Holly McPeak has chiseled biceps, strong and shapely legs, and a rear end that would make a baseball power-pitcher proud. Her cutting-board stomach is the only flat thing about her body. She’s the most beautiful female athlete in the world. Yet–please don’t laugh–her most beautiful asset is her mind.
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Last Friday I finally got to see McPeak in the flesh, as the Association of Volleyball Professionals tour came to North Avenue Beach for the U.S. Open Championships. The tour has diminished in popularity since the early and mid-90s, suffering from overexposure and a prudish backlash in the sports sections. Chicago was a key stop, a foray from the hedonistic coastal beaches into the straitlaced heartland but nevertheless an appropriate setting, given the popularity of the sport here–the courts set up between North and Fullerton are filled every day–and the backdrop of the city. The day before the tournament torrential rain had forced city officials to empty the sewers into the Chicago River and close the beaches through the weekend. Friday morning, as I walked through Lincoln Park Zoo to the beach, a persistent mist fell, a dull breeze wafted the scent of dying alewives, and I was almost on top of the bleachers for the stadium court, set up in front of the luxury-liner beach house, before I could even make them out in the deep fog enveloping the lakefront. The only question I had was “Are there rain delays in beach volleyball?”
Only after McPeak and Youngs took the court did I realize something I hadn’t before in watching the sport on television, something too few fans or even players recognize: McPeak and Youngs–who is taller and thinner but no less attractive–use their beauty to intimidate their opponents. Warming up, Youngs had been wearing a floppy yellow sweatshirt that covered her bikini bottoms, while McPeak had been wearing a plain white T-shirt and ugly brown shorts. Courtside they stripped down to a matching set of blue bikinis. Their opponents, Wood and Bragado, were wearing bikini tops and blue tights, which they peeled off to reveal a matching set of unflattering bottoms. They were athletic and solidly built–two-person beach volleyball doesn’t allow for any John Kruks, as the players have to cover eight square meters in sand that impedes not just running but leaping–but their legs were thick and their bellies bounced slightly when they walked. It didn’t seem fair that the sport’s great beauties should also be better players, but remember how Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen used to project the same sort of swagger when they were among the first midsize basketball players to build up their shoulders and biceps. Like Muhammad Ali, they not only beat their opponents, they seemed to glory in how much better looking they were. Imagine the same dynamic in a sport played in bikinis.
That doesn’t mean the men weren’t worth watching. I made a point of catching top-ranked Dax Holdren and Eric Fonoimoana in a match on the court just south of the stadium court. They were in a tough three-set match, and rain began to fall during the third game. Holdren looked like someone named Dax: like a surfer dude, with spiky blond hair, a shallow chest, and Gary Busey buckteeth, but a powerful flat waist made for leaping (he has a reputation as one of the best blockers on the tour). Fonoimoana was cut, all muscles and six-pack abs. There was no announcer for their match, and even as they began to pull away from their opponents, fans were befuddled. During one break in play someone shouted out, “Score?” “Ten-five,” Holdren said with disdain as he straightened the sideline tape with his foot. They won the third game 15-11 (the clinching game is played to 15, the first two to 21) and advanced to Sunday’s finals, beating Brazilians Frederico Souza and Anjinho in two straight games.
