This is the last in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of his daughter's club volleyball career.
High school tournaments weren't quite the same. College tournaments won't be. Truth is there really aren't too many competitions quite like a three- or four-day club tournament. And what I'll miss most about this particular competitive format is the anxious anticipation it creates.
Specifically, there's a very unique sort of a knot that begins to form in one's stomach right about, well, now. And it won't even start to disappear until the first ball is tossed into the air for the first serve down in Louisville.
So let's try to unravel (an admittedly bad pun) the mystery of this knot. It seems there are three key realizations that make club tournaments so unique:
The Realization of What Third Place on Day One Means
If you're the first seed, you know there's a number three waiting to clip your wings at 8 a.m. sharp (while your team is probably still wondering why they didn't get up early enough to have bagels and orange juice). If you're a two, you know you're only expected to barely survive the first round. And if you're a three or four, not even that. In short, it doesn't matter what you're seeded, the size of the knot remains the same.
The Realization That First or Second on Day One Merely Mean Same-Song-Next-Verse
There's also the anxious anticipation that comes after first-day success, primarily because everyone knows just how short-lived it might be. In fact, getting out of pool on the first day doesn’t usually feel like success so much as survival. The phrase, “live to fight another day,” only means there’s just as much (or more) fighting to do in the morning.
The Realization of What the Playoffs on the Last Day Mean
A third explanation for the knot is knowing that these three or four days spent in a noisy convention center will probably end with a loss. This isn’t defeatist thinking. It’s reality. Only one team gets to end any given tournament with a W. And that means the odds are stacked heavily against that one team being yours.
Of course, this particular tournament carries even more finality. This is truly it: the end of club as we've known it for however many years. After Monday, no more last-day playoffs where it’s win or go home (after the inevitable reffing assignment, of course).
So off we go to the Bluegrass State with that one-of-a-kind, club-tournament-shaped knot in each of our stomachs. I'm rather confident my daughter will be ready for what's going to happen down there. I just hope her father is, too.
Showing posts with label Three to Get Ready. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Three to Get Ready. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Three to Get Ready #10: The Team Dinners
This is the tenth in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of a daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
J.R.R. Tolkein once said that "if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."
I'm with Tolkein. Who needs "hoarded gold" when you can spend some unforgettable moments at an Applebee's, TGI Fridays or Olive Garden?
Team dinners often occur somewhere in the middle of a multi-day tournament. And in the midst of the kids' fatigue, the team is typically in either of two moods: extremely excited or somewhat somber.
They're excited, of course, if they've somehow managed to stay in the top half of that particular tournament, living to fight another day. And it's not usually a celebratory excitement so much as a huge sigh of relief that comes complete with appetizers. The kids chatter on about this or that pivotal moment and it's hard to get a word in edgewise. But the parents manage to do just that as they giddily recap the day's events in extraordinary detail.
Then there are the somewhat somber dinners when a tiebreaker broke poorly or things came completely unglued during the day. On those occasions (and, sadly, there have been more than one), the team dinners took on an entirely different tone. Don't misunderstand. We didn't sit around and pout (OK, maybe a little). It's just that the laughter was a little less giddy and was clearly being used as a defense mechanism against the realization that there were more days to play than championships available to win.
At the end of the month, I'm going to remember this essay while sitting at a large table in some casual dining restaurant in Louisville. And when I do, I'll look around at a group of friends I never would have met if it weren't for club volleyball--and realize that my wife and I have spent more quality moments with these fine people than with any other friends during the past half-decade.
And after contemplating all of this, I'm going to cheerily spend some more of what little gold I've managed to hoard to make that last team dinner as unforgettable as possible.
Next Week: The Anxious Anticipation
J.R.R. Tolkein once said that "if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."
I'm with Tolkein. Who needs "hoarded gold" when you can spend some unforgettable moments at an Applebee's, TGI Fridays or Olive Garden?
Team dinners often occur somewhere in the middle of a multi-day tournament. And in the midst of the kids' fatigue, the team is typically in either of two moods: extremely excited or somewhat somber.
They're excited, of course, if they've somehow managed to stay in the top half of that particular tournament, living to fight another day. And it's not usually a celebratory excitement so much as a huge sigh of relief that comes complete with appetizers. The kids chatter on about this or that pivotal moment and it's hard to get a word in edgewise. But the parents manage to do just that as they giddily recap the day's events in extraordinary detail.
Then there are the somewhat somber dinners when a tiebreaker broke poorly or things came completely unglued during the day. On those occasions (and, sadly, there have been more than one), the team dinners took on an entirely different tone. Don't misunderstand. We didn't sit around and pout (OK, maybe a little). It's just that the laughter was a little less giddy and was clearly being used as a defense mechanism against the realization that there were more days to play than championships available to win.
At the end of the month, I'm going to remember this essay while sitting at a large table in some casual dining restaurant in Louisville. And when I do, I'll look around at a group of friends I never would have met if it weren't for club volleyball--and realize that my wife and I have spent more quality moments with these fine people than with any other friends during the past half-decade.
