Saturday afternoon, summertime. A cool breeze glide softly across the golden fields, as the lazily westering sun longingly caresses the reddening backs of Swedish volunteers lounging by the pool. Young mothers stroll by with their babies, as their older siblings scamper gaily across the emerald green lawn. All is peace and quite -accept for the occasional blood curdling scream drifting up from the youngsters' neighborhood.

No, no one is being slaughtered - just a friendly Saturday afternoon game of volleyball, at one time a Nachshon institute. Men and women, young and old, virile Alpha-type jocks and decrepit WW2 veterans - all gathered for a weekly event that had elements of Olympic finals, a social evening at the Iran-Iraq Friendship Club and WWF Raw. It was all conducted on a slanted bit of grass, between two towering trees that served as net posts, with borders haphazardly marked at angles not yet discovered by modern science. There were no referees and it was all based on the honor system, so naturally most of the time was spent arguing each and every point. Boy, did we have fun!

It had to end, of course (this IS the Middle East, after all - having fun is illegal). What finally wore us down was the constant fighting with our esteemed landscape architect, who couldn't stand to see his beautiful grass trampled weekly by barbarians. We started moving around, looking for more environment-friendly location, and eventually the whole thing just petered out. All I have left is a red, sexy scar on my fast balding head (some other time!) and the above T-shirt.