What to Expect When You Introduce Your Kid to Club Volleyball: A Parent’s Real Guide
The rain streaked the gym parking lot windows at 7:15 a.m. last fall, and my 12-year-old Lila was picking at the edge of her hand-me-down knee brace, saying she didn’t want to go in. She’d played rec volleyball for two years at the city park, and her rec coach had suggested she try out for a local club team. I’d spent the week before scrolling parent forums, panicking about the cost, the time commitment, the idea that club volleyball was only for hyper-competitive parents who dreamed of college scholarships. I was this close to telling her we could just stick to rec, and no one would think less of her.
The gym inside smelled like old rubber floor mats and spilled blue Gatorade, just like every gym I’d ever been in. The other parents leaned against the cinder block wall, most scrolling on their phones, no one yelling at their kids to run faster. Lila hovered by the door until I reminded her of the one thing we’d agreed on before we came in: she just had to introduce herself to one other kid her age before tryouts started. She walked over to a girl with neon pink shoelaces, mumbled hi, and that was that. Two hours later, she stumbled out, hair stuck to her neck, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and said she’d hit the coach’s clipboard with a wild warm-up serve, the whole group had laughed, and the pink shoelace girl had high fived her after. She wanted to join.
I’d assumed we’d have to drop thousands on fees and gear before she even stepped on the court full time, but the club we looked at had a developmental team for new players, no previous elite experience required, that cost a third of the top-tier team price. We borrowed extra knee pads from our neighbor whose daughter had graduated high school, bought a used club ball from their equipment swap for $18, and only paid for the team jersey and tournament fees after Lila committed. I’d had no idea most clubs do that – it’s not all brand new everything for new players.
The first few months fell into a rhythm: we leave her middle school cross country practice 20 minutes early twice a week to make it to 6 p.m. practice an hour across town. I keep a bag of peanut butter crackers and a frozen water bottle in the car, so she can eat on the drive. I sit in the bleachers and knit, because practice is two hours, and I’d rather do that than sit in the car scrolling. Lila’s always been the kid who quits things when she feels stupid. When she was 10, she quit piano after three lessons because she messed up a recital song in front of the teacher and ran off the stage crying. I thought for sure that would happen here, where everyone is actually trying to get better, not just show up for snacks after.
But it didn’t. The first tournament was a 3-game, 8 a.m. Sunday, and Lila only played 2 out of 6 sets. I sat there fuming a little, because we’d gotten up at 6 a.m. and paid $10 for parking just for her to sit on the bench most of the time. After the last game, I asked her if she was upset, and she shrugged and pulled out her phone to show me a video of a dig she’d gotten that stopped the other team from scoring. She didn’t care about the playing time. She cared that she’d contributed one small thing that helped her team. That’s when I realized I’d had it all wrong. I thought club sports were all about winning and getting into college, but for a kid who’s used to everything being graded or ranked or awarded for participation just for showing up, it’s just a different kind of space. It’s okay to not be the best, but still show up and work. There’s no participation trophy for extra serving practice after team, but you get better anyway.
Last month, we drove three hours for a regional tournament, and Lila missed the final serve that would have won our team the game. She cried the whole first hour of the drive home, face pressed into the passenger seat window. When she stopped crying, she said she wanted to ask her coach to stay 20 minutes late after practice every week to work on her jump serve. That’s not something she would have done a year ago. She would have quit, or said volleyball was stupid anyway.
I get a lot of questions from other parents at school, asking if it’s worth it, if their kid who just likes playing rec should try it. The truth is, it’s not for everyone. It’s a stretch for our budget, we have to skip our annual camping trip one weekend every spring to go to tournaments. Some weeks Lila is so tired after practice that she doesn’t start her math homework until 8 p.m., and we have to cut her nightly TikTok time short, which leads to a lot of eye rolling. But there are a few concrete things I tell them that I wish someone had told me before we tried out. First, ask the club about their developmental teams before you write it off as too expensive or too competitive. Most clubs have entry-level groups that are just for kids who want to play more, not get recruited. Second, borrow gear or buy used before you buy anything new. Almost every club has an equipment swap for new families, and most players outgrow knee pads and shoes every year anyway. Third, if your kid is nervous about tryouts, don’t tell them “just do your best.” Tell them to just introduce themselves to one other kid before it starts. That’s a small enough goal that they won’t feel overwhelmed, and it gets them out of their head.
Last week we went to the end of season banquet, and Lila only got a little certificate for most improved serve, no big trophy. On the drive home, we stopped for mint chocolate chip ice cream, and she taped the certificate next to the team photo on her bedroom wall. She’s talking about trying out for the next level team next fall, and I’m still nervous about the extra time and cost, and whether she’ll get discouraged if she doesn’t play as much as she wants. But for right now, it’s working. It’s not the elite nightmare I pictured before that first rainy tryout. It’s just something she likes to do, that makes her push herself a little more than she would otherwise.
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