1 p.m.“Slab” goes the butter on what may be the most naughty side dish in all of Manhattan Beach: a muffin at the Kettle. I don’t want the muffin. I don’t need the muffin. But a girl whom I train with slid the sugarbomb my way — as irresistible to me as a bowl of peanut M&M’s at a dinner party. She told me she couldn’t pass a ball to save her life that morning in the National Volleyball League (NVL) qualifying tournament. I told her I played like s**t. Straight and to the point.
Let’s rewind…
12 p.m. “Clink” goes the first round of white wine sangrias at Simmzy’s. My partner for the day, whom we’ll call Roxy, and I practically bee-lined it from the court we lost at to our bar seats like we were committing a mid-morning walk of shame. Truth is, I did feel shame – shame for scrambling for a partner who I should’ve done well with and throwing away a golden opportunity to qualify for a 16-team main draw tournament in Baltimore.
Let’s rewind again…
9:15 a.m.
Our first match begins. A bit breezy and cold, but nothing to initiate an official, “what are we gonna do about this wind?” strategy talk. I think I even shanked that first pass. Unacceptable. As the points roll on, Roxy and I struggle to find our rhythm but manage to put the ball in the right spot and communicate our way through that first game pretty handily.
Water break. Need to be more aggressive.
Game 2 begins — then game 3. I’ve decided to clump the two together since the only thing that distinguishes them is that one happened before the other. Both were piss-poor showings of how two young bucks like Roxy and I, who are in good shape and train consistently, should be moving, defending, and executing out on the court. I hesitate to even mention my partner in this re-cap because I’m “man enough” to admit that we lost that match because of me. I was the one who didn’t pull off the net fast enough to grab the deep shot. I was the one who chose to hit angle again and again and get dug when the simple cutty would’ve earned us that point. I was the pansy.
After a disheartening tourney performance — especially in a single elimination tournament — the first thing volleyball players think about are the poor decisions and plays we wish we could take back out on the court. The second thing we think about is, “please, God, don’t make us ref this next match.” And the third thing we think about is, “beer or hard liquor?” You don’t feel like watching your peers advance in the tournament that you just tanked in and you don’t feel like going home either, so you grab a couple other players and head to a bar. In between swigs and shots you laugh and take turns talking about how badly you played. It’s a bonding experience and a coping mechanism rolled into one. It reminds you that everyone is human and makes mistakes.
Fruity drinks and muffins may have subsided my appetite for those few hours after being eliminated, but my disappointment lingered well past sunset. I was still angry for how I played with Roxy. With my performance, I wouldn’t be surprised if she ignored my name in her little black book of volleyball contacts for a while. But what angers me the most about how I carried myself in that match is that I threw away much more than just a qualifying berth. I threw away weeks of training. Week after week of dedication, sweat, and money that I can’t get back.
It’s about time I start acting like I can compete with these girls. It has become ever so clear to me that this transformation starts with my mind — my attitude — towards every workout and every competition. My friend and I were talking recently about what separates a professional from an amateur, and he said “this,” while pointing to his head. I may not be a professional volleyball player, but I can carry myself like one. I can go into every practice and every match with the mindset that I, too, sport my last name on my ass.
I know it’s just one match, and I know that the 2011 season is still just a baby, but I have to make a conscious change because I am putting too much into this dream of mine to come out the other end with a plate full of crumbs at the Kettle on a Saturday afternoon. That’s just crummy on so many levels.
Katrina Zawojski lives in Hermosa Beach and is chasing her dream of a career in professional beach volleyball. Follow her on Twitter at sandinmysuit1. ER
