Why You Should Let Your Kid Try Club Volleyball (Even If You Know Nothing About It)
Last April, I found my 12-year-old daughter Lila picking crumbs out of the bottom of her Goldfish cracker bag at the kitchen table, staring at the community center email I’d forwarded her. Her spring rec soccer season had just ended, and when I’d asked what she wanted to do next, she’d mumbled that all her friends were going to club volleyball tryouts. But there she sat, shoulders hunched, saying she’d never even touched a volleyball before and everyone else would be way better. I’d heard all the stereotypes about club volleyball—super expensive, super competitive, parents screaming at refs from the bleachers—and I almost told her we could just do soccer again, no big deal. But I also knew she’d been bored with soccer for a year, too nervous to try anything new.
I agreed to go, but made a deal with her: we’d drive the 20 minutes to the gym, she’d go in for 10 minutes, if she hated it we’d get ice cream on the way home and never talk about it again. She nodded, but when we pulled up to the gym and saw kids hauling oversized branded volleyball bags across the parking lot, she pulled her hood up over her ponytail and grabbed my wrist so tight her nails dug in. “I can’t do this,” she said. I reminded her of the 10-minute rule, told her I’d be sitting in the car the whole time reading, my phone was on if she needed me. She walked in slowly, looking over her shoulder once before pulling the door shut.
I sat in the driver’s seat, finished her leftover Goldfish, answered a couple work emails, and 45 minutes later she came bouncing out, cheeks pink, hair sticking up with sweat, holding a flier that said she’d made the developmental team. I was shocked. I didn’t even know clubs had developmental teams. I thought all club teams were elite, traveling to other states every weekend, costing thousands of dollars. Turns out, this entry-level team was only $350 for the whole season, practiced two nights a week at the local rec center, and only did one local tournament a month, no overnight trips. I’d had no idea that option existed, and I think a lot of other parents don’t either.
The first few practices, Lila came home quiet. She missed almost every pass the first week, said she felt like everyone was watching her mess up. Then one night she came home grinning, told me the older captain of the team had covered for her when she missed an easy one, said it was the captain’s fault for calling it wrong. That stuck with me. Lila’s always been the kind of kid who hates being wrong. She’d crumple up a math test if she got more than one answer wrong, refuse to try drawing again if her picture didn’t look right the first time. I’d spent years telling her it’s okay to mess up, but that never stuck as much as one 13-year-old girl covering for her in practice did.
I started going to watch her practice sometimes, sitting on the hard bleachers with my book. What I noticed that’s different from most other youth sports I’ve tried with my kids is that it’s unforgiving in small, safe ways. Every single play, someone messes up. A net violation, a bad pass, a hit that goes out of bounds. There’s no way to be perfect the whole game, so everyone just moves on to the next play. It’s not like a test where one wrong answer drops your grade, or a recital where you mess up your solo and the whole thing stops. You just keep going.
If you’re thinking about letting your kid try it, here’s what I’d tell you that I wish someone had shared with me. First, don’t write it off as too expensive before you call the local clubs. Almost every area club has an entry-level developmental division for new players that costs less than a season of private swimming lessons or recreational hockey, and you don’t have to do travel unless you want to move up later. Second, the 10-minute rule works way better than generic encouragement for nervous kids. I’ve told Lila “just be brave” a hundred times, but giving her a clear out, permission to leave if it’s terrible, takes all the pressure off. She didn’t need to be brave, she just needed to know she wasn’t stuck. Third, don’t push them to be the star. Lila’s the shortest kid on her team, she never gets to hit the ball over the net for points, she’s stuck in the back row digging up balls that other people miss. She doesn’t care. She says the team can’t win if no one digs up the bad hits, and that’s her job. That’s the kind of quiet belonging you don’t get when you put your kid in a sport they’re already the best at.
It’s not all perfect, of course. We eat frozen pizza for dinner two nights a week now, because practice doesn’t end until 7:30. Last month, Lila had a terrible tournament where they lost all four games, she missed three easy passes in the final set, and she got in the car and cried and said she wanted to quit. I didn’t give her a big speech about grit or sticking it out. I just got her a lemonade from the gas station, said “okay, we can quit. But let’s go to open gym this week, just for fun, no pressure, then you can decide.” She went, messed around in a casual scrimmage with her friends after the formal practice, laughed the whole car ride home, and said she wanted to stay for next season.
We’re still figuring it out. I still don’t know a setter from a libero half the time when I’m sitting in the bleachers. Lila still has bad games where she comes home mad, and some days she complains that practice cuts into her time to hang out with her friends after school. But she also comes home some days talking about how they won a scrimmage because she dug up a ball that everyone thought was gone, and she’s glowing in a way I haven’t seen since she started middle school. I don’t know if she’ll stick with it, if she’ll ever be on the elite travel team, or if this is just a phase she’ll outgrow in a year. But for right now, it’s working. That’s enough.
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