You would know I was overdressed just by looking at the pair of Vans slip-ons that sheltered my feet.
They play voleibol (or volleyball) in a small town of northern Sinaloa, Mexico. It came as a shock, seeing as the rural town is tucked away in a sierra region, inhabited mostly by farmers and cows and chickens.
But hidden behind a rundown house made of adobe, next to a dusty corral, and an hour away from cell phone signal, there’s volleyball. There is sport.
The same group of guys meet in the same vacant lot at the same time every day. It’s become routine.
So I decided to join once a cousin of mine invited me to come along one day during winter break.
I showed up wearing slip-ons, only to see the others wearing nothing. And off came my shoes.
The guy who owned the only ball had not arrived yet, so everyone used the time to gather excess dirt that would be used to fill the countless holes on the ground. While some made sure the rope lay straight, others made sure the net was firmly tied to the two uneven wooden logs.
At last, the ball arrived.
The group was surprised to hear that I spoke Spanish, then quickly insisted that I participate in the first game. They wanted to put me to the test. So I put down my five pesos (dollar equivalent of fifty cents) and got ready to play.
The best five pesos I ever wagered.
I was grouped with two others in a first-to-15 match. As the others looked on, the first serve came my way. I swiftly struck the ball, trying to guide it to the teammate on my right, and it bounced awkwardly off my wrist.
After running off to track it down, I noticed something.
It was flat.
We had anxiously waited for the ball and now it was flat.
I quickly offered to go pump air into it, but they all responded with a resounding “No.” According to my cousin, the ball was as firm as it was going to be.
From that point on, I knew that this group really did play for the sake of playing. They tried to make their lot as perfect as possible, trying hard to duplicate a real court. But no matter how hard they tried, the holes were still there, the lines on the perimeter were uneven, and the partly unfastened net just dangled there.
Back in the United States, collegiate football teams were playing under the bright lights of enormous stadiums, in front of tens of thousands of spectators. The pageantry found at the Rose Bowl is spectacular. But in reality, none of that is necessary to fully enjoy sports.
This small group finds happiness during those three hours of voleibol, in its purest form.
For them, there are no UCLAs and no USCs. But just like the results of their matches: it doesn’t matter.
By playing without a fully inflated ball on a rocky, unsmooth surface, this group provided further proof that sport allows people to escape, no matter where they’re located.
And for three shoeless hours, I was glad to escape with them.
If you’ve ever lost 15 pesos playing voleibol in Mexico, e-mail Angulo at bangulo@media.ucla.edu.