A missing sock sealed the deal for me.
I can’t recall if it was striped or polka-dot. At the time the distinction was important, as families of my 12-year-old daughter’s club volleyball team had fallen into two camps: The Stripes versus The Dots. Camp Stripe wanted the team to wear green-striped knee-highs while The Dots fought for quarter-sized polka-dots. And these were the parents. Then a player’s sock went missing pre-game, resulting in a mother accusing another parent of conveniently losing the legwear so the team would have to resort to those “awful other ones.” It was the Sock Saga of 2009, the same year a group of coaches and parents decided there had to be a better way.
So we started another volleyball club. We had high hopes and expectations. Our club would be centered on the players’ needs with sensibility toward keeping the club affordable, accessible and, oh yeah, fun. We met after hours in a borrowed conference room drafting by-laws and policies while the girls peppered volleyballs with some of the coaches outside in the parking lot. We borrowed everything really: each other’s skills, offices, equipment, uniforms and gyms.
Our first season started off on the cheap. The teams stayed miles away from the tournament site in inexpensive hotels that served runny-egg buffets at 5:30 a.m. so our players could make the 7 a.m. start time. Worn knee pads and jerseys were often shared among teams to minimize expenses. And we stuck together, racing across convention centers to cheer on each other at different matches as long-suffering siblings waited for the promise of ice cream dots sold in the lobby.
At the end of each day, parents, coaches and friends pooled dollars together for pizza in the hotel lobby. Afterward, we numbly retreated to our rooms so we could wake up at 5 a.m. the next morning and do the same thing all over again. We were earnest with our dreams while naïve to the prospect of starting a competitive venture. And this blind optimism paid off.
The club did well that first season, placing third in the nation for one of our teams. Subsequent years added a few national championships to the trophy case (which, of course, was donated). Our club coach has since won several state championships, too, fostering an explosion of youth volleyball popularity in this region.
Most importantly, our daughters not only grew leaps and bounds as athletes, but also as dedicated team players and friends, looking out for each other on and off the court.
And they had fun. Lots of it.
So did we, their parents/tournament chauffeurs/club board members/fundraisers/by-law creators.
Were we spared sock-level sagas? Heavens, no! Whenever two or more adults come together in the name of youth activities, drama will follow. Our club was no different, though we tried to find compromise and remember why we started the darn thing to begin with.
In time, our club merged with the previous one. Our daughters are now in college, some playing for Division I universities. Sometimes, I click on social media to see how the college players are doing. They are no longer pre-teen girls figuring out rotations mid-game. Parents and coaches no longer juggle rented gyms and equipment.
Yogi Berra reportedly once said, “Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.”
No, but I miss the heartening first season when organic camaraderie fostered the start of something new, untested and exciting.
And I even miss the socks that inspired it.