And after contemplating all of this, I'm going to cheerily spend some more of what little gold I've managed to hoard to make that last team dinner as unforgettable as possible.
Next Week: The Anxious Anticipation
Friday, May 23, 2008
Three to Get Ready #9: The Proud Grandparents
This is the ninth in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of a daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
I've vacationed with them.
I've eaten breakfasts, lunches and dinners with them.
I've spent weekend after weekend after weekend with them.
I've walked to and from convention centers with them.
I've listened to them go on and on about their granddaughters. Even better, I've heard them share stories about their granddaughter's parents.
And now that my daughter's club volleyball career is rapidly drawing to a close, there's no denying that I'll miss having spent the last half decade with some very proud grandparents.
I'll miss discussing matches with the grandpa who would hunch over his spiral notebook, diligently scribbling pool play results that no one will much care about by the following week.
I'll miss high-fiving the grandma whose granddaughter just put down a ball at the feet of an opposing player.
And I'll miss seeing the two grandparents who would sit off to the side, soaking it all in as they quietly reflect on this stage in their granddaughter's life.
Of course, I'll also miss having my own daughter's grandparents sharing all of these unforgettable memories with her and our family.
Which brings up another point: The realization that these great memories are ending is also a reminder that some other very proud grandparents, including one of my daughter's, passed away before all this craziness called club volleyball even got started.
And it's hard to think about how much they would have loved all that they had to miss.
Next Week: The Team Dinners
I've vacationed with them.
I've eaten breakfasts, lunches and dinners with them.
I've spent weekend after weekend after weekend with them.
I've walked to and from convention centers with them.
I've listened to them go on and on about their granddaughters. Even better, I've heard them share stories about their granddaughter's parents.
And now that my daughter's club volleyball career is rapidly drawing to a close, there's no denying that I'll miss having spent the last half decade with some very proud grandparents.
I'll miss discussing matches with the grandpa who would hunch over his spiral notebook, diligently scribbling pool play results that no one will much care about by the following week.
I'll miss high-fiving the grandma whose granddaughter just put down a ball at the feet of an opposing player.
And I'll miss seeing the two grandparents who would sit off to the side, soaking it all in as they quietly reflect on this stage in their granddaughter's life.
Of course, I'll also miss having my own daughter's grandparents sharing all of these unforgettable memories with her and our family.
Which brings up another point: The realization that these great memories are ending is also a reminder that some other very proud grandparents, including one of my daughter's, passed away before all this craziness called club volleyball even got started.
And it's hard to think about how much they would have loved all that they had to miss.
Next Week: The Team Dinners
Friday, May 16, 2008
Three to Get Ready #8: The Unforgettable Teammates
This is the eighth in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of a daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
A few days ago, I received a friend request on Facebook from a former high school classmate. I remembered his name, but couldn't place the face until I pulled out my ancient yearbook, flipped through page after page of faded photos (with bad hair, of course) and finally found his. Yes, I remembered him.
I guess.
But only sort of. I could not recall a single memory of doing anything with him. We must have had a class together, worked on the school newspaper or played in band. I just couldn't remember it.
My daughter will not have that problem 25 years from now when she thinks about her club teammates. This group of girls has left an indelible impression on her that won't fade after 25, 35 or even 50 years. I'm sure of it. Why? Because they're simply too hard to forget.
It's Too Hard to Forget How They Celebrated Each Point
I'm thinking of one teammate in particular. You know the type: It's the kid whose vertical is at least as high after the ball hits the floor as it was to get the kill in the first place. There will be no way to erase the memory of some of those spontaneous celebrations of success.
It's Too Hard to Forget How They Battled Adversity
They say bad things sometimes happen to good people. That's understating it. It's more accurate to say that terrible things occasionally happen to terrific people, anything from tragic personal loss to devastating injury. And when you see one of those terrific people respond with grace and determination in the face of adversity, it's very memorable. My daughter has seen her teammates do just that.
It's Too Hard to Forget How They Didn't Bicker
There's a photo of my daughter's team that says it all. In it, she and her teammates are huddling up before the start of a match and every arm is draped over a fellow teammate's shoulder. Whether they ended up winning or losing the match that followed really doesn't matter. The photo perfectly represents something that will never be forgotten: This team stuck up for each other through good times and bad with remarkably few internal conflicts.
My daughter isn't going to forget these club teammates. But she will most definitely miss them.
Next Week: The Proud Grandparents
A few days ago, I received a friend request on Facebook from a former high school classmate. I remembered his name, but couldn't place the face until I pulled out my ancient yearbook, flipped through page after page of faded photos (with bad hair, of course) and finally found his. Yes, I remembered him.
I guess.
But only sort of. I could not recall a single memory of doing anything with him. We must have had a class together, worked on the school newspaper or played in band. I just couldn't remember it.
My daughter will not have that problem 25 years from now when she thinks about her club teammates. This group of girls has left an indelible impression on her that won't fade after 25, 35 or even 50 years. I'm sure of it. Why? Because they're simply too hard to forget.
