The Net

By Sam Hwang

Feb. 10, 2019

The sun inches above the horizon, filling the sky over Naco, Arizona, with a tawny golden light. Objects seem to flux and dance in the warm air, in stark contrast to the utter stillness that hangs heavily over the barren hills of rust-colored dirt and sparse shrubbery. From somewhere within a lone cluster of grasses, a cricket chirps mournfully, calling out to the sleepy town bordering the empty plains of nothingness, like a rooster to a farmhouse at the crack of dawn. Suddenly, the early morning silence is broken by the sound of flip-flopped footsteps dashing back and forth across the desert. A child, sporting a white t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, scrambles to reach a ball before it touches the ground. He dives for it, closing his eyes and extending his arms to their full length, fingers interlocked. The sharp sound of leather on skin signals to the child and his opponent alike that he has successfully made contact with the ball, and has sent it spiraling back over the net. He hears the dull thud of the ball on sand, and smiles to himself as his opponent cries out in surprise. There’s nothing like a quick game of volleyball before school, he thinks to himself.

The game goes on like this for an hour; the two players scramble about, doing their best to predict where the ball will appear next. They call out to each other in friendly competition, sounds of joy bubbling up through the desert like an oasis amid the arid silence. In a graceful dance of back and forth, of up and down, of give and take, the ball arcs through the dry air, knowing no boundaries or limits - it simply moves, tied to the earth by gravity and nothing more. There’s a rhythm to it, both sides equally matched, both gradually becoming more lethargic in their movements. Panting and wiping his brow beneath the scalding Arizona sun, the boy notices that the net seems taller with each hit he makes. His opponent’s shots become less accurate, and less frequent. By means of a mutual yet unsaid consensus, the match comes to a close.

“Good job, my son.” The boy’s father, in his thickly accented voice, addressing him from across the net. His bronze skin glitters in the morning air under a thin layer of sweat. He grins from ear to ear, proud. “Gracias, Papá,” the boy responds, with a smile just as bright as his father’s. In the golden light, their resemblance is clear. Though on opposite sides of the net, they are on the same team - always have been and always will be. Indivisible. They talk briefly. About the boy’s first day of fourth grade. About the father’s search for a new job. About the woman they love, a mother and a wife. Eventually, the time comes for them to part ways. They walk a hundred paces along the net, promise to play again the next morning, then part ways. The boy walks down West Hogan Street; his father takes la Avenida Independencia. As he walks along the dusty street on the American side of a border town he calls his home, the boy reminisces about the times he used to be able to hug his father after a game of volleyball. The times before his father was deported by Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers, even though he’d been living in Arizona since long before his son was born. Even though he’d committed no crime, aside from pursuing a better life. Shuffling his feet, the boy thinks back to the days when he could play volleyball with his father using a net wasn’t 20 feet tall, that wasn’t made of steel, that wasn’t the width of an entire continent. The boy thinks back to the time before his family was separated. But it takes him a little longer to recollect every time.

Inspired by a true story: www.reuters.com/article/us-usa-mexico-volleyball/both-teams-at-home-in-u-s-mexico-border-volleyball-idUSN1421559720070414.

Image credits to Los Angeles Times