Why I Finally Caved and Signed My 12-Year-Old Up for Club Volleyball
Last summer, I stood in my neighbor’s backyard at a Fourth of July barbecue, beer in hand, and loudly announced I would never be one of those parents that shuttles their kid to club volleyball every week. Said it was just overpriced, overhyped, and full of parents screaming at 13-year-olds over a bad pass. The woman standing right next to me? Her daughter has played club volleyball for four years. Oops. I’ve eaten a lot of my words in the three months since I signed my own 12-year-old, Maeve, up for tryouts, so I guess that’s why I’m writing this. If you’re on the fence about your kid asking to join, let me tell you the messy stuff no one posts on Instagram.
The tryout was at that beat-up YMCA out by the airport, the one with the sticky water fountains and the smell of old gym socks that lingers in the parking lot even when it’s empty. I showed up 10 minutes early and the whole lot was full of minivans with peeling “Volleyball Mom” bumper stickers, so I had to park at the Kroger half a mile away. It had rained that morning, and I stepped right in a puddle that covered my entire left sneaker. My sock squished the entire two hours I waited in the parent waiting area. That’s another thing no one tells you: the waiting area is just a row of folding chairs against a cinder block wall, and everyone already knows each other. I had a warm gas station Diet Coke in my hand, and everyone else had these fancy big Hydro Flasks printed with the club logo. No one talked to me for almost an hour. Then a woman with perfectly highlighted hair asked how long Maeve had been playing, and I said she’d only done rec league for one year, and she just went “oh” and turned right back to her friend. I sat there scrolling TikTok on my phone, feeling like a 13-year-old at a new school lunch table, honestly.
I was so ready to leave after that, ready to tell Maeve it was too much hassle and we could just stick to rec. But she came bounding out of the gym 10 minutes later, hair stuck to her forehead, chattering about how she got to hit a bunch of balls and made friends with a girl who also loves Taylor Swift’s newer albums more than the old ones. She begged me to check the acceptance email that night, literally stood over my shoulder while I opened it. When she got in, she screamed so loud the dog ran under the couch.
It’s not all screaming and excitement, obviously. It’s expensive as hell. I had to cancel my monthly book subscription, and we cut out our weekly pizza Friday to make room for the fees and the gear. The team requires custom spandex that are $42 a pair, and they stretch out after like two months of washing. Maeve wanted two pairs because she hates doing laundry, so that’s almost $100 just for tiny little shorts. I almost had a heart attack when the coach sent the gear list. Tournaments are all day on Saturdays, too. I missed my little sister’s 30th birthday brunch last month because we had a tournament an hour and a half away. I still feel bad about that. I brought her a sorry coffee cake the next week, but still.
Two weeks in, Maeve had her first scrimmage. She sat the entire second half on the bench. She cried the entire drive home, snot running down her face, saying she wanted to quit, that the coach hated her, that she was terrible. I was furious, honestly. I was already this close to pulling her out, thinking I knew it, this whole thing is garbage, why did I waste the money. But we got home, she ate a whole pint of mint chocolate chip, went to bed, and the next morning she came downstairs while I was making coffee and said “never mind, I want to go back. Mia saved me a spot for pre-practice warm-ups tomorrow.” I didn’t push her to stay, I didn’t push her to quit. That’s the thing I guess I learned: it’s her call, not mine. I was so caught up in hating the idea of club volleyball that I almost took that choice away from her just because I didn’t want to be the cliché parent.
I still do the thing I made fun of, sort of, but not really. I don’t yell at the refs from the stands, that’s not my vibe. I still sit in the back, actually. At the last tournament, I accidentally cheered really loud for the other team because I mixed up our navy blue jerseys for their navy blue jerseys. The dad next to me snickered, and I turned bright red. It’s fine. I’m still learning.
The thing that surprises me most is what it’s done for her, off the court. Maeve’s always been shy, the kind of kid who’d rather sit at home and draw than go to a birthday party, who eats lunch with just one friend at school because talking to new people scares her. Now she has a group chat with seven other girls on the team, and they send each other stupid memes until 9 o’clock every night. Last week she stayed after practice to get blue raspberry slushies with three of them, and came home chattering about how one of the girls stole her peanut butter granola bar out of her gym bag, but she was laughing when she told me. Last weekend she asked if she could have a couple of them over for a sleepover. That’s the first time she’s ever asked to have more than one friend over. That’s not nothing, you know?
I still don’t know if this is going to last. Next year she might decide she hates it, wants to quit and do art club instead, and that’s fine. I won’t make her stay just because I paid the fees. I still complain about the cost when I’m paying the bills, I still miss pizza Friday, I still have a faint dark spot on my left sneaker from that puddle at tryouts. I’m not here to tell you every kid needs to do club volleyball, that it’s the best thing ever and you’re missing out if you don’t sign your kid up. It’s not for everyone. It’s a lot. But if your kid keeps bugging you to try it, if they keep talking about how much they love playing, don’t say no just because you think all club sports are just crazy parents and overpriced garbage like I did. Yeah, there’s a lot of that. But there’s also slushies after practice, and new friends, and my kid learning to pick herself up after sitting the whole game. That’s worth the squishy socks and the $42 spandex, to me. Even if I still feel like an imposter in the parent waiting room sometimes.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Why I Finally Caved and Signed My 12-Year-Old Up for Club Volleyball