Reason #5: Not starting

Grace was cleared to play on Monday.  She practiced with the team Monday night, but when the end of practice came and the team broke up into starting line ups and JV, she was on the JV side of the net.  She came home despondent and frustrated and I did not cry.  We told her to be tough, to assure her coach on the bus ride Tuesday that she was ready, and to support her team in whatever way the coaching staff felt was most appropriate.  And I didn’t cry.

Tuesday, both sets of grandparents decided not to drive the 90 minutes to the out of town game, having been assured by Grace that she likely wouldn’t play.  We were cautiously optimistic on the drive down (also humorously distracted by Chad’s insistence on finding an obscure 80s reggae song of which he knew neither the artist, nor any of the lyrics, recalling only approximately 9 vague notes.  Who has time to worry about the struggle of a precious daughter given such pressing concerns?)   When we arrived, we watched her warm up and I took this video of her slamming a practice hit into the hardwood. 

She looked ready to us (even though, against my precautions, she wasn’t wearing a brace).    She was moving well, seemed confident and eager, but it was clear that she carried a tense awareness of her body, her injured ankle, her coach, her team, her surroundings, even us in the stands.  Everything about her was on high alert.

I watched her shoulders collapse and her face turn red when her coach sent the starting lineup to the baseline for introductions.  She was not among them, and neither she nor I cried.  Not making the starting line up is not a reason to cry.  It is a reason to work hard and to dig deep.  We had expected this and such caution on the part of the coaching staff was a reason to be grateful, not resentful.  Grace had mentioned her coach saying something like “not needing her” or “not using her against this team” or something like that.  It was the reason the grandparents weren’t with us. 

I love this team, and as a former second stringer, there will always be a part of me that is grateful for opportunities like this—when younger or less talented or experienced players get to take the floor of the game they, too, spend hours practicing and perfecting.  But still.  The game began and Grace’s eyes met mine.  We both looked away quickly, not crying.  Midway through what turned out to be an unexpectedly tight first game, I saw the coaches’ heads draw together after a string of errors at the net.  The head coach’s dark head turned to look down the bench as she stood for a time out.  “Grace!” she barked (do coaches always bark when they are pulling a player off the bench?)  “Are you ready?” she demanded.  Grace’s eyes flashed fire and she leapt to her feet.  She couldn’t have been more ready. 

Her face was the most excruciating mix of excitement and fear as she stood ready to sub in that game.  I could see her wrestling her doubt into submission, bubbling with the joy of returning to the game and the team that she loves.  And she was awesome.  Fierce and focused, she played like a predator.  I could see her converting all her frustration and disappointment into discipline and motivation.  She treated every set like the last she would get.  After the game, her coach mentioned that she could almost see Grace’s brain calculating open spots on the court, movement of other players, the timing and responses of her own body.  Chad said, “It’s like the game slowed down for you,” and, in one memorable play, I watched her zero in on an opposing hitter, wait patiently, leap perfectly and roof block a powerful shot all by herself at the net.  It was an explosion of joy for her and for all of us.

I watched the team settle in and settle down with her familiar presence on the court.  When did my timid, cautious little girl become the seasoned and confident senior whose calm, focused presence and athletic prowess on the court provided the steady leadership an anxious group needed to finally take care of business and win the game?  My heart nearly burst with the pride of it, but, of course, I didn’t cry.

Watching her return to the court last night was a triumph I hope I never forget.  In the grand scheme of things, it was such a little thing—returning to an inconsequential match against an unformidable opponent after the briefest of minor injuries.  But seeing the joy in her body and her beautiful, beloved face—the way she clutched that game to her chest like a mother reunited to a child, as though something incalculably precious and valuable had been returned to her—was a moment worth savoring.  The team went on to sweep the other team, and the match ended on a fierce and fluid ace serve by none other then my brilliant first born.

I know I’m rhapsodizing a bit passionately here, but volleyball has been a bit of a lifeline for her.  It gave her a degree of self-confidence and courage I don’t know how she could have found otherwise.  It has created social opportunities and given her a network of the most wonderful people across the state.  She played against a former much loved teammate last night, and seeing her and her lovely parents was a happy moment for all of us.  And I’m an alumnae of Grace’s school and played for a similarly successful team, so I know first hand what this kind of trial and triumph can mean in the long lens of a life.  These will be some of her happiest memories in the future and they will instill in her a work ethic and a self assurance that will serve her well for decades to come.  Sitting on the sidelines reliving these moments vicariously through her has been joy upon joy.  She was phenomenal last night and I was bursting with pride for her.  But I’m not crying.  You’re crying.