, at least I can put “team player” on my resume with only minimal lying!

The Unexpected Side of Volleyball

A John Mulaney Style Set

So I played volleyball in high school, which is not something I typically lead with in conversations. It’s like saying, “Hi, I’m John, and I once tried to style my hair with maple syrup.” It’s technically true but raises more questions than it answers.

Volleyball is the only sport where you rotate positions every few minutes like some bizarre athletic musical chairs. “Everyone shift clockwise! Surprise! You now have completely different responsibilities!” Can you imagine if they did this in other jobs? “You were a heart surgeon, but we just rotated, so now you’re doing the accounting. Good luck with those spreadsheets, Doctor!”

I was what volleyball experts call “aggressively mediocre.” My coach once pulled me aside and said, with the sincerity of someone delivering terminal news, “You know, John, volleyball is a game of inches.” And I said, “Yes, I’m aware. That’s why I’m missing by feet.”

The volleyball team dynamics were fascinating. We had this one girl, let’s call her Madison, who was INCREDIBLE. Division I college recruit, could jump like she had pogo sticks for legs. Madison would score these amazing points, and we’d all scream and celebrate like we had something to do with it. “WE DID IT!” No, Madison did it. The rest of us were essentially just volleyball valets, retrieving balls for her to actually play the sport.

Do you know what a volleyball timeout huddle actually sounds like? It’s just the coach frantically trying to explain volleyball to people who have supposedly been playing volleyball for years. “WHEN THE BALL COMES OVER THE NET, YOU HIT IT BACK OVER THE NET!” And we’re all nodding like, “Ohhhhhh, THAT’S what we’re supposed to do! We’ve been trying to organize a book club out there!”

My coach kept detailed statistics on all of us, which was unfortunate for my self-esteem. After one particularly rough game, he showed me my stats sheet. Just a series of zeroes and negative numbers, like my volleyball performance had somehow created a mathematical black hole. He said, “Do you see the problem?” And I said, “Yes, it appears someone has been tracking my failures with scientific precision.”

The parents at volleyball games have their own ecosystem. They sit in these metal bleachers clutching Thermoses of coffee like they’re preparing to witness the birth of Christ, not their daughter bumping a ball. And they all become instant volleyball experts. “WATCH THE LINE, JESSICA!” What does that even mean? The line isn’t going anywhere. It’s a LINE. It has one job… to be a line… and it’s doing it perfectly.

I once had to miss a volleyball game for a dentist appointment, and when I came back, the team had won. The coach looked at me with this expression that said, “We’ve made a statistical correlation between your absence and success.” After that, he would send me on elaborate errands during crucial points. “John, can you check if it’s raining… in the gym across town?”

The volleyball uniform is basically public humiliation in fabric form. The shorts are so small they make underwear look conservative. I was constantly tugging at them like I was trying to turn a handkerchief into a quilt through sheer willpower. One time during a game, my mom yelled from the stands, “Pull your shorts down!” Context is everything, folks.

And the volleyball court itself is a psychological minefield. There’s this three-meter line that separates the front row players from back row players. Cross it at the wrong time, and it’s a violation. I spent entire games staring at that line like it might suddenly move. My coach would scream, “STAY BEHIND THE LINE!” as if I might forget the fundamental concept of what a line is. “OH, THAT LINE! I thought you meant the imaginary one I draw between reasonable expectations and my actual abilities!”

So yeah, that was my volleyball career. Four years of jumping, missing, and explaining to my parents why we needed to keep buying new knee pads when all evidence suggested I never actually made contact with the floor… or the ball… or reality.

Thank you!

Hope we got a couple of smiles…