It's Too Hard to Forget How They Celebrated Each Point
I'm thinking of one teammate in particular. You know the type: It's the kid whose vertical is at least as high after the ball hits the floor as it was to get the kill in the first place. There will be no way to erase the memory of some of those spontaneous celebrations of success.
It's Too Hard to Forget How They Battled Adversity
They say bad things sometimes happen to good people. That's understating it. It's more accurate to say that terrible things occasionally happen to terrific people, anything from tragic personal loss to devastating injury. And when you see one of those terrific people respond with grace and determination in the face of adversity, it's very memorable. My daughter has seen her teammates do just that.
It's Too Hard to Forget How They Didn't Bicker
There's a photo of my daughter's team that says it all. In it, she and her teammates are huddling up before the start of a match and every arm is draped over a fellow teammate's shoulder. Whether they ended up winning or losing the match that followed really doesn't matter. The photo perfectly represents something that will never be forgotten: This team stuck up for each other through good times and bad with remarkably few internal conflicts.
My daughter isn't going to forget these club teammates. But she will most definitely miss them.
Next Week: The Proud Grandparents
Friday, May 9, 2008
Three to Get Ready #7: The Killer Practices
This is the seventh in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of a daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
Ninety minutes doesn't seem like an extraordinarily long stretch of time. It is, after all, roughly the length of three television sitcoms. For my daughter and her teammates, however, there were more than a few 90-minute stretches that seemed more like an eternity. And since those eternities will soon become history, it's probably a good time to consider why I'm going to miss each killer practice and everything surrounding it.
The Murmuring Before
If you were to listen to my daughter during the car ride to a typical practice, you'd hear it in her voice: a combination of nerves and a strong desire to do something, anything else. I'm thinking of one ride in particular. The team had just come off a subpar performance at an important tournament and she knew the coaches were extraordinarily unhappy. While the practice turned out to be much less than she had feared, I'll never forget listening to her nervous speculations beforehand about which impossible drills and exhausting consequences were waiting for her and her teammates.
The Intensity During
It's hard to imaging packing so much intensity into such a short space of time, but coaches do. Oh, they most definitely do. And that's a very good thing. No fan has ever watched a volleyball match and said, "Wow, did you see that kid's footwork." It's all about kills, digs, sets and aces. But most people also realize it's impossible to execute one of those incredible kills without first enduring many, many killer practices.
The Discussions After
One of the reasons the murmuring beforehand is so memorable is that it contrasts so completely with how my daughter sounds on the ride home. Before we even get out of the parking lot, it's clear that all the exhausting work and shouting has left her in a place she clearly wants to be: in shape with a sense of real accomplishment.
Going to a movie is fun to do. Attending a school dance is fun to do. Enduring killer practices may never make it into anyone's "fun-to-do" list, but it fits perfectly into a second, more important, category: things that are fun to have done. They're also things that are going to be missed.
Next Week: The Unforgettable Teammates
Ninety minutes doesn't seem like an extraordinarily long stretch of time. It is, after all, roughly the length of three television sitcoms. For my daughter and her teammates, however, there were more than a few 90-minute stretches that seemed more like an eternity. And since those eternities will soon become history, it's probably a good time to consider why I'm going to miss each killer practice and everything surrounding it.
The Murmuring Before
If you were to listen to my daughter during the car ride to a typical practice, you'd hear it in her voice: a combination of nerves and a strong desire to do something, anything else. I'm thinking of one ride in particular. The team had just come off a subpar performance at an important tournament and she knew the coaches were extraordinarily unhappy. While the practice turned out to be much less than she had feared, I'll never forget listening to her nervous speculations beforehand about which impossible drills and exhausting consequences were waiting for her and her teammates.
The Intensity During
It's hard to imaging packing so much intensity into such a short space of time, but coaches do. Oh, they most definitely do. And that's a very good thing. No fan has ever watched a volleyball match and said, "Wow, did you see that kid's footwork." It's all about kills, digs, sets and aces. But most people also realize it's impossible to execute one of those incredible kills without first enduring many, many killer practices.
The Discussions After
One of the reasons the murmuring beforehand is so memorable is that it contrasts so completely with how my daughter sounds on the ride home. Before we even get out of the parking lot, it's clear that all the exhausting work and shouting has left her in a place she clearly wants to be: in shape with a sense of real accomplishment.
Going to a movie is fun to do. Attending a school dance is fun to do. Enduring killer practices may never make it into anyone's "fun-to-do" list, but it fits perfectly into a second, more important, category: things that are fun to have done. They're also things that are going to be missed.
Next Week: The Unforgettable Teammates
Friday, May 2, 2008
Three to Get Ready #6: The Tweaked Ankles
This is the sixth in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of a daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
"Injuries are a part of sports."
If you channel-surf to ESPN on any given Saturday afternoon, you'll probably hear that cliche uttered at least a half-dozen times. And, of course, it's true. Ankles do get tweaked, twisted, sprained and (let's hope not) broken. So do arms, wrists, shoulders, you name it. It's not a pleasant consideration, but there's no denying that volleyball is a physical game, which brings with it the unavoidable spectre of injury.
