Volleyball gave me back my daughter

I have dreamed from the beginning, that Grace would love all the same things I do—she would be a voracious reader and a tall girl who loved sports, she would have a terrible sweet tooth but also enjoy vegetables.  She would also be better than me in so many ways—she would be thin and straight backed, she would be effortlessly kind and less bossy.  She would have small feet. 

She is 14 now, and she is sort of some of these things and not at all others.  She is a beautiful artist who sings like a lark.  She prefers fruit to chocolate.  She is thin.  She has big feet.  She reads for pleasure only occasionally and prefers science class to English.  And, until very recently, she seemed decidedly lukewarm about the two sports I loved and had secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) dreamed she would take up.  I played volleyball and basketball from grade school through college and loved them so completely that it never occurred to me that children of my blood could ever treat them with a casual “take it or leave it” type attitude that, if I’m being honest, sort of troubled me.

These sports kind of saved me.  Well, maybe that’s a bit strong.  But volleyball and basketball certainly defined a big part of my life, and shaped me in ways I am both proud of and deeply grateful for.  I participated in a variety of activities as a child, but as I grew—and remained—taller than most everyone in my class (including, by 6^th grade, some of the teachers) I started gravitating towards activities that benefitted most from my size.  And in these activities, I found something my (admittedly) intense personality could latch onto.  You know when you’ve found something you were meant to do, something that feels natural and right—like you’ve been doing it your whole life even if it’s your first time.  I’ve tried lots of things over the years—tennis, softball, golf, competitive jump roping (yeah, it’s a thing), diving, gymnastics, cheerleading, running—but only these sports felt like home.

We exposed Grace to lots of sports over the years.  She played almost all the ones I listed above and even a few I didn’t including soccer and dance and some non-sports (drama and choir among other things).  She started swimming competitively in third grade.  I originally signed her up because the swim team was cheaper (by the hour) than swim lessons, and I liked the idea of her getting very comfortable in the water.  I had no idea at the time, however, that this “expanded swim lessons” plan would evolve into her passion for the last 6 years.  Grace swam 2, then 3, then 4 days a week and improved year after year.  She started earning “Q” times (state qualifying times) and we started traveling with her to out of town meets.  The trappings and language of the sport were an utter mystery to me and I felt a little left out of this part of her life.

Because here is the other thing:  Grace started swimming in 3^rd grade at the age of 8.  When Grace was 8 years old, I was pregnant with my 5^th child.  Within 6 months of her first swim team practice, I had 5 children under the age of 8.  It’s a period of my life I look back on with a blend of awe and remembered exhaustion.  I was surviving day to day, and there was simply no room in my life for one more thing.  There was no space in my addled brain for learning the nuances and vocabulary of a new sport.  I stupidly assumed there wasn’t much to swimming besides, well, swimming fast.  I got Grace to practice.  I wrote checks and bought gear.  I went to meets.  Well… I sometimes went to meets.

Because here is the thing—swim meets are 5 things:  1.  Really long.  2.  Really hot.  3.  Really loud.  4. Really crowded. 5. Dangerous and tempting for small children.  They are absolutely the perfect storm of undesirable places to spend any amount of time with toddlers and babies.  And I had 4 of them when Grace’s swimming career was born and beginning to bloom.  I tried to encourage and enjoy her sport.  I have horrible, hazy memories of trying to keep a nursing newborn under a blanket while sitting in the bleachers in the humid, 90+ temperatures while simultaneously keeping toddlers from jumping in the oh-so-tempting cool blue water of the pool and waiting for my beloved Grace to spend her approximately 90 seconds of a 7 hour day in the water.   Looking back, it is no wonder most of the swim obligations were met by her dad while I stayed home.

