Should I Introduce My Kid to Club Volleyball? What I Learned As A Parent
The vinyl gym door smacked my shoulder as I hauled my 12-year-old Lila’s overstuffed duffel inside last October, coffee sloshing in my reusable cup, my boots still crusted with fallen leaves from the parking lot. Lila was already sprinting toward a group of girls she’d only met once over a pre-season Zoom call, and I stood there for a minute, convinced I was making a huge mistake. I’d heard all the stories about club volleyball: parents paying thousands for travel, coaches benching anyone who wasn’t a prodigy by 10, weekends consumed by out-of-state tournaments that left no time for family dinners or birthday parties. Lila had played rec volleyball for a year, where half the girls spent practice picking at their nail polish and the coach was a dad who couldn’t tell a set from a spike. She kept begging me to let her try club, but I’d put it off for months, assuming it wasn’t for us. It took a friend mentioning a low-commitment developmental team at a local club with an open spot for an inexperienced middle hitter to get me to say yes, for one season only.
The first month was messy. Lila came home from every practice red-faced and cranky, complaining she couldn’t get her serve over the net, that all the other girls had been playing longer, that her knees hurt from diving on the hard gym floor. I’d offer to call the coach and quit, and she’d cross her arms and say no, she just needed to practice more. After her first tournament, we stopped for ice cream on the drive home, and she picked at her mint chocolate chip for 10 minutes before saying she only got to play one quarter, and the other team scored three points off her bad passes. I asked if she still wanted to keep going, and she shrugged and said, “Yeah. Next time I’ll do better.” That’s when I noticed something I hadn’t expected: this was the first thing she’d ever stuck with when it got hard. She’d quit piano after three months because her fingers hurt, quit art club because she said the other kids were better at drawing, quit soccer after one bad game where she missed a penalty kick. This time, even when it was frustrating, she didn’t want to walk away.
I’ve since picked up a few small, practical things that make trying club volleyball way less stressful for first-time parents, things I wish I’d known before I signed the registration form. When people ask me where to start, I tell them to skip the big elite clubs that post all their national tournament wins on Instagram first. Look for small local programs that run developmental teams for new middle schoolers – most have one practice a week during the school year, only one local tournament a month within an hour’s drive, and don’t lock you into a full year contract before you try it. I also made a point to sit in on 15 minutes of Lila’s first practice before I paid the full fee, just to watch how the coach interacted with new kids. When I saw her stop mid-drill to walk a nervous 11-year-old through how to position her feet for a serve, instead of just barking orders from the sideline, I knew it was the right fit. And I always tell people not to stress about buying all the fancy gear upfront. You don’t need a $200 custom ball or brand name volleyball shoes to start; Lila used the same beat-up hand-me-down knee pads she got for rec for three months before she asked for new ones, and no one said a word.
Last month, at a small tournament at a local community college, Lila got put in for the third set, when her team was down by four points. She blocked a hard spike right at the opponent’s feet, then served two in a row that the other team couldn’t return. The whole team rushed her, screaming and hugging her, even the girls who’d been playing for three years already. I was sitting on the sticky bleachers, eating a sad $3 concession stand granola bar, and I realized I’d had it all wrong from the start. I thought club volleyball was only for kids who wanted college scholarships, for parents who cared more about wins than their kid’s happiness. But for us, it’s become something much smaller and more useful. Lila started planning her homework around practice, doing her math worksheets on the bus after school instead of leaving them for Sunday night, because practice runs until 8 p.m. She’s learned to check the schedule the night before to make sure she has her clean uniform packed, instead of me reminding her three times. When she got a B on a math test last week, after staying up too late studying following a Saturday tournament, she figured out on her own to bring her textbook with her to tournaments so she can study during breaks between games, instead of me lecturing her about time management.
It’s not all perfect. I still have to drag myself out of bed at 6:30 a.m. on Saturdays, I still forget to pack extra water bottles half the time, and the gym always smells like old rubber and too much lemon cleaner. Lila still comes home upset sometimes when she doesn’t get as much playing time as she wants. We’re halfway through the season now, and I still don’t know if she’ll want to sign up again next year. She might decide she’d rather do theater camp or spend weekends hanging out with friends, and that’s fine. Even if this is the only season she ever plays, it’s already worth the $300 registration fee and all the cold early mornings. I used to think introducing my kid to club volleyball meant buying into a whole crazy, high-pressure lifestyle. Turns out, for us, it was just a chance for her to learn what it feels like to show up for something that’s hard, even when you don’t win every time. That’s more than enough for me.
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