And while I can't say that I'm going to miss the actual injuries (or the tough decisions that have to be made about each), I will miss three things that can only be experienced by having lived through my daughter's and her teammate's tweaked ankles and other assorted injuries.
The "In Spite Of" Victories
Injuries have a way of stacking the odds so high against a team it's hard to see over the top. When they occur, the injured player becomes the center of attention. All eyes focus on her to assess how gingerly she goes through warmups. And when the match starts, everyone quickly sees that the injury is indeed killing her. But sometimes it's also apparent that the team will still come together and come out on top. And when they do, everyone experiences firsthand the sweetness of victory in spite of overwhelming odds.
The "If Only" Defeats
There is, of course, the flip side to the "in spite of" victories. These are the losses that occur because an injury kept a team from winning some match they really should have. As a parent, player, coach or fan, you sit and watch helplessly as point after point slips away. The mind starts racing about what might have happened had everyone been at full strength. It's humbling. It's frustrating. It's life.
The "Standin' on the Sidelines" Perspectives
There's no better way to tell how much you love something than by not being able to do it. The times my daughter or her teammates have been sidelined by injury have forced them to see volleyball in a way they'd never seen it before--and appreciate it at a deeper level than they otherwise would have.
The word "bittersweet" is probably an overused term, but I can think of no better way to describe half a decade of tweaked ankles, sore shoulders and various other nagging injuries.
Next Week: The Killer Practices
"Injuries are a part of sports."
If you channel-surf to ESPN on any given Saturday afternoon, you'll probably hear that cliche uttered at least a half-dozen times. And, of course, it's true. Ankles do get tweaked, twisted, sprained and (let's hope not) broken. So do arms, wrists, shoulders, you name it. It's not a pleasant consideration, but there's no denying that volleyball is a physical game, which brings with it the unavoidable spectre of injury.
And while I can't say that I'm going to miss the actual injuries (or the tough decisions that have to be made about each), I will miss three things that can only be experienced by having lived through my daughter's and her teammate's tweaked ankles and other assorted injuries.
The "In Spite Of" Victories
Injuries have a way of stacking the odds so high against a team it's hard to see over the top. When they occur, the injured player becomes the center of attention. All eyes focus on her to assess how gingerly she goes through warmups. And when the match starts, everyone quickly sees that the injury is indeed killing her. But sometimes it's also apparent that the team will still come together and come out on top. And when they do, everyone experiences firsthand the sweetness of victory in spite of overwhelming odds.
The "If Only" Defeats
There is, of course, the flip side to the "in spite of" victories. These are the losses that occur because an injury kept a team from winning some match they really should have. As a parent, player, coach or fan, you sit and watch helplessly as point after point slips away. The mind starts racing about what might have happened had everyone been at full strength. It's humbling. It's frustrating. It's life.
The "Standin' on the Sidelines" Perspectives
There's no better way to tell how much you love something than by not being able to do it. The times my daughter or her teammates have been sidelined by injury have forced them to see volleyball in a way they'd never seen it before--and appreciate it at a deeper level than they otherwise would have.
The word "bittersweet" is probably an overused term, but I can think of no better way to describe half a decade of tweaked ankles, sore shoulders and various other nagging injuries.
Next Week: The Killer Practices
Friday, April 25, 2008
Three to Get Ready #5: The Endless Miles
This is the fifth in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of a daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
I'll start with a bit of a confession: I've been writing as though my experiences with club volleyball will come to an abrupt end at the JVDA Championships. More than likely, they won't. There's a better-than-average chance I'll still be involved with club volleyball for a few more years, traveling to new destinations, enduring third games, hearing silly cheers and observing various coaching styles. But my experience will be fundamentally different because my memories with my oldest child will certainly begin to fade, including some very specific destinations, games, cheers and coaches.
Not to mention one particular stretch of open road. A long stretch. With not much to see or do except one thing: Talk.
That's right, talk. Have a conversation. Ask a question, be asked a question in return and, most important, hear answers from a teenager that are more than one word long. Full paragraphs at times. So tell me: Without club volleyball (and the Badger Region's rule that parents do the driving), would I have had as much dialogue as I've had with my teenage daughter?
Not a chance.
We certainly didn't talk as much during high school seasons when a bus would take her from venue to venue. So what exactly did we discuss over all those miles? Three things in particular: the past, the present and the future.
The Past
One of the things that slips through the cracks these days is a solid knowledge of history. Not world or U.S. history. Knowledge of something I'll call an AP Course in Family History. I've used those long stretches of road to teach this course. My daughter has heard how my wife and I met (on a volleyball court, incidentally), where we've lived, what we believe about the meaning of the universe and why. And she's actually enjoyed this course because it wasn't really a course at all. It was a way to pass the endless miles.
The Present
Another frequent topic has been the present: who she was going to prom with, how her insane coach had gone overboard on a certain drill, when she would find time to finish her math homework. All that and more. I had time to listen. And I welcomed the opportunity club volleyball had provided.