During this same time, I admit, I was volunteering to help coach Sam and Claire in their first attempts at Y basketball.  I would take my babies along to these events, too (in cooler gymnasiums with plenty of room for toddlers to run and ending within just one hour), and was even known to coach from the sidelines with a baby on my hip.  But really, in my defense, they lasted an hour, did not involve the proximity of a deadly hazard (drowning), were not hotter than, say, 70 degrees or so, and (the unavoidable truth) involved a sport I knew intimately and had enjoyed enormously for more than half my life.

Over the years, the family story began to evolve around a “mom doesn’t like swimming” narrative.  This wasn’t entirely fair, nor, if I’m being totally honest, completely untrue.  I didn’t NOT like swimming.  I just didn’t know it well and I found it somewhat inconvenient due to two things:  the duration of the competitions (and the paradoxical shortness of my child’s participation in them—I mean, the faster she went, the LESS time she spent competing.  She was actually racing for a mere fraction of the time we were there) and the relative discomfort of the surroundings.  The primary pool Grace practiced and raced in was hot, crowded, and noisy. 

So I missed.  A lot.  I tried to sneak up to see her compete when I could, but parking was often poor and until recently, I couldn’t leave any of the others behind without a babysitter.  Nipping in for a 2 minute race with 4 children in tow with a half mile walk between parking spot and bleachers requires nearly as much training and athleticism as her 100 backstroke. 

So, when Grace opted to try volleyball somewhere around 4^th grade, I uttered a hearty sigh of relief.  Now we could finally get on with it.  I volunteered to coach and we spent many happy hours perfecting the pass, learning footwork and blocking techniques, practicing serves.  We developed line ups together on the way to games and discussed strategies on the way home.  We were home.  I thought.

But she continued to swim.  As she grew, we started to discuss the unfortunate reality that volleyball and swimming were the same season in high school and she couldn’t continue to participate in both.  She got picked up by a club volleyball team and her skills continued to advance, but still she stuck with swimming.  When she started middle school sports, she would play the school sport for 2 hours, then head straight to the pool or back to the gym for 2 more hours of either club volleyball or swimming.  I started worrying a little about her caloric intake versus her athletic output.  But she was getting straight A’s and loving it.  Those were her sports.  Volleyball and swimming.  She grew more and more talented at both.  With my experience in volleyball, I knew she had tons of promise.  She continued to grow taller (like her mom) but unlike her mom she was remarkably fast on her feet, enormously strong (no doubt due to the hours spent in the pool) and could jump out of the gym.  Both passing and hitting came naturally to her—it was a delight to watch her knowing the game as I did.  Her instincts—the motions and form--were spot on.  Swim moms assured me that her strokes were also improving.  “She’s so smooth!” one mom continually insisted.  “She’s really getting good.”  I had to take their word for it. 

As middle school drew to an end, we tried not to pester her about her choice.  All summer, she attended both volleyball open gyms and swimming practices, plus weight lifting and conditioning--4 to 6 hours of training every single day.  And she never complained or seemed to wear out.  I envied her a little.  I remember spending hours of my endless summers playing sports I loved.  It never felt like a sacrifice to me.  It was where I belonged.

But the choice loomed.  She grew angry when we asked her about it, so we kept our questions to ourselves.  I was certain she didn’t want to speak of it because she was afraid to tell me she was choosing swimming and thought it would disappoint me.  I tried to be supportive and clear that this was HER choice, HER life, HER turn.  I’d had mine (and, a piece of me reasoned, 2 other daughters that might choose to play the games I knew.  Grace wasn’t my only shot at reliving the “glory days”). 

One hot day this August, I took a call from an unrecognized number and was greeted by the perky voice of the varsity high school swim coach.  The coach knew she was debating between the two sports, and she had followed her club swimming career enough to know she wanted her on the team.  “She hasn’t decided,” I told her.  “She knows she has to, but I think she’s struggling to give one up.”  I assured the coach that I would have Grace call her back within the next few days.  I pulled she and Chad into a room and laid it out.  “You need to decide, honey,” I tried to say as gently as I could.  “And you need to call her back.”

