𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕣 °°° 𝕙𝕢 𝕗𝕒𝕟𝕗𝕚𝕔

001- notebooks

middle school nationals
final round
23 2 19

it was safe to say that we were going to win. however, i was never the cocky type, and learned from a young age that...

"anything is possible, as long as you are willing to pay the price."

volleyball—or any sport for that matter—is pretty simple. there are rules applied to each game, usually involving how the ball is used. once the rules are memorized, it's never forgotten. like riding a bike, perhaps. but what makes volleyball so special, is the amount of time you spend face to face to your opponent. the only thing separating you is a flimsy net that have holes big enough to see right through.

this allows for mental games to be played.

the human brain is a beautiful, yet such a stupid thing. it doesn't matter how big and strong you are. anyone can be brought down through the manipulation of that one organ "protected" by the skull.

making eye contact for a second too long.
a slight twitch of the lips.
moving your ankle to the side.
a change in posture.
calling out meaningless signals.

simple things that could cause any volleyball player to overthink. and right when they think they've got you figured out...

24 2 19

game point. i made a spike that resulted in our school and supporting chanting our school motto. my teammates give me the usual low five and i smile in return. i look back in front of me to see the opponent bewildered by my previous actions. unfortunately for her, she was over calculating my various body movements and got fooled. her teammates rub her back saying "it's not over yet." involuntarily, i smirk at them and look back into the crowd.

father dearest. sporting his usual stoic face. he gives me a glance, and then scribbles something in his notebook.

as there are rules to playing a sport, there are also rules to being the daughter of a volleyball olympic gold medalist.

if he wrote something into that notebook, you did something wrong.

he's been doing this for every score or block that i've made. all of which, i've done flawlessly. i hide the confusion in my face and turn back to my opponents.

the ball's served into the air and does some back and forth, as the loosing team starts to feel the pressure a bit too late. finally, the setter sets it to me and i jump into the air.

as the sounds of the court drown out, a mental stopwatch starts. i look at the blockers that are in front of me. there's a spot where i can spike. i smile at the thought of the oh so familiar sound of the volleyball slamming against the floor. i recoil my hand to make impact, way too quick for the blockers to change their movements to block mine.

then, all i see is his face. my dad's face. eyes judging me. i can imagine them burning holes into my skull. how is my posture? is my hand making the right shape?

how much longer can i keep doing this?

i've already lost count of my mental stopwatch. i have to do something. now. i'm already in position to spike. is that too noticeable? what does dad think? i don't have enough time to look over and check. maybe... a feint.

as much as playing mental games with your opponents seem to put you at an advantage, they seriously take a toll on you.

it takes about 1.7 seconds for me to land on the ground. 1.7 agonizing seconds, as for the first time today, i am not sure how our opponents will react to my actions. i seem to fall with the ball in slow motion. the blockers make the usual eye widening face and slowly start to turn their heads behind them.

i cleared the wall. what about the back row?

three people start to dive at the ball simultaneously. just as my feet touch the floor...

25 2 19

the ball does the same.

the ball bounces a few times, echoing in the completely silent court. at my position, i have a great view, looking down at the people who foolishly tried to dive for the ball, laying on the floor like babies in the sand. they look up at me, still reeling back from their inevitable defeat. i remembered how they were chanting in the hallways about how they were going to win. well, look how that ended.

"good game."

i say, monotoned as ever, before the ref blows the whistle and the crowd goes manic. my teammates rush up to me squealing and jumping. i plaster on a smile, replacing the previous stoic look that i had. i didn't know what i felt in that moment. relieved? tired? yeah, tired. not physically. mostly mentally.

i make the mistake of looking back into the stands.

...

just to see him write something in that damned notebook.
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