Introducing Kids to Club Volleyball: What I Learned As A Parent Of A Shy, Sports-Hesitant Kid
The minivan’s AC had been broken for two weeks, and August air stuck to the windows like a wet blanket when I pulled into the YMCA parking lot. My 12-year-old Lila, fresh off quitting rec soccer after her coach yelled at her for missing a penalty kick, had her hood pulled up over her hair and refused to unbuckle her seatbelt. “All team sports are just people yelling at you for being bad,” she said, not looking up from her TikTok scroll. The flier for the beginner club volleyball team had been crumpled in my purse for a week, passed to me by Lila’s math teacher who said her daughter loved the beginner division. I’d promised Lila we’d only try it once, and that was enough to get her through the door.
The head coach, a retired 7th grade teacher named Barb, wasn’t drilling kids on sprints when we walked in. She had everyone passing a glittery balloon around the court, no hands allowed, and was laughing harder than the kids when someone knocked it into the bleachers. Lila glued herself to my side for the first five minutes, until the balloon bounced off the bleachers right toward her. She ducked, and it hit her shoulder, popping it right into another girl’s lap. Everyone cheered, and she ended up staying at the far end of the circle for the rest of practice.
For the first three weeks, Lila complained the entire 12-minute drive home. Her passes went into the net, she tripped over her own feet during scrimmages, no one had added her to the group chat yet. I used to make the mistake of jumping in with fixes: “Just try to talk to the girls” or “You’ll get better with practice.” But this time, I just nodded and kept driving, and reminded her once a week that if she hated it, we could drop it and get our fee back pro-rated. I got that line from another parent, and it took so much pressure off both of us. No guilt, no big speech about sticking things out – just an out, if she wanted it.
It shifted around week four. Lila stayed late to help Barb fold the practice nets, and a girl named Mia who lived two streets over asked if she wanted to split a blue raspberry slushie on the walk home. By the end of the month, Lila was talking about volleyball at dinner. She’d learned what a libero was, she yelled at the TV when we watched a college game on Saturday, she started doing extra passing practice in the backyard after homework.
A lot of the parents I talk to have this idea that club volleyball is only for super athletic kids who want to get college scholarships, and that it costs a thousand dollars a month and takes over your whole life. That’s only the elite travel divisions, the ones that recruit kids as young as 10. Most local clubs have developmental or beginner divisions for middle schoolers who’ve never touched a volleyball before, and the one Lila joined is $275 for the whole season, includes all equipment and most tournament fees. It’s two hours on Tuesday and Thursday after school, and one tournament a month on Saturdays – that’s it. She still goes to her weekly art class, we still have pizza and movie night on Fridays, it doesn’t take over our schedule.
If you’re thinking of trying it with your kid, the first concrete tip I have is to search for “developmental club volleyball [your city]” instead of just “club volleyball.” That filters out all the elite programs that are way too intense for new kids. The second is to give your kid a clear out up front, like I did. Saying “we can leave 10 minutes in if you hate it, no fuss” takes away the pressure that makes nervous kids shut down before they even give it a chance.
What surprised me most was what it did for Lila’s shyness. She’s always hated speaking up in class, hates asking for help, even hates ordering her own food at restaurants. Volleyball forces you to do one small thing over and over: call for the ball. If you don’t yell “mine!” you end up running into another player, or the ball drops on the floor. At first, she’d just stand there and let someone else get it. But after a month of practice, I noticed she raised her hand in a parent-teacher conference to ask her teacher about an extra credit assignment, something she never would have done before. It’s not that she suddenly became outgoing. It’s that she got to practice speaking up in a low-stakes place: if you yell too quiet, it’s just one point, no one fails a test, no one gets in trouble. That small repeated practice stuck, more than any talk I’ve given about being confident.
Last month we had our first out-of-town tournament, an hour away at a big high school. Lila’s team lost all three games, by at least five points each. I sat in the bleachers with the other parents, ate a lukewarm hot dog from the concession stand, and waited for her to come out crying or saying she wanted to quit. Instead, she walked out, grabbed a Gatorade from my cooler, and said “We just didn’t communicate very well. Next time we’ll do better.” That’s a kid who quit soccer after one bad game six months ago. It’s not that she’s a different kid, it’s just that she found a place that fits her better.
We still have bad days. Two weeks ago, she had a big math test right after school, and when practice rolled around she threw her backpack in the car and said she couldn’t do it. I reminded her she could quit that day, no questions, and she leaned her head against the window and thought for a minute. “I just need fries first,” she said. We hit the McDonald’s drive-through, she ate a medium order of fries in the backseat, and went to practice. She’s still not the best player on the team. She still trips over her own feet sometimes, and she still gets nervous before big tournaments. But right now, it’s working. If she quits next month, that’s okay too. I’m just glad we tried it, instead of writing off all team sports because of one bad experience.
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