By Daniel Dunaief

Daniel Dunaief

Sometimes, words are just words. We say things like, “How are you doing,” when we don’t really want to know.

As soon as someone starts telling us, in great detail, about how she bit her lip on a Monday, no, was it a Tuesday, no, no, no, it was a Monday, we start to wonder whether we can travel back in time and just wave.

We say things to be polite because we are obeying the norms of society.

We might shake hands with someone at a party and suggest “It’s nice to meet you,” when “nice” is not the first word that comes to mind.

Saying “it’s nice to meet you” can get people in trouble, particularly if the other person arches an eyebrow, wags a finger inches from your head and insists you’ve already met several times, including three days ago when you were wearing a green shirt and she told you about the time she bit her lip.

“Oh, right, right, right,” you say, feigning a memory of a moment you can’t conjure from an event you barely recall.

Does your name start with a B? Or is it a V? Or maybe a vowel?

And then there’s the moment when someone says he’s sorry.

I recently played a game of six on six volleyball. There I was, standing next to a woman who clearly knew the game. She was in perfect position for every ball, extended her arms, bending her knees, and looking like she came directly out of a training manual.

As soon as the ball crossed the net, she moved to where it was headed, calling for it. Too bad she barely got to touch it.

A young man on the team, whom we’ll call Kevin, seemed intent on getting to every ball he could, regardless of whether someone else called for it or whether it was anywhere near him. For several points, I watched in disgusted fascination as he raced around the court, more often than not hitting the ball out of bounds.

The first time he cut in front of the woman next to me, I shrugged and gave him the benefit of the doubt. After he mishit the ball, he turned around and noticed her.

“Oh, did you call for it?” he asked, giggling. “I’m sorry.”

It happened three or four more times. Each time, he offered a half hearted apology.

If he were truly sorry, he would have changed his approach to the ball, giving her a chance to direct the ball, which she was far better trained and prepared to do.

Several times, she raced after balls he’d hit far off the court, passed them to another teammate and the point continued.

With the score tied at 20, one of our teammates passed a high-arcing shot right to me. I stood under it, waiting for the right moment to set it deep into the back corner.

As I hit the ball, Kevin raced top speed into me, slamming into my ribs without touching the ball. He hit me in exactly the spot where I have been injured before. I took a deep breath, gnashed my teeth and shook my head.

I knew the moment he made contact that I was decidedly not “okay” and that I couldn’t easily just rub dirt in it or shake it off. I tried lifting my left hand above my head and felt a sharp and familiar pain in my side.

Rather than wait until the end of the game, I walked off the court and waved, shaking my head and muttering that I couldn’t continue playing. I’m pretty sure no one heard what I said. I’ve never been eager to attract attention when I’m hurt. I’d rather recover and deal with the pain on my own.

I walked away and sat far from the court, willing the pain to ease up. Within minutes, I knew the course this discomfort would take, particularly when I tried to sleep or when I raised my arms.

While I was trying to slow my breathing and find a comfortable seated position, someone who had been watching brought me ice. About 20 minutes later, Kevin trudged over and extended his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, not looking me in the eye.

I reached out my hand even though that movement was uncomfortable and shook his hand.  He could have been sorry, I suppose, but that may be more because someone told him he should be.

I’m sorry I didn’t suggest he stay in his spot when he was racing in front of the woman next to me. That would have enabled her to hit the ball more often and might have prevented him from ramming into me.