Volleyball found me.
It was eighth grade high school orientation, and I thought I was sitting at the field hockey table. I was not.
By the time I realized my mistake, I was too embarrassed to get up. So, come double sessions freshman year, I went out for the volleyball team.
I mean, I wanted to play a sport.
Funny thing, as it turns out, I really liked volleyball. I liked it so much I quit dance, something I'd been doing practically since I could walk, so I could really "focus on my game."
I went to summer volleyball camp. I played in a Junior Olympic winter league. I have a killer serve. They don't call me 'Ace' for nothing.
Volleyball is my game. I'm not going to be playing in the Atlanta Olympics or anything, but I'm ready for double sessions. I've even been doing the endurance exercises at home.
This is going to be my year. Junior year, here I come.
Letterman jacket... you are mine!
***
Dear Jesse —
My volleyball career is over. Caput. Flatlined. Finito.
I was ready. I walked into double sessions confident. This was supposed to be my year.
Things were going well, aside from suicide drills, but really, who do suicide drills go well for?
I got asked to practice with Varsity. It was a faster pace, but I was picking it up. And all that extra work at camp this summer seemed to be paying off.
Then, out of nowhere, Coach calls me over. She was already having one of her not-so-heart-to-hearts with Mandy and Annie.
Then she said... and I will never un-hear these words... the words that killed my dreams. The words that ruined my life.
"Do you girls know why I called you over?" The three of us exchanged glances. Mandy and I are both setters, Annie's a blocker. Nope.
"I know I can't officially do this until next week, but I figure it's better for everyone if I tell you now. I'm going to cut you three."
I can't speak for Mandy or Annie, but I'm pretty certain what I heard was, "You are going to play JV this year." Which was a tough blow but, as long as I get to play, not totally devastating.
Then she clarified...
"So, you girls can go home and think about it — if you want to enjoy the rest of your summer, skip the rest of double sessions, you can do that. Or you can come back tomorrow and stick it out but, in the end, the result will be the same. You will be cut from the team. You will not be playing this season. What you do with your time the rest of this summer is your decision. I don't want to have a guilty conscience."
She said it. And just like that. That fast. We're not playing JV. We're cut. CUT. Like CUT cut.
I heard her. I did. I mean the words entered my ears and managed to find my brain. But they were on a terrible tape delay. It wasn't 'til later that the predictable and, totally appropriate I might add, hysterical fit took place at the dinner table. Total delayed reaction. Rice may have been thrown.
I'm pretty sure I'd be grounded if mom and dad didn't feel so bad for me.
I'm... torn. Deep down I know that Coach is not kidding. I'm not playing this year. The 100% of me that would gladly give up double sessions during this August heat wave is at odds with the 100% of me that wants to watch her squirm every day that I waltz into practice and nail serve after serve. I want to make her eat her words. I want to slice them up and feed them to her til she chokes (must be the Italian in me). Fuck her guilty conscience.
Fuck that, I'm going to practice. I'm not a quitter.
Screw Coach. Guilty conscience my ass.
Xo
Sammy
***
"Is that Annie?" Mom asked, as we are pulling into the high school parking lot.
"Mmmhmm, sure is." Annie is feverishly pacing up and down the ramp to the football field. "She does not look good."
"I think that's her mom behind us," Mom, ever the eagle eye, notes. "Get out," as I grab my bags and hop out, "I'm going to talk to Mrs. O'Brien."
Before I catch up with Annie, I can see she's been crying. Not a good sign. She turns, realizes it is me, and screams, "She wouldn't even let me into practice." Pretty sure even the football team heard her.
"What?" She's loud, but between wails, essentially unintelligible.
"She wouldn't let me practice. She said, 'I had really hoped you were going to make the smart decision.'" Choking back sobs while managing to simultaneously mock Coach, Annie continued, "'but since I clearly wasn't that smart, I could start riding the bench now.'" What the fuck.
I'm enraged, "She can't do that! Coaches aren't allowed to make cuts until next week. That's bullshit. This is total bullshit. We're going in there and we are going to demand to practice." Annie is hysterical and it is contagious. I've had my outbursts in check since dinner, but another one is about to explode.
"Coach even told me to bring a book," she scoffed, between mini-convulsions. Annie's not really a reader, unless Seventeen counts.
From behind me, I hear, "What happened?" I spin to see Annie's mom, followed closely by mine.
Annie tells them both what had gone down in her morning showdown with Coach. Her mom is pissed but pragmatic, "It's your decision, Annie. If you want me to take you home, I will. If you want to go back in there, I'll support you. But if you go back in there, you can't let her see you cry. Don't give her the satisfaction."
Through her tears, Annie blurts out, "I'm done. I'm not going to sit there like a fool. I just can't."
I can feel my mom's eyes on the back of my head. "What do you want to do, Samantha?"
I want to teach that bitch a lesson. I worked my ass off at camp this summer, and people that know a whole lot more about volleyball than her think I have promise.
Just as I'm psyching myself up to take on Coach, the tears started again. Not the ugly Annie tears, though. Large silent drips, streaking my cheeks. I want to play. I've been working on my endurance. And my serve is on fire right now. If that doesn't convince her, then she's not fit to coach. It's more consistent than anyone on the Varsity team.
"I want to play, damnit." And with that mom stormed the gym. Wait no. Me! Not you! Get back here.
Oh shit. I chase after her.
***
Dear Jesse —
Coach was never going to give any of us a chance. It is as plain and simple as that. She had made up her mind. Reason had no place in her decision.
By the time I'd chased Mom down and we got to the gym doors, three more girls were hysterical and packing their bags. BEFORE warm-ups.
The minutes that followed are a blur. Me — telling Coach I was going to prove her wrong. Coach telling me I am the worst of the girls she cut. Mom screaming at Coach, reciting the School's Athletic Code, which she knows by heart. I mean, she should, she was part of the committee that wrote them. The rest of the team swarming, jostling for a front row view of the action.
So much for not making a scene. I'm never going to live this down.
You could see it on everyone's face, the perfect storm of excitement and sheer terror, when Mom lit into Coach telling her she was very negative and has zero rapport with the entire team. She listed off anonymous complaints made to the Booster Club.
It was ugly.
Then Coach took the nuclear option. She told Mom that NOW she understands where I get my attitude problem.
Yeah, she said that... to MY mom. That went over REAL well.
I pray I never see Mom's evil bug eyes like that... EVER. AGAIN. EVER.
That was it, the final straw. Mom looked her square in the face, not even a lip quiver: "Thank you for that, we'll be settling this with the School Committee." This is gonna get so "Real World."
Mom turned on her heels, grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me out of there, but not before shooting one last scorching glare at Coach.
Immediately half, the Italian half, of the team instinctively flashed horns, protecting themselves. The other half quickly made the sign of the cross.
And that's it. That's how my volleyball career ended.
God, what am I gonna do now? Dad's gonna make me get a job.
Xo
Sammy (the volleyball player formerly known as #13)
***
Double Sessions: A two-week period in late summer when sadistic high school coaches hold two-a-day practices in the late-August heat. A period when all athletes futures are made or broken. Unofficial signal that summer is over.
"The Real World": MTV has this crazy popular show where they make total strangers live together and all they do is fight. Like insane fight. This season they are taping at a firehouse in Boston.
Horns: A hand gesture used to ward off the evil eye. Made by raising your pointer and pinky fingers, while holding your other fingers down with your thumb. Every Italian child, at least on the North Shore, is intimately familiar with this protective move.