The Future
If there's anything I've learned about teenagers (and I'm still not convinced I've learned a single thing), it's that the future is not a topic to dive into until the moment is just right. Fortunately, my daughter and I have been spent enough time together for those conversations to occur often. This fills me with confidence (OK, slightly less anxiety) about the world she will soon enter in college.
Years from now, I imagine myself getting into a car with one of my grandchildren and driving down what will seem to be random Wisconsin roads. Eventually, we'll reach that stretch of open road I'm thinking of right now. And when we get there, I'll tell that child about the long conversations I'd had there with his or her mother, discussing nearly every subject imaginable over those very same endless miles.
Next Week: The Tweaked Ankles
I'll start with a bit of a confession: I've been writing as though my experiences with club volleyball will come to an abrupt end at the JVDA Championships. More than likely, they won't. There's a better-than-average chance I'll still be involved with club volleyball for a few more years, traveling to new destinations, enduring third games, hearing silly cheers and observing various coaching styles. But my experience will be fundamentally different because my memories with my oldest child will certainly begin to fade, including some very specific destinations, games, cheers and coaches.
Not to mention one particular stretch of open road. A long stretch. With not much to see or do except one thing: Talk.
That's right, talk. Have a conversation. Ask a question, be asked a question in return and, most important, hear answers from a teenager that are more than one word long. Full paragraphs at times. So tell me: Without club volleyball (and the Badger Region's rule that parents do the driving), would I have had as much dialogue as I've had with my teenage daughter?
Not a chance.
We certainly didn't talk as much during high school seasons when a bus would take her from venue to venue. So what exactly did we discuss over all those miles? Three things in particular: the past, the present and the future.
The Past
One of the things that slips through the cracks these days is a solid knowledge of history. Not world or U.S. history. Knowledge of something I'll call an AP Course in Family History. I've used those long stretches of road to teach this course. My daughter has heard how my wife and I met (on a volleyball court, incidentally), where we've lived, what we believe about the meaning of the universe and why. And she's actually enjoyed this course because it wasn't really a course at all. It was a way to pass the endless miles.
The Present
Another frequent topic has been the present: who she was going to prom with, how her insane coach had gone overboard on a certain drill, when she would find time to finish her math homework. All that and more. I had time to listen. And I welcomed the opportunity club volleyball had provided.
The Future
If there's anything I've learned about teenagers (and I'm still not convinced I've learned a single thing), it's that the future is not a topic to dive into until the moment is just right. Fortunately, my daughter and I have been spent enough time together for those conversations to occur often. This fills me with confidence (OK, slightly less anxiety) about the world she will soon enter in college.
Years from now, I imagine myself getting into a car with one of my grandchildren and driving down what will seem to be random Wisconsin roads. Eventually, we'll reach that stretch of open road I'm thinking of right now. And when we get there, I'll tell that child about the long conversations I'd had there with his or her mother, discussing nearly every subject imaginable over those very same endless miles.
Next Week: The Tweaked Ankles
Friday, April 18, 2008
Three to Get Ready #4: The Coaching Styles
This is the fourth in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of his daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
What exactly is the purpose of a clipboard?
You probably have a ready answer, but let's imagine you've just arrived from another galaxy and your first experience with this object called "clipboard" is the sight of a club volleyball coach banging it against her head. Given this scenario, your first inclination might be to define clipboard as "that object which a coach abuses in order to gain the attention of her team."
Of course, Clipboard Abuser is just one of many coaching styles I've had the pleasure (and I mean that) of observing over the course of my daughter's quickly ending club volleyball career. Others include Kind Mentor, Cheerleader, Silent Observer and Ruthless Tactician. Because I believe (and have tried to convince my daughter to believe) that there are many equally valid coaching styles, I'd like to take one last look at each.
Kind Mentor
The Kind Mentor is the coach who is entirely focused on figuring out how to improve any given action on the court. What adjustment to the platform will result in a better pass? How will improved footwork lead to the perfect set? The coach who uses this style understands something too often overlooked: One of the fundamental reasons to play volleyball is to learn how to play volleyball better.
Cheerleader
This is the coach who, even at older age levels, won't hesitate to join in an orchestrated cheer with her team. Yes, it can be more than a little obnoxious to see a coach showboating with a kid after a devastating kill. On the other hand, where's the harm in letting the world know that you're excited about this club volleyball thrill ride that's unlike anything you'll experience this side of an amusement park?
Silent Observer
"Why isn't he calling a timeout?" You'll often hear parents pose this question when a Silent Observer is at the helm. Not only won't he call a timeout when we all-knowing parents want him to, but he usually doesn't even get out of his chair more than twice per match. Is this a valid coaching style? It is if I want my daughter to learn that she and her team will occasionally have to work through adversity on their own.
Ruthless Tactician
Picture a chess grandmaster concentrating on the position of each pawn on the board. You can almost hear the commotion inside her brain as she contemplates how one move will force a counter-move, which will in turn force a counter to the counter-move. On the volleyball court, Ruthless Tacticians teach us that being in the right position at the right moment is often more important than having superhuman physical skills.
