Battersea Sports Centre
Upon this street of hope, emerge the aspirations of a multitude.
Boys gather, at once shouting and jumping as they seek to rouse the object of their pilgrimage.
Likewise men, brothers of goliath, stoop and lean as if to coax a timid angel from his perch.
What of this hope?
Do they seek fortune, this gang of men adorned in coloured tunics, matched all like soldiers in regalia?
Do they seek maidens, these lads so craven in their thrust and reach?
I fear their disappointment as these sturdy bulls campaign so vigorously for their patron's gaze.
Yet their cries are fruitless as no angel, god or prophet comes forth to swat or grant their calls.
Will they be crestfallen?
Will they rage and do untold violence in frustration at the absence of their benefactor? I think not.
This small army no longer seemingly call forth some deity to rid them of misfortune or bestow upon them riches.
No, these men and boys, a head and shoulder above normal men, seek no divinity.
Their masterful exertions, as forceful as may smite a bear, are focused instead, upon frivolity.
What game or folly could occupy such men, such rocks of muscle, bone and sinew without reward of love or gold.
Verily, it is volleyball.
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