A New Chapter: Volleyball Without My Boy
I am in the gym, waiting for the Varsity Volleyball game to begin. It’s late September. The two teams are warming up, our gym alive with energy and expectation. One player bounces the ball against the wall, warming up her fingers for setting. Others pass and serve and run. It’s well-organized chaos. They know what to do. I sit in the stands, chatting with parents. I am known as a headmistress-fan and I’ve logged many hours in this gym. The excruciating temperatures the kids endured before we added air conditioning last summer are now a faint memory. The new space gleams. Though I know he isn’t here, I scan the players, looking for my son.
My son was born on the twelfth day of my headship; when he was an infant, he napped in a bassinette my office. He went to our Early Childhood, but when it was time Kindergarten, he had to leave us since Laurel, the school I lead, is an all girls’ school. Still, in a sense, Atticus grew up in the Laurel. As a little boy, he’d get off the bus from his school, check in with me if I happened to be free. My assistant, Erin, would give him a snack, and then, most days, he’d wander over to the gym to watch the Upper School girls play volleyball and basketball. He’d hang his legs through the bars of the railing and watch. Eventually, Erica, who coached volleyball, and Tim, who coached basketball, invited him down. By ten, he was on the court, fully a head shorter than most of the girls, learning the basics of both sports. Those coaches offered him a community, and the girls welcomed him, part-mascot, part-little brother. He belonged. As the college process unfolded last fall, he and I bantered that he should write his college essay about growing up in a girls’ school.
At games, when he was little, Atticus would run in front of the fans, toting a huge stuffed gator on his back. He loved going to games and practices, keeping the stats, being part of it all. Volleyball won out over basketball as the sport he would play. As he grew, his skills increased. Last year, as his father recovered from back surgery, I went with Atticus for a weekend tournament in Columbus. I watched him serve and set and bump and kill. On the court, he was not as tall as many players, but he was a skilled communicator. He knew the game; he was encouraging of his teammates, confident, respected. Now, he’s off at college, playing club volleyball with the boys and managing the girls’ team. I remembered his first club practice when he was about twelve. The team, mostly Catholic, prayed.
“I didn’t know what to do, Mom,” Atticus said.
“So what did you do?” I asked my Jewish-Protestant son, who has spent little time in either a temple or a church.
“I just bowed my head like the other guys and looked at the floor.”
Smart boy. Last night, watching our Laurel team line up for the National Anthem, I missed being able to spot him on the bench, conferring quietly with the coaches. By the time he left for college, he was an honorary member of the coaching staff, trusted to run drills and work with players. His love of the Laurel teams who welcomed him meant I grew to love these sports, too. It’s easy for me to stop in the gym on the way home—I have to pass it to leave the building. Habits form.
in the stands, I’m a regular, raising my voice to cheer on the girls I love. “Go, Gators!” I yell. I want them to hear me.
Without Atticus to spy on, I consider this team. Vanessa, our libero, was a shy ninth grader in my English class, but now jumps straight up when she serves and is fearless as she lunges low to bump. Ninth grade Jordyn, at Laurel since she was a baby, has a serve that skims the net, effortless and lethal; Reese, new to the school this year, plays as if she is a lot taller than she is; Kayla, my advisee and outside hitter; Ana and Linden, who have both height and power; McKeely, the setter, who is everywhere at once, encouraging, supporting, the heart center of the team. Liv, Jordyn L., Sophie, Azariah. I love them all plus the JV squad and the legions of players—both basketball and volleyball—who have inhabited our gym over the past twenty years—G and Claire and the Thierry twins and Shea and Margaret and Natalie—if only briefly. In the gym—unlike the sports played on fields, I can see the players’ faces--their grins and grimaces. The immediacy appeals to me. When we miss a point, I deflate; when we ace a serve or put a shot away, so that the other team has no shot of returning it, I delight—the same is true for basketball when we miss a basket or score—such waves of feeling sweep through me. I know the other team wants to win, but I want our girls to win more!
I love our girls, love the way they “woof” in triumph after points scored, love the way the JV girls encourage them from the sidelines, “It’s okay, V! Good try,” the 9th graders yell when Vanessa misses a shot and lands on the floor. I love the team culture. We have sisters playing this year—Cia and Ana—their older sister, Delia—already graduated—they are a volleyball dynasty!
After Varsity handily dispatched their opponent in the first set, I mad my way across the parking lot, opened our back gate, and got on with making dinner.
Pictures of Atticus adorn our fridge—the day he got his license sophomore year, a picture of him at Miranda’s wedding, his final hug with Cordelia as we left him at Bowdoin. When I got back from Maine, I discovered he had left bright pink post-it notes all over the house for me: “I miss your food.” “Call me—I’m still up.” “Don’t put chili powder in the coffee.” (In my defense, I only did that once, but it has mythic status in the family). The notes made me weep and laugh. I’m proud of him for all he has accomplished, proud of him for his independence, and grateful to him for his love and care. I’m surprised he didn’t leave a post-it for me on the bleachers in the Laurel gym saying, “Go, Gators!” In a letter he wrote to me, he reminded me to remember how much I love the Laurel girls when I missed him. Obedient, I am loving them.
He is playing volleyball on a new team now, finding his way in a new gym in another state. I’m at home, missing him, but feeling lucky that he grew up with me at the school I lead and amazed that I am now—thanks to him--a sports fan.
