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Luke
We played volleyball every day. Everyone loved volleyball here. We played soccer, too, but volleyball brought in a more diverse crowd. Everyone from six-year-olds with Mickey Mouse shirts playing over a cord tied between two poles to ANA commanding officers with trimmed, British-looking beards to older men with inch-deep wrinkles on courts that had been up since the eighties. Wherever there was a flat enough space and a net, we played.
Our usual team was me, Frankie, and a gangly eight-year-old named Ahmad, against Majeed, another, college-age interpreter; Randall, a British captain; and Franson, one of the women from the Red Horse unit I knew vaguely through Frankie. Franson actually played in high school, so they’d beat us every time.
Today she’d offered to switch with Majeed, Frankie, or me. Ahmad didn’t know much English but Franson put her Oakleys on her head and smiled at him, pointing to her and to me, making a rotating motion with her hand.
Majeed interpreted.
Ahmad smiled and grabbed our uniforms as we stood on either side of him, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no.”
He said something to Majeed. Majeed said, “Ahmad likes to stay on a team with Frank and Luke.”
Frankie and I shrugged at each other behind our sunglasses. Ahmad and I gave each other a high five.
“We may not be good but we’re fun,” Frankie said.
“It’s only because you let Ahmad serve every time,” Franson joked, backing up to her spot, tossing the ball.
Majeed laughed.
“Yeah, Morrow and Cucciolo don’t know how to serve, anyway,” Randall called.
“Whatever, dude,” Frankie said, bending his knees to get in the ready position. “Watch what you say or Luke will break your nose.”
“All right, all right,” Franson said, stepping behind the line.
She served. The ball came fast to the far-right corner and I stepped under it, bumping backward to Frankie, who set it over the net. Randall picked it up and bumped it to Franson, who spiked it hard back over off Frankie’s wrists. The ball went flying in a wide arc toward the FOB. Frankie and I stood and watched it until we realized Ahmad had jetted after it, his gray perahan barely visible against the dust and glare.
“Look at him get after it!” Frankie called.
“Go Ahmad!” I yelled.
He came back smiling, but defeated, with the ball in his hands. Frankie gave him a pat on the back.
Ahmad said something and pointed to his eyes.
Majeed said, “Ahmad said he almost got it but the sun got in his face.”
Without a second thought, Frankie took off his sunglasses and gave them to Ahmad. Ahmad put them on, and I had to hold in a laugh at how much they dwarfed the rest of his face. But Ahmad just tossed the ball up and caught it, slapping it, ready for business.
“That’s better,” Frankie said, winking at me.
Franson served again, but this time the ball went out of bounds. It was our team’s serve.
“Whose turn is it?” Frankie said pointedly, turning up his hands in exaggerated curiosity. It definitely was either mine or Frankie’s. Franson was right, Ahmad had served every time.
“Hm, not mine,” I said.
“Not mine, either,” Frankie said.
Over the net, Franson and Majeed smiled, shaking their heads. Randall scoffed.
“It’s Ahmad’s turn, for sure,” I said, and tossed him the ball.
He ran to the line, holding his sunglasses in place, and the game carried on.
