How and Why to Introduce Your Kid to Club Volleyball: A Parent’s Firsthand Experience
Last spring, I found my 12-year-old Lila camped on the couch at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, Cheerio crumbs stuck to the front of her faded soccer hoodie, three days after she’d quit her rec league team. “I hate that everyone yells the whole time,” she’d said when she quit, and I didn’t push her – I’d hated team sports as a kid too, so I got it. Then I spotted a crumpled flyer for introductory club volleyball tryouts taped to the grocery store bulletin board on my way in, stuffed it in my purse, and almost threw it away when I got home. I’d heard all the things about club volleyball: it’s for elite athletes only, it’s insanely expensive, it’s all screaming parents and pressure to win. But that Saturday, I leaned against the couch and said, “Want to go check this out? No commitment if you hate it.”
She shrugged, pulled on her shoes, and we drove 10 minutes to the local rec center. I waited in the car because the gym viewing area was packed with other parents, read three chapters of my novel, and worried I was pushing her into another situation she’d resent. When she climbed back in the car, she didn’t say anything for five minutes, just picked at a loose thread on her jeans. Then she said, “When I messed up my first bump, the girl next to me just said ‘nice try’ and got the next one. No one yelled at me.” That was enough to sign her up for the introductory team.
What I learned in the months since is that most of the fears I had about club volleyball were based on the elite travel teams that make headlines, not the local developmental programs that most clubs run for new kids. This team had no cuts for first-time players, practiced twice a week after school instead of four, and only did local tournaments within an hour’s drive. The whole season cost $275, which was less than we’d spent on soccer that year with all the uniform and snack schedule fees. It didn’t require a huge time or financial commitment upfront, which I wish more parents knew was an option.
I messed up a lot at the start. After every practice, I’d badger her with questions: “Did the coach say you were improving? Did you have fun? Did you make any friends?” She’d just mumble “fine” and retreat to her room to scroll TikTok. Then a neighbor who’s coached youth volleyball for 18 years told me to stop. She suggested I ask one low-stakes question instead of all the performance-focused ones: “What’s the silliest thing that happened today?” I tried it the next week, and Lila immediately launched into a 10-minute story about how one of the girls accidentally served the ball straight into the water cooler, and everyone got their socks wet. That question’s worked for us ever since – it gets her talking without making her feel like she’s being graded on how well she played.
I also almost overspent on gear before I even knew if she’d stick with it. I started adding fancy knee pads, a custom club bag, and a brand-name volleyball to my online cart before I mentioned we were joining to that same neighbor. She dropped off two pairs of barely-worn knee pads and an extra game ball at my door that night, said her daughter had outgrown them the year before and was happy to pass them along. Most clubs keep a bin of spare gear for new kids too, so you really don’t need to buy everything new the first season. All we ended up buying was a $35 pair of court shoes she picked out herself, which was more than enough.
Lila’s always hated being bad at new things. She’d crumple up her drawing and quit if her hand didn’t do what she wanted, storm off the board game table if she was losing halfway through. After a couple months of volleyball, I started noticing small shifts. She spent two weeks working on her overhand serve, never got it over the net once in scrimmage, and instead of throwing the ball down and quitting, she stayed after practice 10 minutes every day to work on it with the coach. The first time she got it over in a game, the whole team ran over to high-five her – even the kids who’d been playing for years. I realized volleyball works differently than a lot of other youth sports I’ve tried with my kids: you can’t have one star carry the whole team. Every position matters, even if you’re not the best hitter or the fastest runner. If someone messes up, the whole group has to adjust and move on, there’s no time to sit and pout about it.
It’s not all good, of course. Last month we had a ranking tournament two hours away on the same day as my sister’s birthday brunch. I rescheduled the brunch, got up at 6 a.m., packed all the snacks and extra water, and halfway there Lila realized she’d left her knee pads on the kitchen counter. We detoured to Target, I was 20 minutes late, and she was grumpy the whole rest of the drive. Then when we got there, the coach put her on the bench for all three games, because he wanted to play the older, more experienced kids to lock in a better ranking. She climbed in the car after, crossed her arms, and said it was the worst day of her life and she wanted to quit. I didn’t tell her she just had to work harder or that it builds character. I just said, “That sucks. You gave up your whole Sunday, drove two hours, and didn’t even get to play. That’s totally fair to be mad.” We stopped for milkshakes on the way home, and by the time we pulled into the driveway, she said she still wanted to go to practice that week, just don’t sign her up for any more ranking tournaments this season. I agreed.
Now we’re halfway through the season. Some weeks I’m tired from work and don’t want to drive her to practice, some weeks she says she doesn’t want to go, and we negotiate – sometimes I make her go, sometimes I let her stay home and order pizza. I don’t know if she’ll stick with it after this season, or if she’ll ever be good enough to play in high school, let alone college. But last week she taped her crumpled participation ribbon from a local tournament to the fridge, right next to her B math test. The other day she taught my 7-year-old son to bump the ball in the backyard, and when he hit it into the rose bush for the fifth time, she just laughed and went to get it, instead of stomping inside like she would have six months ago. For right now, that’s enough.
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