Clipboard Abuser
I saved this for last because, at first glance, it's hardest to defend. What possible lesson is learned by watching a coach bounce a clipboard off the floor? Assuming the clipboard abuse is done intentionally by a coach in control of her emotions, I feel the point being made is both simple and profound: In volleyball and in life, it's all too easy to take a play or a day off—and it's important never to give yourself that luxury.
So tell me: What in the world am I going to do come July when I no longer have such a rich variety of unique coaching styles to observe on a weekly basis?
Next Week: The Endless Miles
What exactly is the purpose of a clipboard?
You probably have a ready answer, but let's imagine you've just arrived from another galaxy and your first experience with this object called "clipboard" is the sight of a club volleyball coach banging it against her head. Given this scenario, your first inclination might be to define clipboard as "that object which a coach abuses in order to gain the attention of her team."
Of course, Clipboard Abuser is just one of many coaching styles I've had the pleasure (and I mean that) of observing over the course of my daughter's quickly ending club volleyball career. Others include Kind Mentor, Cheerleader, Silent Observer and Ruthless Tactician. Because I believe (and have tried to convince my daughter to believe) that there are many equally valid coaching styles, I'd like to take one last look at each.
Kind Mentor
The Kind Mentor is the coach who is entirely focused on figuring out how to improve any given action on the court. What adjustment to the platform will result in a better pass? How will improved footwork lead to the perfect set? The coach who uses this style understands something too often overlooked: One of the fundamental reasons to play volleyball is to learn how to play volleyball better.
Cheerleader
This is the coach who, even at older age levels, won't hesitate to join in an orchestrated cheer with her team. Yes, it can be more than a little obnoxious to see a coach showboating with a kid after a devastating kill. On the other hand, where's the harm in letting the world know that you're excited about this club volleyball thrill ride that's unlike anything you'll experience this side of an amusement park?
Silent Observer
"Why isn't he calling a timeout?" You'll often hear parents pose this question when a Silent Observer is at the helm. Not only won't he call a timeout when we all-knowing parents want him to, but he usually doesn't even get out of his chair more than twice per match. Is this a valid coaching style? It is if I want my daughter to learn that she and her team will occasionally have to work through adversity on their own.
Ruthless Tactician
Picture a chess grandmaster concentrating on the position of each pawn on the board. You can almost hear the commotion inside her brain as she contemplates how one move will force a counter-move, which will in turn force a counter to the counter-move. On the volleyball court, Ruthless Tacticians teach us that being in the right position at the right moment is often more important than having superhuman physical skills.
Clipboard Abuser
I saved this for last because, at first glance, it's hardest to defend. What possible lesson is learned by watching a coach bounce a clipboard off the floor? Assuming the clipboard abuse is done intentionally by a coach in control of her emotions, I feel the point being made is both simple and profound: In volleyball and in life, it's all too easy to take a play or a day off—and it's important never to give yourself that luxury.
So tell me: What in the world am I going to do come July when I no longer have such a rich variety of unique coaching styles to observe on a weekly basis?
Next Week: The Endless Miles
Friday, April 11, 2008
Three to Get Ready #3: The Silly Cheers
This is the third in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of his daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
For the uninitiated, the first steps into a convention center during a junior volleyball tournament are overwhelming. The first sensation is usually the sight of all those acres of sportcourt, battlefield after battlefield pieced together like so many jigsaw puzzle pieces.
Then there's the unforgettable blending of distinctive sounds: the chirping of referee whistles blowing plays dead, the chattering of parents as they discuss three-way tiebreak scenarios and, of course, the silly cheers. You know the ones I'm talking about:
"R-r-r-r-r-ooof!"
"Ace, ace, baby."
And let's not forget this classic: "My name is Chelsea and you know what I got. I got a team that's hotter than hot..."
With my daughter nearing the end of her club volleyball career, most of these cheers have already been relegated to the younger courts. But I still hear them as I walk through the convention center. And when I leave Louisville at the end of June, the silencing of these silly cheers will be deafening.
But why? Why will I get nostalgic about hearing little kids chanting juvenile rhymes? They were certainly annoying enough in their day, especially when my daughter was on the receiving end of "you got served."
In an attempt to find an answer, I started thinking about other places where groups of individuals gather together and chant in unison. I thought of two: in church and in the military. Think about it. It's easy to picture a congregation reciting a liturgy as one and anyone can imagine an infantry unit chanting as they're out on a pre-dawn run. But it's a little harder to picture everyone in the typical corporate office getting together and chanting, "We're throwin' the competition out of sorts...by filing all these sales reports." Really hard. OK, impossible.
So what do church-goers, soldiers and 12-year-old club volleyball players have in common that make it seem so natural for them to chant in unison while the rest of the world is playing it cool?
Maybe that phrase, "playing it cool," holds the secret. Each of these groups has an underlying sense that they can't afford to play it cool, to act nonchalant or uninterested about how things turn out. There's too much at stake. And they're not going to accomplish anything alone. They need to form a bond as they go out into the secular world, into battle or into a tough semifinal.
Is this a stretch? Maybe. But it's the only reason I can come up with to explain why I'm going to miss cheers that, on the surface, seem nothing more than nonsense.
