Why I signed my 12-year-old up for club volleyball (and what I didn’t expect)
I’m sitting on a hard metal bleacher in a gym an hour from my house right now, my left foot has gone numb, and my coffee’s been cold for 45 minutes. Three years ago, I couldn’t have told you what club volleyball even was, beyond a vague thing my neighbor kept complaining about the cost of. My oldest, Lila, was playing rec at the Y back then, spent half her time picking at the tape on her shoes and chasing dandelions by the fence when the other team was serving. I thought that was fine. We did our 8AM Saturday games, got glazed donuts after, that was enough sports for me.
Then she came home from 6th grade, all pink-cheeked and jittery, and said every girl from her rec team was trying out for the local club. She wanted to go too. I almost said no, immediately. I’d heard the horror stories—crazy parents yelling at refs, $500 tournament fees, every weekend eaten up for years. But she kept twisting the hem of her hoodie while she talked, and I remembered how left out she felt last fall when all those girls went to a team sleepover and she didn’t get invited. So I said okay, what the hell, let’s do the tryout.
First tryout was the most awkward hour of my life. I didn’t know the unwritten rule that parents wait in the hallway or the parking lot, not the gym. I dragged my folding chair all the way in and set up by the baseline before a young coach with a clipboard covered in neon stickers came over and gently told me I’d have to leave. I was so embarrassed I didn’t even make eye contact, just folded the chair up fast and tripped over a game ball on my way out. I hid by the vending machine for the whole hour, ate a stale granola bar I’d crammed in my purse that morning, and checked my email 50 times even though I had no new messages. When Lila came out, she was grinning so wide her dimples showed, said she’d aced three serves in a row. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was secretly hoping she wouldn’t make the cut.
Of course she made it. And then the bills started rolling in. $180 for the uniform package that included a custom backpack that already has a hole in the bottom where her water bottle leaks through. $120 for new knee pads because she outgrew her first pair in three months. Out-of-state tournament entry fees that make me wince when I pay my credit card statement each month. I had to skip my sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner last spring because we were stuck at a semi-final game in Des Moines. My aunt still side-eyes me about it at family dinners.
Some weekends I hate every second of it. I miss our lazy Sundays, where we’d sleep in until 9, make chocolate chip pancakes, and rewatch Encanto for the 100th time. Last month I had a whole garden plot tilled and ready to plant tomatoes, and I had to leave it for a whole weekend because of a tournament. The weeds grew back so fast I almost just gave up on the whole thing. I’ve seen the crazy parents, too—the guy who yells so loud at every ref call his voice goes hoarse by the first set, the mom who corners the coach after every game to argue about how much playing time her kid gets. I once brought a novel to read and got so invested I forgot to watch half a set, which I’m pretty sure makes me a bad sports mom, but whatever.
The worst moment was last fall, at that big tournament in Chicago. Lila didn’t get to play a single minute the whole first day. She sat on the end of the bench, chewed on her thumb until it was raw, and when we got in the car to go back to our weird-smelling motel, she just burst into tears. Said she was terrible, the coach hated her, she wanted to quit and never step foot in a gym again. I almost gave her that generic speech people give, you know, the “you just have to stick it out and work harder” thing. But instead I just pulled into the first Dairy Queen I saw, got her an Oreo blizzard the size of her head, and sat there while she cried and ate. I told her she could quit tomorrow if she wanted, no guilt, no pressure. By the time we finished the blizzard, she wiped her face and said she wanted to play the next day anyway. She got 10 minutes in the first game, and aced a serve right off the bat. She still brings that serve up at dinner once a week.
I didn’t expect to make a friend here, honestly. There’s another mom named Karen whose kid also doesn’t get much playing time, and we just sit on the bleachers together and complain. She brought me homemade chocolate chip cookies last weekend when I forgot my lunch. I lent her my phone charger when hers died in the middle of a three-hour drive. Most of us are just tired, okay? We’re not all here for scholarships or college bragging rights. We’re just here because our kids wanted to be here.
I don’t know if Lila will stick with it. Next year she might decide she’d rather take pottery classes or just hang out at the mall with her friends after school, and that’s fine. I won’t beg her to stay. It’s messy, it’s expensive, it eats up every free weekend I have. But it’s hers. When she runs off the court after a good set, grinning and sweating, and yells for me to throw her a water bottle, all the numb feet and cold coffee and missed brunches feel worth it, even when they don’t. If your kid is asking you about it, and you’re on the fence like I was? It’s okay to say yes. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to bring extra hair ties and extra granola bars, and be ready for your coffee to get cold. That’s enough, most days.
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