There’s a collection of subjects that, upon mention, will undoubtedly make me cry. This includes my little brother, old dogs, the stress of finding a new apartment, the stress of my Portuguese class, and the situation that ended my high school volleyball career. I loved volleyball, and while I only played for no more than three and a half years, it was in those three-plus years that my mental and physical status completely matured. I learned to live with my asthma, I learned to appreciate my somewhat uncoordinated physicality, and I learned how to take and what to take from criticism. Such maturity came with a great deal of self-discipline, this is no doubt true, but it also came with the discipline and guiding hands of my incredible coaches who molded me into, if not a better athlete, a better person.

Earlier this year someone whom I played volleyball with posted an article (ironically on Odyssey) about the detrimental effects of having a coach who “had failed them.” They themselves hadn’t written the article, but instead posted it with malintent towards my coaches who had supposedly made them feel lesser and treated them unfairly. And, in response to that, I say get over yourself.

Some background:

I joined the volleyball team as a freshman. I had tried out in the eighth grade because it appeared that as a 5 foot 9 thirteen-year-old with bad asthma and a miraculously geriatric bad back, my field hockey career looked less than hopeful. I was cut, mortified, and in response decided to try, and try again. I joined the team as a freshman, slightly taller, slightly more stamina, and a whole lot of hope.

I played three times the whole season, on the freshman team, and was noted for my incredible ability to play third seat on the bench. Overall, a very unsuccessful season and, as is my sensitive nature, I spent a lot of time that season crying. I then spent the entire winter literally kicking my own ass, working through a winter program that lasted until 10 o’ clock at night sometimes, and while it was gruesome and I got hit with a lot of volleyballs, I came out a changed human. I then played third bench on the varsity team the following season, and started junior varsity. Be it because I was left handed or because I was tall, I was finally becoming a recognized member of the team, and while I did, in fact, do a lot of crying, I also did a lot of growing up.

I played in three varsity games, attended every varsity tournament, and then got joint pain in my knee from strep throat, and spent the end of the season out of commission. At the banquet, I waited anxiously for my varsity letter, for an award, for anything, and instead got a stainless steel water bottle and a series of photos taken of me with my teammates where I was literally smiling through sobbing, gross tears. Admittedly, not a good look. I walked up to my coach at the end of the night and asked him if there was anything different I could have done, what separated me from the other girl on my team who played one more game than I did (while I was out with an infection of my knee, mind you). His answer:

"You worked so hard this season, and you made so much progress, I want to see you do that again this year."

After having chucked the water bottle in my driveway (this action was followed by a great deal of regret, it severely dented the bottle and it refused to work properly post-throw, and was admittedly a very nice water bottle), and after having bawled my eyes out for hours, I accepted my fate and, apparently, a challenge. Next year, I started varsity, made the local newspaper, helped my team defeat a previously undefeated team, and had really toned calves. I know what you’re thinking:

Doria, what’s your secret?

How did you do it?

The answer is simple: I learned from my coaches. My coaches: who adjusted their coaching to meet my needs; who yelled at some of my fellow teammates but often placed a hand on my back and said,

“Doria, just calm down.”

I was spastic, this was a fact which couldn’t be ignored. And I was sensitive, so when a coach reprimanded me I often nodded and coughed back a few baby tears and then let the words replay in my mind like a broken, awful, screeching record. Criticism was my kryptonite, but I learned from what I did receive, and after working with the coaches I did, I learned to grow a little and they learned to grow with me. Suddenly they weren’t trying to correct my weird form, but work with it. They wouldn’t yell at me, because they realized that for every mistake I made I yelled at myself louder than they ever could, and anything they did was just overkill. They guided me simultaneously through volleyball-related issues and family-related issues. They taught me how to take what I learned about volleyball and apply it to real life. They taught me how to respect myself, my teammates, and to encourage others. It’s sappy and cheesy and grandly breezy, but while my mom didn’t know how to criticize me and my dad did it too often, my coaches seemed to do so in just the right amount and in just the right fashion.

“Doria, get over here.”

My coach would signal me over to the seat next to him on the bench. I was crying, and my ankle hurt, but it was only amplified by the passive aggressive tone my teammate had used with me on the court when I couldn’t hit a ball that she had blocked and failed to send back over.

“Next time, just get down and ready more. We’re working on it together, and I know it’s hard. Did you see your hit out there though? That was incredible, I don’t even know how you do it.”

He gave me his large, rough and somehow rock-like palm to low-five, and I smiled and nodded, my eyes still watery but feeling less leaky.

“Thanks coach.”

It’s these memories that bring tears to my eyes, not because I am a sap for the story of freshman benchwarmer to infamous left-handed varsity player, but because my career was soon after ended by a single word:

“Spaz.”

Yes, my senior year we got a new coach and he called me a spaz. Our new coach was an army guy who taught middle school gym and was one of those “I can say rude things because I’m American Italian and anything I say sounds funny” sort of people. My stress levels were high from work and the upcoming school year, and in the preseason his coaching methods gave me ever heightened levels of anxiety. He required I run at the same pace as everyone else (note the aforementioned severe exercise-induced asthma that had once haunted my freshman self). And, of course, I did, but my throat nearly closed up every time I did so. And after having explained to him three times that I was asthmatic and receiving an absent-minded apology, he continued to single me out when I stopped in the middle of rigorous cardio to catch my breath.

“Some of you guys are really out of shape, but I’m gonna fix that.”

When I played, he disregarded me entirely. And it’s not that I require attention to receive gratification, but I was being completely thrown out of my comfort zone and played in positions that felt both uncomfortable and obsolete for my skill set. And despite what I continued to tell myself time and time again, it made me feel small and unimportant. When he did address me, it was to point out my gangly disposition and poor coordination.

“It’s hilarious, you look like one of those giant noodle people outside of car dealerships. We gotta get that figured out.”

Suddenly my past coaching had taken a complete 360 back to square one, and with the single use of the word spaz, I went into my car and had an anxiety attack, realizing that every day I spent with this guy was eating away at my esteem and making me more and more uncomfortable with myself. I quit two days later, stating that I was hoping to audition for the fall play and decided that such a thing outweighed another year of volleyball. And so, to that girl I mentioned earlier who posted about our previous coaches ruining the high school sports experience for her, who had quit the team before she was introduced to Coach (or, should I say, Sergeant?) Insensitive, you truly have absolutely no idea what you had when you had it.

School sanctioned sports are a whole lot like life: you win some, you lose some, you learn your flaws and skills, you learn about yourself along the way, and most importantly you come to realize that you can’t do it alone. I was lucky to have, if not for my whole life but for three years, an incredible support system: a giant man who often sported a hilarious tie-dyed t-shirt and used to speak in grandiose metaphors that put smiles on my face for a whole slew of reasons; who gave the best high-fives known to mankind; a woman whose courage and hard work could hardly be ignored when she, at over the age of sixty with a double hip replacement and a double mastectomy was still rocking a two piece swimsuit and physically kicking my behind; and a coach named Espo who taught me a whole lot about life, family, and where to find passion and intensity within myself, and how to catch grapes in my mouth like a pro.

Every time I go running, every time I feel panicked or rushed or I’m overcome with the anxiety of a situation, I still hear the voice of my coach:

Just breathe, two breaths in through the nose, one through the mouth. It’s proven science.