Next Week: The Coaching Styles
For the uninitiated, the first steps into a convention center during a junior volleyball tournament are overwhelming. The first sensation is usually the sight of all those acres of sportcourt, battlefield after battlefield pieced together like so many jigsaw puzzle pieces.
Then there's the unforgettable blending of distinctive sounds: the chirping of referee whistles blowing plays dead, the chattering of parents as they discuss three-way tiebreak scenarios and, of course, the silly cheers. You know the ones I'm talking about:
"R-r-r-r-r-ooof!"
"Ace, ace, baby."
And let's not forget this classic: "My name is Chelsea and you know what I got. I got a team that's hotter than hot..."
With my daughter nearing the end of her club volleyball career, most of these cheers have already been relegated to the younger courts. But I still hear them as I walk through the convention center. And when I leave Louisville at the end of June, the silencing of these silly cheers will be deafening.
But why? Why will I get nostalgic about hearing little kids chanting juvenile rhymes? They were certainly annoying enough in their day, especially when my daughter was on the receiving end of "you got served."
In an attempt to find an answer, I started thinking about other places where groups of individuals gather together and chant in unison. I thought of two: in church and in the military. Think about it. It's easy to picture a congregation reciting a liturgy as one and anyone can imagine an infantry unit chanting as they're out on a pre-dawn run. But it's a little harder to picture everyone in the typical corporate office getting together and chanting, "We're throwin' the competition out of sorts...by filing all these sales reports." Really hard. OK, impossible.
So what do church-goers, soldiers and 12-year-old club volleyball players have in common that make it seem so natural for them to chant in unison while the rest of the world is playing it cool?
Maybe that phrase, "playing it cool," holds the secret. Each of these groups has an underlying sense that they can't afford to play it cool, to act nonchalant or uninterested about how things turn out. There's too much at stake. And they're not going to accomplish anything alone. They need to form a bond as they go out into the secular world, into battle or into a tough semifinal.
Is this a stretch? Maybe. But it's the only reason I can come up with to explain why I'm going to miss cheers that, on the surface, seem nothing more than nonsense.
Next Week: The Coaching Styles
Friday, April 4, 2008
Three to Get Ready #2: The Third Games
This is the second in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of his daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA Championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
A missed serve. An awkward swing that manages to drop untouched in the middle of the court. A questionable call. There are any number of unexpected, and often frustrating, ways a third game is decided. And while the temptation is to find it unfair to settle things with an over-before-you-know-it game to 15, one truth is undeniable: These edge-of-your-seat thrillers are always unforgettable.
Which means I'm going to miss them. A lot.
I'll miss the one when my daughter's team was playing girls who were clearly more skilled, but her team still managed to eke out a win in game two and an even more improbable game three victory. I'll miss the one that never seemed to end as it creeped first into the high teens and then into the low twenties (her team lost and, yes, it still stings). And in some odd way, I'll even miss the many matches her team was supposed to win in two, but ended up suffering heartbreaking third-game defeats.
And I think the main reason I'll even miss those tough losses is because of what every third game teaches: In life, anything can happen and everything matters.
Anything can happen. Eating right and exercising don't guarantee perfect health any more than staying low and having a good platform assure a perfect pass. And working three straight months of overtime won't automatically turn into a raise any more than taking a perfect approach will always become an undiggable kill.
Everything matters. On the other hand, eating right and exercising is more likely to keep you healthy in the same way staying low and having a great platform will help you get a better ball to the setter. And working three straight months of overtime will put you in a better position to get a raise in the same way that taking a perfect approach can lead to a third-game-winning kill.
Years from now, when this crazy-wonderful club volleyball experience is nothing more than a remember-when memory, nothing will have changed for me or my daughter. Even then, anything could still happen and everything will still matter.
Next Week: The Silly Cheers
A missed serve. An awkward swing that manages to drop untouched in the middle of the court. A questionable call. There are any number of unexpected, and often frustrating, ways a third game is decided. And while the temptation is to find it unfair to settle things with an over-before-you-know-it game to 15, one truth is undeniable: These edge-of-your-seat thrillers are always unforgettable.
Which means I'm going to miss them. A lot.
I'll miss the one when my daughter's team was playing girls who were clearly more skilled, but her team still managed to eke out a win in game two and an even more improbable game three victory. I'll miss the one that never seemed to end as it creeped first into the high teens and then into the low twenties (her team lost and, yes, it still stings). And in some odd way, I'll even miss the many matches her team was supposed to win in two, but ended up suffering heartbreaking third-game defeats.
And I think the main reason I'll even miss those tough losses is because of what every third game teaches: In life, anything can happen and everything matters.
Anything can happen. Eating right and exercising don't guarantee perfect health any more than staying low and having a good platform assure a perfect pass. And working three straight months of overtime won't automatically turn into a raise any more than taking a perfect approach will always become an undiggable kill.
Everything matters. On the other hand, eating right and exercising is more likely to keep you healthy in the same way staying low and having a great platform will help you get a better ball to the setter. And working three straight months of overtime will put you in a better position to get a raise in the same way that taking a perfect approach can lead to a third-game-winning kill.
