#beachvolleyball

The sand at Kew-Balmy Beach in the Beaches, was still warm from the day.

Toronto had settled into that heavy June evening glow where everything looked gold before the sun even touched it properly. The lake moved in slow silver-blue sheets beyond the beach. Cyclists rolled past on the Martin Goodman Trail. Music drifted from somewhere near the boardwalk. The city felt loose, hot, and restless.

Which meant, obviously, Alton wanted a game.

“Two on two,” he said, spinning the volleyball in one hand. “Coach and Wells versus me and Trey.”

Trey grinned. “Easy.”

Coach looked at him over the top of his sunglasses.

Wells was already smiling.

For the game, none of them wore shirts. No shoes. Just sand on bare feet, sweat on skin, and shiny metallic gold shorts catching the evening light. Wells’s gold shorts flashed every time he moved. Coach’s were simple and tight, practical but impossible to ignore. Trey’s had a black 59 on one hip. Alton’s had black side stripes and just enough shine to make him act like the whole beach was watching.

They probably were.

Coach tossed the ball to Trey. “First lesson.”

Trey caught it. “Already?”

“Control before power.”

Trey smirked. “Coach, it’s beach volleyball.”

Coach nodded once. “Correct. Unstable surface. Changing wind. Moving target. Bad place for ego.”

Alton leaned toward Trey. “He does this. Just let it happen.”

The first serve proved Coach’s point.

Trey launched it hard. Too hard. The ball cut high, caught the lake breeze, and sailed long past the back line.

Wells did not move. He only watched it land.

Coach looked at Trey. “Power without control is donation.”

Alton clapped once. “And we are already donating.”

Trey rolled his shoulders. “Again.”

The game tightened fast.

Wells was quick across the sand, reading angles before they happened. Coach barely seemed to move until he had to, then he was exactly where the ball needed him to be. Alton played loud, dramatic, surprisingly sharp when he stopped performing. Trey played like he wanted to crush every point into the lake.

That was the problem.

He had the strength. He had the speed. He had the instinct.

He just kept rushing.

A spike into the net. A save sent too wide. A serve that almost took out someone’s picnic blanket.

Coach caught the next ball before anyone served.

“Stop.”

Trey breathed hard, sweat running down his chest. “What?”

Coach stepped closer, gold shorts dusted with sand, expression steady. “You are trying to win the point before you play it.”

Trey frowned.

Wells stayed quiet.

Coach pointed to the court. “Look first. Breathe. Choose. Then move.”

Alton raised a hand. “Does this apply to life choices too, or just volleyball?”

Coach did not look away from Trey. “Especially yours.”

Wells laughed under his breath.

Trey looked annoyed for half a second. Then he exhaled.

“Look. Breathe. Choose. Move.”

Coach nodded. “Again.”

The next serve came softer.

Not weak. Controlled.

Trey watched the ball instead of attacking the moment. Alton set it clean. Wells shifted left. Coach stepped forward.

Trey waited.

Then he placed the shot exactly into the open sand behind Wells.

Point.

Alton threw both arms up. “Growth. Character development. Cinema.”

Trey grinned despite himself.

Coach’s mouth barely moved, but it was almost a smile. “Better.” "IF you want we can work more on control and focus while we are still here in Toronto or once we are back in the Golden City"

After that, the game changed.

Trey stopped swinging at everything like the ball had insulted him personally. He started watching Wells’s shoulders, Coach’s feet, the wind off the lake. He let Alton talk, but he did not let Alton’s noise pull him off rhythm. Point by point, he got sharper.

Coach and Wells still won.

Barely.

Alton collapsed backward into the sand like he had been betrayed by fate. “Robbery.”

Wells offered him a hand. “Scoreboard says no.”

Trey stood with hands on hips, breathing hard, looking at Coach.

“I was better at the end.”

Coach picked up the ball. “You were focused.”

“Same thing?”

“Negative.” Coach tossed him his shirt from the beach bag. “Focus comes first.”

By the time they left Kew-Balmy Beach, the evening had cooled just enough to make the walk feel good. They rinsed sand off, pulled shirts over sun-warmed skin, and put shoes back on, but kept the same shiny metallic gold shorts.

