Bump Set Spike

 

I played volleyball with a small church team, part of the youth program. As the team leader by default, I was the oldest, the biggest, and the most athletic, so I tried to take the role seriously. I was vocal (I’m blessed with a loud voice) with my encouragement, and that often worked in our favour. There were times when we really rose to the occasion, and there were other times when my lack of maturity shone through.

Opposing teams often figured out that keeping the ball away from the tall, skinny guy was a good strategy. A few of our games turned into a frustrating game of keep away. I had one of the best spikes in the league, but I can’t set the ball for myself. My teammates struggled to set me up for the intimidating kill shot. I got frustrated, and one day I learned to keep my mouth in check by embarrassing myself.

We were playing a match in front of a churchgoer audience, and keep away was the name of the game. I started to get frustrated. We might even have been winning, but I was feeling uninvolved. “C’mon, let’s set it up!” I would yell, trying to encourage my teammates. Things devolved from there. My encouragement started to become increasingly more bellicose. At some point, because no one seemed to be paying much attention, I started yelling, “C’mon, let’s have some sets!” I started getting annoyed sideways glances from some of my teammates. I got louder. People started looking at me funny. 

Finally, one of my younger brothers, who was on the team, had had enough. He stomped over to me. “Will you shut up. It sounds like you’re yelling, let’s have some sex!” I was real quiet after that.

I Don't Want To Help!

Recognizing root words across different languages can be useful. I can get by in French, and I understand a great deal of Dutch. Studied German as well. Sometimes it allows me to understand what's going on when I'm listening to another Romance or Germanic language. It is not a perfect science, though.

My wife, who was carrying our twin boys at the time, went into labour, and we rushed to the hospital in St. Hyacinthe, Quebec. The doctor advised us that the babies were oriented feet first and there was a danger of the umbilical cords getting tangled and losing one or both babies. The decision was to transport her to Ste. Justine Hospital in Montreal, and perform an emergency cesarean.

They packed Francine up in an ambulance, and I headed home to leave instructions for my parents-in-law to take care of our oldest before following. The ambulance had trouble with traffic, while I came by a different route. In spite of my stop, I arrived only minutes behind them.

I was directed to follow an orderly who didn't speak a word of English. He asked me if I wanted to "assister" with the operation. Assister in French actually means to attend, but that isn't what I thought. I'm sure my eyes went as wide as soup bowls. I was having horrible thoughts about cutbacks to Canadian healthcare programs. I'm a woodworker, not a doctor. I want her to survive this. I was responding with "juste regarder," which means just look. The orderly was nodding yes, while I was shaking no. I went into the operating room anyway and talked to the conscious end of her through the whole thing. 

Stressful situation, which is funny now but not at the time. It did have a happy ending, as the above photo can attest

Who's On First? - 911 Call

 

Just to avoid any misunderstanding, the French-Canadian woman in this story was not my wife. Francine would keep her cool enough to clarify the situation all by herself. This little gem was recounted to me by a friend. This is my paraphrase of what happened.

The easternmost corner of the province of Ontario, between Ottawa and Montreal, is a mix of French- and English-speaking communities. L'Orignal is a French community along the Ottawa River. L'Orignal, translated into English, means The Moose. The English in the area had similar town naming proclivities. A nearby town is called Moose Creek.

The aforementioned French Canadian lass was driving on a main road, minding her own business, when a moose bolted out of the bush onto the road. She hit it. Hitting a moose is no joke. A lot of people have been killed in collisions like that. She was lucky, though. Her car was badly damaged, but she was unhurt. The moose wasn't so lucky.

Parked on the side of the road, shaking and emotional, she pulls out her cellphone and calls 911. Keep in mind, this entire conversation takes place in French.

She tells her story, and they tell her they will send help. All is going well until they ask her where she is parked. She tells them she is close to L'Orignal (the moose). The operator does not understand that she means the town of L'Orignal, not the beast she accidentally killed. He tries to soothe her emotions by telling her not to worry about the poor departed moose. He asks her again for the name of the nearest town. She replies with L'Orignal again and starts crying. The operator still doesn't get it, and this goes back and forth until another motorist stops and explains it all for her.

This, to me, is hysterically funny. Don't name towns after large animals, or this is what could happen.