She panicked a little.  “Mom, can’t you talk to her?” 

“No,” I told her.  “This is up to you. Do you know what you’re going to choose?”

“Volleyball,” she said quietly, with such regret in her voice that I couldn’t acknowledge my own excitement right then.  It was such a terrible shame that the only two sports she had ever loved competed at the high school level at the same time. 

“Are you sure?” I asked gently.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Then call her back now,” I said.  “Just get it over with.  Otherwise you will worry about it and make it scarier than it needs to be.”

So she did.  I was so proud of my girl that afternoon.  She made a tough decision and owned it completely.  She called an adult and had a difficult conversation without flinching or backing out.  And she had chosen VOLLEYBALL!

I was so unbelievably thrilled, it is almost embarrassing to admit it.  I tried to keep it to myself, because I know a part of her really mourned the end of her swimming career.  So she started practices, and a few weeks later, told us that she had been selected to move up to play on the sophomore team.  The SOPHOMORE team!  This is a pretty big deal (“it’s not that big of a deal, mom”) and, at least back when I played, only the most promising athletes get moved up (“they just needed someone in my position, mom.  And someone tall.”)   I sent a text to my sister and she and I shared a few ecstatic messages.

Me:  “Grace said she might get moved up to play with the sophomores in volleyball (!!!)”

“PS. We are not allowed to make a big deal of it”

Carrie:  “HOW CAN WE NOT MAKE A BIG DEAL OUT OF THAT!?!?!?!?  Yeah!”

Me: 

And since then, something wonderful and altogether unexpected has happened.  Grace is talking to me!  And not just talking—she is seeking me out and is interested in my opinion!  She asks my advice!  Granted, it is typically along the lines of “do you think I should ask my coach if we can work on blocking?” and “what do you mean when you say the right side should pull in and cover the angle instead of the line?”  But still!  The first time we went to an out of town game, I had Grace stash pillows and blankets in my car so she could sleep on the way home.  I loaded a new book on my phone anticipating a quiet ride home, essentially alone on the dark highway with my memories and my sleeping children.  It shocked me when Grace climbed in the front seat and proceeded to converse with me the entire way home.  Suddenly I was relevant to her!  She trusted my knowledge and sought (not just tolerated) my opinion.  It wasn’t quite giggling about boys over lattes, but I’d rather talk sports than boys any day.

And here’s the most glorious part—what I always loved about sports was how it mimicked life in such concentrated and applicable ways.  Hard work pays off.  And sometimes it doesn't.  Trust your team.  You, your teammates, the referees, and your coach will all make mistakes.  Forgive.  Play in position.  You must lead.  You must listen.  You must follow.  Put your emotions aside and get on with it.  Fight for the win.  Lose with grace.  People will let you down.  People will lift you up.  People will criticize you.  The same people will praise you.  Get up.  Keep going.  You will triumph.  You will fail.  You will get screamed at.  You will be loved.  You will get hurt.  You will overcome suffering.  You will weep.  You will soar.  You can only talk about blocking footwork and passing technique and quick sets for so long.  Then you drift into life lesson territory.  If my daughter welcomes me into this space in her teenage years via the bridge of volleyball, then I have more reason than ever to love it.

A friend of mine whose daughter swam with Grace for years and is now competing with the high school team asked me recently how I was handling out of town games.  “Do you go to all of them?” she asked, “It is just so much work to get there, but there really is no reason I CAN’T go.  What do you do?”

“I agree,” I began.  “It is a lot of work.”  Because it is.  And it is exhausting and overwhelming and puts demands on my husband and the rest of my children and my job when I do it.  We have to leave by 3 because the sophomores play at 5:30 and the out of town games are at least 90 minutes away.   We have to eat crappy fast food for dinner and miss everything the other kids are doing and I end up yet another day behind on laundry and my other chores. But I haven’t missed a single one.

Because volleyball gave me back my daughter, and I’m going to relish every second.  The laundry can wait.