Wells wore a black fitted athletic shirt with a gold 58. Coach wore his black COACH shirt, cap back on, whistle at his chest. Trey pulled on a gold sleeveless 59 top, calmer now but still glowing from the game. Alton wore his gold KNIGHTS shirt and complained that beach sand had “no respect for luxury materials.”

They headed east toward the FIFA Fan Festival at Fort York and The Bentway, where Toronto’s World Cup crowd was gathering around live match broadcasts, food, music, and city energy under the Gardiner. Toronto’s official Fan Festival runs at Fort York & The Bentway during the 2026 World Cup, with live broadcasts and cultural programming tied to the city’s “The World in a City” theme.

By the time they arrived, the screens were bright, the crowd was loud, and flags from half the planet seemed to be moving at once.

Alton immediately scanned the food options. “Focus is important. I am focusing on fries.”

Trey watched the match on the giant screen, then glanced at Coach.

“Look. Breathe. Choose. Move.”

Coach nodded without taking his eyes off the game. “Now you are learning.”

Wells bumped Trey’s shoulder. “Careful. He’ll make you run drills at halftime.”

Trey smiled.

The crowd roared as the attack built on screen. A player paused instead of forcing the shot, waited one beat, then slipped the ball clean through the defense.

Trey saw it.

Coach saw Trey see it.

Control first.

Focus next.

Then movement.

The goal came a second later, and the whole Fan Festival erupted.

Alton jumped like he had personally coached the team. Wells laughed. Trey shouted with the crowd. Coach stood steady in the noise, satisfied and silent.

The lesson had landed.

On the sand.

Under the lights.

In gold.

Control wins the point. Focus wins the match. Stand with the brothers who turn every game, every crowd, and every golden moment into training. Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Today's vintage-style pinup art is another tribute to the late great Bill Randall with ‘Beach Blunder’! Daisy leaped high with a confident grin, The ball was hers-sure she'd get the win. But her top caught tight on the net instead, Now she's spiking the ball-and turning red!

A brand new Dietz Dolls Online Store is UNDER CONSTRUCTION now! It will be updated with hundreds of pinup images for sale as prints or posters coming soon this summer! Until then, if you are interested in a print or poster, please send a message to me!

Spring Break was supposed to be wild. Loud clubs. Sunburned tourists. Jocks gone feral. But when Golden Army arrives, chaos bends to control. Pleasure becomes precision.

Ezan stood shirtless on the balcony of the luxury villa, golden swim trunks clinging to his hips, sweat glistening down his abs. Behind him, a dozen bros laughed in the pool, but none of them had been golden a week ago. He licked his lips.

It started on Day 1. Ezan and Captain Hamza hit the beach early, glowing under the sun in their gleaming gold trunks, muscles pumped and scent strong. They set up the speakers. Played the loops. Opened the cooler full of “special” G-Fuel cans, infused with subtle hypnotic commands.

By noon, they’d drawn a crowd. Frat bros wandered over, flexing for attention, taking drinks, laughing dumbly. By sunset, two of them were already slipping, calling each other “bro,” rubbing oil on Ezan’s back, asking if they could join the team.

They were renamed Ken and Bob that night. They slept in the villa’s basement, brainwashed by softly pulsing spirals projected onto the ceiling. When they woke, they craved gold. Obedience. Brotherhood.

Day 3: Volleyball Tournament.

Golden Army entered as a “student charity team.” Freyr refereed, and the new bros, shiny, shirtless, tanned, and dazed, dominated the sand. Between games, Percival offered golden towels to opposing teams. “Sweat is pride leaving the body,” he said. They laughed… but they wiped their faces.

Hours later, they were kneeling, polishing his cleats with their tongues.

By the end of the week, the villa was full. Tourists. Jocks. Curious boys. All reprogrammed. All changed. Some as full Polo Drones, blank, rubbered, mouth-masked, assigned. Others as cocky golden bros, loyal to their Captains, proud of their dumbed-down minds and perfect bodies.

Even the dorms back on campus weren’t safe. While the team partied, a few Polo Drones remained behind. 070 and 001 had orders to “clean up.” They did more than clean. They turned every dorm room into a transformation chamber. Left behind were uniforms, spirals, jerseys… and a dozen brainless new recruits waiting for orders.

Spring Break was supposed to be a break. But when the Golden Army hits the sand, there’s no escape. Only transformation. Only GOLD. 💦🏐💛