I have never been mistaken for an athlete, that's for sure. I'm pretty much terrible at every sport I've tried. Not just bad; I’m usually the worst person on the field, by far. Which is why I avoid playing sports anymore. I’m on the wrong side of 40 now, and I figure if I haven’t gotten good at anything already, it’s not going to happen now.

One of the sports at which I thought I was at least adequately skilled was volleyball. Not because of any kind of athletic ability, of course; don’t be silly. The only reason I’m any good at volleyball is because I’m 6-foot-5. I can reach over a regulation net with my heels still on the floor, so it’s relatively easy for me to block and spike a ball. In other words, I can play volleyball without completely humiliating myself. Granted, I haven’t played any volleyball in at least a few years – in fact, I can’t remember the last time I played – but we’re not talking decades here.

When my daughter Gustavo (not her real name) asked me to help her practice her volleyball moves recently, I jumped at the chance. Gustavo’s 12 now, so my opportunities to bond with her are getting more limited. The idea of hitting the volleyball around in the back yard seemed like fun, and it would allow me to freely blow her off for at least a week without the usual bad-father guilt. Plus, she’d get to practice volleyball, which she’s trying for the first time this fall, so hey, bonus.

We went to the back yard and stood about 15 feet apart. Gustavo said she wanted to try bumping first. No problem; I clasped my hands together, held them low and prepared to bump.

Gustavo looked at me. "Daddy, you’re doing it wrong."
"I haven’t done anything yet," I said.

"You don’t have your hands together right."

I looked at my hands, which were intertwined, like in prayer mode. "I don’t? I’ve always done it like this."

"You’re supposed to hold them like this," she said, wrapping one hand around the other, with her thumbs against each other on top.

OK, no big deal. I adjusted my hands. "Ready," I said. Gustavo tossed the ball toward me, and I whacked it back. But instead of bumping the ball back to me, she caught it.

"Wait," she said. "You’re not bumping it right. You’re supposed to hit it with your forearms, not your hands."

Uh, OK. I knew that volleyball players were supposed to hit with their forearms, but I’d always just hit it with my hands. Apparently Gustavo wanted to really make sure we both were doing everything right.

"And don’t swing your arms," Gustavo added. "To hit, you’re supposed to bend your knees and lift your whole body. You hold your arms still."

It was starting to seem a little complicated. All I wanted to do was hit the ball. But hey, fine. The important thing was to help Gustavo improve at volleyball. I got into position, held my hands the right way, and bent my knees. Something popped audibly. Being 40 is awesome.

Gustavo tossed the ball at me again. I lowered my knees and lifted my whole body to strike the ball with my forearms.

And son of a mother did it hurt.

"Owwwwwwww!" I shrieked. I forgot all about maintaining my proper form and took a moment to dance around the yard while shaking my forearms. I didn’t want Gustavo to know just how much it hurt, so I sort of made a funny face, as if I were acting just a little bit. Not sure it worked; she mostly just stared at me, perhaps pondering a call to 911.

It took a couple minutes for the pain to subside enough to allow me to focus my eyes and stop hopping around the yard like a freshly stapled rabbit. "You OK, Daddy?" Gustavo asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I must have done something wrong. Let’s try again."

With a wary look on her face, Gustavo tossed the ball again. I hit it again, just the way I was supposed to. And again, the pain made me want to kick puppies. I did a little more dancing, waving and gnashing of teeth. This time the pain seemed to be emanating outward from my bones. It didn’t make sense that my arms hurt quite that much. I hadn’t hit the ball that hard. And the ball itself wasn’t hard, either. My arms shouldn’t have been killing me. But boy, were they.

"Why don’t we try spiking instead?" Gustavo asked. Ah, good idea. I can spike. You jump and pound the ball with your fist. Easy. Plus, as much as my arms hurt, I was ready to attack the ball instead of the other way around.

I had Gustavo lob the ball, and I leaped and pounded it halfway across the yard. Gustavo chuckled. "Daddy, that would have been way, way out," she said. "Plus, you did it wrong."

No, I didn’t. I jumped and pounded the ball. How was that wrong?

Gustavo showed me that there are three stages to a proper spike. First was "Frankenstine arms," then came "look through your hand," and finally "reach and leap." I was like…uh, what happened to “jump and assault the ball like it’s made out of Nazis?" Three stages for a spike? But, OK, I was there to help Gustavo, and apparently she felt that my having good form was somehow helpful to her, so I had her loft the ball while I tried to do a spike. Again, I sent the ball across the yard.

Gustavo chuckled again. "Oh, Daddy," she said, like I was being intentionally silly. I decided not to argue; it was the only way to save face.

I then tossed the ball to her a few times and let her try spiking. She mostly got it right. A couple times, she missed the ball, but hey, the poor kid has my genetics working very hard against her, and she’s been playing volleyball for all of three weeks. All things considered, she did very well. I was proud of her.

After some more spiking and some back-and-forth setting, Gustavo wanted to try a little more bumping. No problem, I thought. No way it would hurt again like it had before. Obviously I’d just maybe hit a nerve or something. I prepared my hands and bent my knees. Gustavo tossed the ball at me, I struck it…and once again, I yelped in pain.

I did the whole hopping-around-the-yard thing one more time. What the hell? How is a mere volleyball sending me into fits of anguish? I shook my arms and waited for the pain to fade. It didn’t My forearms screamed at me like frying hamsters.

"Maybe we should quit," Gustavo said. "You’re kind of freaking me out a little."

"Great idea," I said. I didn’t think I could take anymore anyway. I didn’t know what the deal was. Maybe I was simply doing something wrong. Maybe there was something wrong with the ball. Or maybe…

"I don’t know why that hurt you so much," Gustavo said. "We do it all the time in practice and nobody says it hurts. And we’re all 12-year-old girls." She gave me another silly-Daddy giggle and patted my shoulder.

Yep, or maybe I’ve just found another way to humiliate myself.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He is counting the nanoseconds until the NFL season kicks off on Thursday. Look for his novel, Acoustic Kitty, at local Borders stores and online at Amazon.com. And coming soon: a collection of the best Suburban Fringe columns.