I had another dream of Denver this morning. This time it was about playing volleyball in Cheesman Park. Of course, none of the people in the dream were those I knew back then. However, when I woke up, I remembered so many of them: Brian Johnson, Tommy Hill, Jack Witt, Bill Smith, Chris, Terry, and dozens whom I remember their many faces but forget their names.
Not long after Mark and I moved to California, I heard from Brian Johnson that Bill Smith had moved to Texas and had died. He was the first volleyball buddy whom I remember telling in "Queen Soopers" that I had a boyfriend.
I had started to play volleyball soon after I moved into the Park Humboldt Apartments on Humboldt Street, one block over from Cheesman. One of the reasons I started to play was to meet someone since so many gay guys did play on the weekends especially. From my early 40's until I just after I turned 60, I showed up early each weekend, sat under the tree by the 9th Street entrance and read a book until others showed up.
I soon cobbled together the nearly $200 to buy the red-bagged volleyball net and ropes and poles. A local company on the other side of I-25 from downtown sold them. When I finally gave up playing, I handed my set to Bill Smith whom I knew would use it well.
In the few years after I gave up playing, and soon met Mark, when I drove through Cheesman Park, I would see the latest generation of players who had taken over from us much older players who had finally moved on. Tommy Hill, and then Jack Witt, who were a few years older than I, quit playing before I did. I knew that eventually I would have to make the same decision, an acknowledgement that I was old, too old to endure potential injuries that might not heal quickly.
