Rio Olympics 2016: Women’s beach volleyball goes down a (sand) storm with its Brazilian blend of skill, glamour, superb athleticism, fun and, let’s be honest, sex appeal
TEN O’CLOCK on a sizzling hot morning at the women’s beach volleyball and a crucial question springs to mind.
Why has this never caught on back home?
OK, so we don’t have the glorious year-round sunshine, the glistening white sands or the endless supply of 6ft, loose-limbed lovelies with natural permatans, egg-box six-packs and buttocks you could bounce a £2 coin off.
And, yes, there is every chance that even if we handpicked the most stunning Olympian senorhas, shipped them from the Copacabana to Clacton and formed our own Super League, every match would finish after one serve, because the wind would blow the ball halfway to Le Havre.
But these are mere details. We are British, we can make anything work.
So just imagine — weekends from Barry Island to Burntisland and back when every beach is packed with punters and throbbing to brass bands playing Samba beats.
Picture the scene as Morris dancers in Carmen Miranda fruit hats whip up the baying crowd by twerking up and down their maypoles.
Does not sound any dafter to me than inviting Sri Lankans to play cricket at Durham on a three-sweater day in early May.
Apart from anything else, beach volleyball is really fun. It is skilful and aggressive, the points are short and sharp and it takes about two minutes to grasp the basics of how it works.
It is two-a-side, as opposed to six in normal volleyball.
It is a bit like doubles in tennis, except that the team receiving serve cannot let the ball hit the deck and has three shots to get it back over the net. If you win the point, you keep the serve.
The women play best of three sets, with the winner first to 21. Easy-peasy.
Yesterday morning, as the mercury zipped beyond 90F not long beyond breakfast, the Brazilian pair of Larissa and Talita — they are on first-name terms with the public, just like the nation’s footballers — opened the women’s competition with a prelim against Ekaterina Birlova and Evgenia Ukulova of Russia.
Yes, that is right, Russia of all places.
The home heroines, long dark hair scraped back into perky ponytails under sun visors, sashayed on to court in green crop tops numbered BRA 1 and BRA 2 (no sniggering at the back of the class) and teeny-weeny trunks.
The Russians, their every shot soundtracked by loud pantomime booing from the locals in the towering temporary stands, were resplendent in dazzling white.
The announcer whipped up the crowd with the sport’s versions of the Mexican Wave — the Ace Serve, the Super Spike and the Monster Block.
And either he did his job well or the fans were genuinely knowledgeable, because each time one of the shots was played they were up as one, arms aloft, mimicking the players.
It was terrific entertainment. And there is no doubt a big part of it all is how magnificent the competitors look, because beach volleyball is unashamedly sexy.
Scanning the online profiles of the women’s team, it is fair to say that very few were at the back of the queue when the looks were being distributed.
In the interests of balance, it is also fair to point out it is rare to find anyone in the men’s draw who does not look like he just stepped out of a Hugo Boss aftershave advert.
This may seem irrelevant to some. But it’s a simple fact — beach volleyball players are as gorgeous as they are magnificently fit and creative.
Larissa, a bronze medallist in London, dovetailed beautifully with Talita as the Brazilians saw off the Russians 21-14 21-16 in 36 breathless minutes.
They then milked a standing ovation, hugging and dancing, then serving the match ball into the upper tier for a gaggle of lovestruck guys to fight over like seagulls swooping on discarded chips.
And then they swanned back into the shade, leaving behind them irrevocable proof that there is far more to all of this than mere fluffy sexism.
Because who then came on court to brush away their footprints?
Six BLOKES. Right on, sisters . . .
