Introducing Kids to Club Volleyball: What To Expect And Tips From A First-Time Parent
The January wind bit through my coat as I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the regional rec center, my 12-year-old Lila bouncing in the passenger seat, neon pink kneepads (thrifted, $8) digging into her thigh. I’d just paid the first installment of her club fees an hour earlier, and I’d stared at the charge for 10 minutes before hitting confirm, wondering if I was signing us both up for a year of stress, wasted money, and a kid who’d quit after three practices. Lila had done rec volleyball for a year through our city park program, and she’d spent every dinner that fall talking about how most girls there didn’t run after the balls they missed, and she wanted to play more. I’d heard all the warnings: club volleyball is only for rich families with Olympic dreams, it’s full of pushy parents screaming at 11-year-olds, it’ll take over every single weekend. But I said yes anyway, and here we were.
I carried her extra water bottle into the gym, which smelled like floor wax and warm lemon Gatorade, and leaned against the back bleachers with the other parents. I expected everyone to be comparing their kids’ stats or scrolling through volleyball recruiting pages, but a mom a few feet over offered me half her bag of cheddar Cheetos and asked if it was my first time in club. Her daughter was also on the entry-level developmental team, and she laughed when I mentioned I was nervous about the cost and commitment. “None of us are here for scholarships,” she said. “Our kids just like playing more than one hour a week. That’s it.”
The first drill the coach ran that night was simple: every time you go for a ball, you have to call it loud enough for everyone on the court to hear. No exceptions. Lila hung back at first, and when her turn came, she mumbled something so quiet I couldn’t hear it from the bleachers. The coach blew the whistle, and walked over to her. Not in a mean way, just casual. “Try again,” he said. “If you don’t call it, your teammate might go for it too, and you’ll both end up on the floor. Let ‘em know you’ve got it.” Lila took a breath, and yelled “MINE!” so loud the whole gym turned to look. She passed the ball right to the setter, and her teammate high-fived her so hard her elbow knocked Lila’s ponytail askew. I watched her grin, and realized I couldn’t remember the last time she’d put herself out there like that on purpose.
Lila’s always been quiet. Her 5th grade teacher told me last fall that she never raises her hand even when she knows the answer, and she won’t ask for help when she’s stuck on homework, just sits there confused until the bell rings. After three weeks of club practice, she came home from school one day and dumped her backpack on the kitchen table, and said she’d asked her math teacher for extra help after class. I was surprised, and asked her what made her finally do it. She shrugged and pulled a cookie out of the jar. “In volleyball, if you don’t call the ball, you run into someone. If I don’t ask for help, I fail the test. Same thing.”
It’s not all smooth. Two months into the season, we had a tournament an hour and a half away, and I forgot her custom knee braces that she needs for her slightly wonky kneecap. We stopped at a Walmart on the way to buy a cheap pair, and Lila was so flustered she missed the final serve that would have won their match. She sat on the bench after, face buried in her hoodie, and I walked over ready to grab her and get ice cream and tell her it didn’t matter. Before I got to her, the 13-year-old captain of the team sat down next to her, pulled a gummy bear out of her uniform pocket, and said “I missed three serves in a row at the last tournament. My dad still teases me about it. Next time you’ll nail it.” Lila looked up, took the gummy, and started laughing. I didn’t have to say anything at all.
A lot of parents I’ve talked to since Lila joined say they’d love to let their kid try club volleyball, but they think it’s too expensive or too time-consuming for a kid who just wants to play, not go pro. I thought that too, before I started looking, so I picked up a few small, concrete things that made it work for us. First, check your local parks and rec district website before you look at private elite clubs. Most partner with low-cost beginner club programs that are designed for kids who just want more play time, not scholarships. Second, ask explicitly for the entry-level or developmental tier. Almost every club has one now, and it’s usually half the cost of elite teams, with only two practices a week and one local tournament a month, no cross-country travel. Third, don’t buy all new gear. Join a local youth sports swap group on Facebook, and you can get barely used kneepads, shoes, and a backpack for less than $50, instead of the $200+ new gear costs. Finally, always ask to watch a full practice before you sign. If the coach yells at kids for messing up, leave. If they stop to walk beginners through drills and laugh with the team, that’s the right fit.
It’s not perfect. Some Wednesdays we rush straight from school to practice, and Lila eats a granola bar in the car and doesn’t finish her homework until 9 pm. Last month she said she wanted to quit after she sat the whole first half of a tournament on the bench, but she changed her mind after the team went out for pizza after and everyone voted she got the first slice of pepperoni. I don’t know if she’ll stick with it after this season, or if she’ll decide she’d rather spend next year doing pottery after school like she’s been talking about. That’s fine either way. Right now, though, she comes home every Thursday talking about inside jokes with her team, she yells “MINE!” loud enough for everyone to hear now, and she asks for help when she needs it. That’s more than I ever expected from a bunch of after-school practices in a smelly gym. Some weekends we leave the tournament early and get mint chocolate chip on the way home, even if they lost. That’s enough for me right now.
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