Introducing Kids to Club Volleyball: What I Wish I Knew Before I Started
The back passenger door of my minivan was stuck half open, and my 12-year-old Lila was slouched in the seat, thumbs flying over TikTok, when I told her it was time to head in for her first club volleyball practice. My iced coffee had leaked through the cardboard sleeve onto my jeans, the October wind stung my cheeks, and she kept saying “just five more minutes” like she was avoiding a trip to the dentist. She’d quit rec soccer two months earlier, after her coach spent most games benching any kid who couldn’t sprint the length of the field in under 10 seconds, and I could tell she was convinced this would end the same way.
I finally convinced her to get out, her sneakers scuffing the gravel parking lot as we dragged our feet to the gym door. Inside, the air smelled like old rubber floors and cheap hot chocolate from the front snack bar, and the coach was a 20-year-old college player in a faded school hoodie, waving all the new kids over to center court. I climbed up to the bleachers, pulled out my phone, and immediately started panicking when I overheard two moms talking about $2,000 travel fees and out-of-state tournament weekends. I’d signed Lila up on a whim because her best friend was joining, and I’d bought into the online hype that all club volleyball was hyper-competitive, wallet-draining, and reserved only for kids gunning for college scholarships. I pulled up the club website, ready to see if I could get my deposit back, before the coach blew the whistle and I stopped to watch.
He didn’t line everyone up to test serves or cut players who couldn’t hit the ball over the net first, like I expected. He split the group into pairs, matched every new kid with an older player who’d been with the club for a year, and had them start with basic tossing. When an 11-year-old dropped three tosses in a row, the coach didn’t sigh or move her to the back of the line. He just walked over, adjusted her stance a little, and said “try that again” before moving on. By the end of practice, they ran a silly relay where kids had to carry the ball between their knees, and half the group was laughing so hard they could barely stand.
When Lila came out to the car, her socks were slipping down to her ankles, her hair was stuck to her forehead, and she was carrying a hand-me-down neon pink knee pad a girl on the team had given her. She couldn’t stop talking the whole drive home about how her friend had tripped over her own feet going for a ball and everyone cheered when she got back up. I was shocked—she usually complains about any group activity that requires more movement than scrolling on the couch.
Over the past six months, I’ve learned that most of the fears I had about club volleyball were overblown. The big, elite travel teams that get all the attention aren’t the only option. Nearly every local club has entry-level developmental teams for new players that are designed to be low-pressure, not all-consuming. There are a few small things that made this way easier for us, that I wish someone had told me before that first practice.
First, always ask if you can try a practice for free before committing. I didn’t know this was an option, and it would have saved us that 20 minutes of stress in the parking lot if Lila could have checked it out without the pressure of already being signed up. Most clubs are happy to let new kids come for a session to see if they like it, no deposit required. Second, don’t buy all new gear. I was ready to drop $150 on brand-name volleyball shoes, knee pads, and a team bag before another parent in the bleachers told me her daughter had just outgrown a full set she’d sell me for $20. Most pre-teen and early teen kids grow 2-3 inches a year, so half the parents on the team are just looking to pass along old gear instead of throwing it away. Third, start at the entry level, even if your kid is athletic. Lila’s developmental team only plays three local tournaments a season, all within 45 minutes of our house, on Sundays. We still have Saturdays free for family trips and my younger son’s flag football games, and practice is only once a week for an hour and a half, so it never cuts into homework or bedtime.
The biggest surprise for me wasn’t that Lila learned to serve or hit the ball. It was that she learned how to be bad at something in public, without quitting. Lila has always hated getting things wrong—after she messed up a line in the 4th grade school play, she refused to try out for anything again for two years. At volleyball, missing a serve or tripping over your own feet is just part of the routine. No one benched her for messing up, no one yelled, and after her first missed serve at her first tournament, the whole bench stood up and clapped for her.
It’s not all perfect. We still fight 20 minutes before every practice because Lila can never find her water bottle or her knee pads. The monthly facility fee still makes me wince when it hits my credit card. She spends more time on the bench than on the court most games, because she’s still new and slower than a lot of the other girls. There’s no big ending here where she’s the star of the team or got a college scholarship offer.
Last weekend, after their end-of-season tournament, she cried in the car for 10 minutes because they lost by two points. Then she wiped her eyes on her sweatshirt and asked if we could stop for ice cream and if she can sign up again next spring. I told her yes. I used to think club volleyball was only for parents who pushed their kids too hard, but for us, it’s just something she likes doing, with people who don’t care if she’s not the best. That’s more than I ever expected.
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