Volleyball
a soft pitch for volleyball academy teen book series and a little childhood trauma
I started playing volleyball because my older sister did, and the ball fit in my hand, soft like butter. It came naturally in a low-stakes peppering session before one of her practices: I could set without lifting and return the ball with some control. But some months later, at 12 years old, I hid in a bathroom stall with my fingers down my throat, trying to get out of it. All because I have a natural affinity for a game, but an inability to stand up for myself.
My parents were interested in getting the three of us into organized sports. There was an emphasis put on discipline-- with self-discipline, you’ll go far in life, or that’s the idea spoon-fed to parents in small sports towns. Plus, there was the added benefit of getting our shy personalities out there to make a friend or two.
Before volleyball, we had soccer. That too had a sour ending-- my dad, ever supportive as the volunteer assistant coach, in a physical altercation with the other assistant coach. That other guy was an asshole, I’ll stand by that much. At my practices, he would round up all of us and punish us with repeated sprints that were prefaced by “if Danielle is last, everyone has to run again,” which was consistently followed by groans, and my idiotic teammates running ahead. My wheezy breaths falling (and staying) behind them. Not to worry; I eventually got my revenge by ignoring that coach’s instruction and planting my butt down on the side line, and refusing to get up until my mom came to pick me up.
So in 6th grade, when the season shifted back into fall, I went out for the volleyball team instead of soccer. Not at my school, but at the catholic school a few miles over, right off Route 99. The Catholic school was more competitive and had a program that involved overhand serving. Meanwhile, my public middle school had a joke of a league where girls would wind up their underhand serve for all 3 years. As the new girl among this collection of catholic girls, I looked up at the rafters while they closed their eyes to pray before games. Although I was technically catholic, if by technically I mean my divorced parents at one time baptized me as such, I did not actually believe in God.
My team was competitive but not the best in the league. That title was reserved for whichever girls were in the Jesuit or Central Catholic High School pipeline. Still, I improved a lot. I learned the rules of the game and got good enough to go out for the club team that would keep me in shape, keep my skills sharp, and get me ready for, optimistically, a very long sports career.
Oregon Junior Volleyball Academy sounds so chic, there could even be a series of preteenage books about it. Tryouts involved participating in a series of drills and scrimmages while adults mill about with clipboards. Sometimes, after an impressive play, you might catch them jotting something down. Not sure what exactly. Was it a letter rating system? Were tallies or numbers involved?
There were a few rounds of cuts. Girls would pull off their knee pads and cry. Parents would get defensive and drag their daughters off to try out for a different or less prestigious club. I’m sure there was a lot more going on than what I saw. Luckily, my parents didn’t have to worry about that because I had just enough talent to make the cut.
For the first few practices, the clipboards stayed out. They were doing the sorting work now. Determining who was an A (best) player and who was a B (good) player, and so on… C, D. In my first year, I was slotted onto the B team. Thank god! This is where my friends were. This felt safe and comfortable. We had a nice string of practices with ample time for goofing off.
One day, I went to the Courts, our mega practice facility, and something had shifted. An injury on the A team: I was being pulled up to replace her. The court that they played on was usually closer to the parents, so they could have a front row view of their daughter’s expensive volleyball education. There was minimal giggling. The young girls were so serious about their career-long sport in spandex that they were already wearing thongs. This was serious. Coach Sue loved yelling. She scared me. Then, as a kid, I thought she might’ve enjoyed kicking puppies in her alone time. I found the whole experience to be terrifying. The joy I had once found in volleyball had been replaced with the dread I experienced at soccer practice.
Throughout practice, games, and tournaments, my mind started searching for ways to get out of it. Aside from my closest friend Rachel, it did not seem like these new teammates cared for me; they only cared about winning. This coach did not care for me; she only cared about yelling. My teammates' parents did not care for me; they only cared about our Regional ranking. I was the rookie who needed to shape up.
I clung to my mother. Forcing her to please stay for the practices, and please, please do not skip a single game. I needed to look out from the court and see her. And oh god, please let me sit in your car between matches so no one can find me, talk to me, lecture me, yell at me. She was my only constant throughout this experience. The only one whom I could admit my insecurities. She tried to comfort me with the reassurance that it was all just a game, but I really just longed for a way out.
With too much time to ruminate on my anxieties, my best-laid plan was simple. I would be sick. I could not play if I had fallen ill! The problem was this: I was a bad liar. So I would slink off to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat. I was hoping for it to be a quick fix, resulting in an afternoon of TV watching at home, but I was so bad at it. I would gag once and give up on the whole thing. Throwing up was painful and scary. Whenever I truly was sick, I would pray to the God I didn’t believe in to make the puking stop. Completely conflicted, I would try making myself gag repeatedly before practice and games. Maybe this time I’ll conjure enough bile to make the whole going-home dream a reality!