Years from now, when this crazy-wonderful club volleyball experience is nothing more than a remember-when memory, nothing will have changed for me or my daughter. Even then, anything could still happen and everything will still matter.
Next Week: The Silly Cheers
Friday, March 28, 2008
Three to Get Ready #1: The Destinations
This is the first in a series of posts that provides one dad's reflections on the last three months of his daughter's club volleyball career. They will appear every Friday until the JVDA championships in Louisville, Kentucky.
In exactly three months, an up ref will whistle a play dead and signal that a volleyball has landed in or out, that someone has mishandled a set or that some other infraction has occurred. The ref will then decisively cross forearms, signaling the official end of my daughter's club volleyball career. Her team will then either leap triumphantly or shuffle to the end line and wait for the appropriate signal to begin slapping hands and saying "good game" to the opposing team.
I can see this moment coming. I'm just not sure I'm ready for it.
Well, I have three months to get ready, three months to prepare myself and hope my daughter is doing the same, three months to reflect on the things I'll never forget about club volleyball.
I'd like to start with the destinations. There's a current ad campaign that combines multiple place names into a single destination. The point is to show that our lives are moving so fast it feels as though we're everywhere at once. With a nod to that campaign, it does sometimes feel as though club volleyball has taken our family to a place that can only be called Minnesaltlantaville.
But that's not entirely accurate.
What club volleyball has actually done is to take us to many admittedly similar, but still very distinct, locations across the country, each with its own sites to see, local culture to absorb and residents to observe. And whether it's walking through Salt Lake City's Temple Square or splashing through the fountains at Atlanta's Centennial Park, the positive effect of this travel is that our family now has a fuller appreciation that Wisconsin is not the center of the universe.
This is not to slight Wisconsin or its own rich cultural traditions. It is to say that we now have a perspective that can't be easily duplicated. If it weren't for club volleyball, we would never have traveled to the outskirts of Indianapolis to see the college basketball hall of fame or the Wilbur Wright museum. We would never have visited the Alamo and reflected on the brave few who had died there. We would never have stopped in Dallas at the spot where JFK was shot. And along the way, we have had the privilege of observing and interacting with people we would never have met otherwise.
When I reflect on club volleyball, I can't help but think about these destinations. And it makes me grateful that my family has had the opportunity to visit not some fictitious place called Minnesaltlantaville, but many actual cities like Minneapolis, Salt Lake City, Atlanta and, all too soon, Louisville.
Next Week: The Third Games
In exactly three months, an up ref will whistle a play dead and signal that a volleyball has landed in or out, that someone has mishandled a set or that some other infraction has occurred. The ref will then decisively cross forearms, signaling the official end of my daughter's club volleyball career. Her team will then either leap triumphantly or shuffle to the end line and wait for the appropriate signal to begin slapping hands and saying "good game" to the opposing team.
I can see this moment coming. I'm just not sure I'm ready for it.
Well, I have three months to get ready, three months to prepare myself and hope my daughter is doing the same, three months to reflect on the things I'll never forget about club volleyball.
I'd like to start with the destinations. There's a current ad campaign that combines multiple place names into a single destination. The point is to show that our lives are moving so fast it feels as though we're everywhere at once. With a nod to that campaign, it does sometimes feel as though club volleyball has taken our family to a place that can only be called Minnesaltlantaville.
But that's not entirely accurate.
What club volleyball has actually done is to take us to many admittedly similar, but still very distinct, locations across the country, each with its own sites to see, local culture to absorb and residents to observe. And whether it's walking through Salt Lake City's Temple Square or splashing through the fountains at Atlanta's Centennial Park, the positive effect of this travel is that our family now has a fuller appreciation that Wisconsin is not the center of the universe.
This is not to slight Wisconsin or its own rich cultural traditions. It is to say that we now have a perspective that can't be easily duplicated. If it weren't for club volleyball, we would never have traveled to the outskirts of Indianapolis to see the college basketball hall of fame or the Wilbur Wright museum. We would never have visited the Alamo and reflected on the brave few who had died there. We would never have stopped in Dallas at the spot where JFK was shot. And along the way, we have had the privilege of observing and interacting with people we would never have met otherwise.
When I reflect on club volleyball, I can't help but think about these destinations. And it makes me grateful that my family has had the opportunity to visit not some fictitious place called Minnesaltlantaville, but many actual cities like Minneapolis, Salt Lake City, Atlanta and, all too soon, Louisville.
Next Week: The Third Games
Monday, March 24, 2008
New Feature Starts Friday
"Three to Get Ready" will be Cheese & Volleyball's first venture into entirely original content. Specifically, one of our editors will provide weekly reflections on his daughter's last three months of club volleyball. Since JVDAs wraps up on June 29, this Friday will mark the date that is exactly three months prior to his daughter's last club volleyball match ever. Each Friday, a new post will wrestle with the conflicting emotions associated with getting ready for this next stage in life. We hope you enjoy "Three to Get Ready." The posts themselves will not name names to keep the focus on the emotions involved, rather than on specific individuals.
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