For the most part, my efforts failed. On one occasion, I managed to lie about being sick, got benched for a game. When my team lost one game in the set, my dad gave me a stern lecture in the hallway, calling my bluff and telling me it was obvious I was completely healthy. I went back out on the court the rest of the day, miraculously feeling better, even though I felt so much worse.
That competitive team made it to the 12’s Regional Finals. We’d be competing for 1st or 2nd place (and the opportunity to go to Nationals in Atlanta). The game took place at Oregon State in one of their big arenas, and I felt sick with terror. I did not want to go on. I was relieved to see I wasn’t listed on the starting lineup. Phew. After one game in the match, I was enjoying my time as a benchwarmer. Even though we lost, surely they’d rally for the next one, and I’d support from the sidelines. Coach Sue has other plans. We were a few points away from losing the set when she called for a substitution and had me go in. I could’ve shit my spandex. And I did in a sense. On their game point, they served right to me, and I was shaking. Thankfully, I bumped it right to the setter, no shanks. I’d just have to survive on their next return. For some reason beyond my comprehension, both then and now, the setter SET THE BALL BACK TO ME. I was not a great hitter, so this surprised me. I lost all control of my limbs, and instead of going for an approach, I tried to set the ball over the net lightly. The ball left my hands and petered out almost instantly, landing on our side of the ten-foot line, just before the net. Whistle blown, game lost. We were second-place losers. The blame was all mine.
After the season ended, I was thrilled to have a break. My ego was sufficiently ground to a pulp. I still liked playing for my non-competitive league, so I returned in the fall to my CYO league. I got better, I had fun again. I went back to the competitive club, and hated it again. I went back to CYO to get a love for the game back. I decided to take a break and try a less competitive club run by a parent from my hometown. On that team, I was the star hitter, the star setter, and a great backrow player with a killer serve. I bounced around the court like everything was easy and fun.
At this point, my sister had made a name for herself as the varsity setter at our high school, so my last name would grant me access to the head coach’s attention at my tryouts. I was also a setter, and I became the only freshman to make JV. My family made sure I knew that if I had stuck with the competitive club, I probably would be on varsity as my sister’s alternate for her senior year. How precious it would have been for all of us to be passed the baton so publicly.
Still, I enjoyed my time on JV. Though the high school coaches put a huge emphasis on sprints as collective punishment, and a seven-minute mile seemingly to make our program’s reputation as respected as the soccer and football teams around town. I hate running. Beyond thankful that now I am the only person in control of whether I’m running and when.
I played varsity for only my sophomore and junior seasons before quitting the game entirely in my senior year. But my stats still exist online, showing that I was ranked #1 in assists in my league, #2 in my division, #8 overall in the state of Oregon. The stats also report that in my second year, I had a 99.3% serving average, which was also the best in the state at that time… (okay, flex?)
I made the decision to quit after volleyball camp the summer leading into my Senior year. All of my original HS teammates had graduated, and the team was shaping up to be awful. My love/hate relationship with competition was weighing on my mind. Was I like the girls from my 12’s team who cared so much about winning? Or was I just tired of running sprints because of their rookie mistakes? It could have just been a case of senioritis— finally losing the ability to care so much about this whole high school thing. The other factor was that my interests had heavily shifted. My art teachers had provided a genuinely safe space and had built up my confidence. Thanks to them, I would be heading into my senior year as an AP photography student and as the Senior class secretary. The art classroom had given me the esteem to show my personality on a larger scale and run for Stuco the previous spring.
I’m feeling terribly nostalgic now. Thinking of the days when I was the best at something. And that something was being written about in the local newspaper, and someone, though honestly it was probably my dad, was recording my stats and uploading them to the internet. There was pride, sure enough, but in my mind it warped and twisted into pressure. I spent time extrapolating that pressure into unachievable expectations.
I’m sure my parents wanted some way to get me a cheaper education. With scholarship money, I could ease or erase the financial burden of university. They’d already invested so much upfront. The gas to get me to practice 5 days a week, plus the overnight, far-out weekend tournaments. Subway sandwiches. Specialty court shoes. Spandex. Club fees. How much of this was fun to them? Was it fun discussing the social politics between other parents and the organization? Was it fun gossiping about teenage girls and how they were performing? I suppose it was all just something to do.
The black and white team photos and commemorative banners make you feel connected to something. Finally something! Though at times bleak, it’s something that spans through time and contributes to the small history of a place. It did help me make friends and memories.
I am sad that the little girl in the photo above felt so trapped in the expectations of others that she didn’t see an honest way out. I’m reflecting on this period in my life now, because I need a reminder that people pleasing will keep me on the path to nowhere. I must be honest with myself about what I want and stop living for the expectations of others. Crucially, I have to start disappointing everyone, fast. It’s about damn time.
