I started playing volleyball when I was in third grade. I fell in love with the game instantly. I fell in love more and more after every practice and game. I remember my coaches and family telling me I had a natural talent, and the pride I felt with every compliment. I remember wanting to get better and better every day, and what seemed like never-ending determination. I remember practicing constantly, with a volleyball glued to my hip. I begged and pestered my brother to pass back and forth with me in the front yard, then yelled at him for setting incorrectly. I loved the game and the game loved me back.
My very first coaches were a duo that included my friend’s mom, who knew a lot about volleyball and taught me all the basics I needed, and my mom, who liked to think she contributed a lot of valuable information, but actually was just a comic relief (sorry, mom). I laughed at every practice. I had great coaches for most of my volleyball career. They inspired me to improve. They made practice fun, maybe not the same kind of fun as in third grade, because now sprints were more common, but I always looked forward to it. Thank you to all of the coaches that loved the game just as much as I did, and never wanted to squash that love.
But I had some not-so-great coaches, too. Some coaches cared so much about winning that we were destined to constantly lose. I had coaches that had obvious favorites and lost focus of the whole team, coaches who spilled negative words and never took a moment to reflect on the good, coaches who tainted every positive experience with yelling, and coaches who cared about petty things. And I had coaches that ruined the game for me. I think my love for the game officially died when I asked my coach a question about a drill I didn’t understand, and she looked at me with hatred and answered with an eye roll.
To the bad coaches I’ve had in my life, I would like to say this: The disrespect you showed me did not make me better. Treating me like a child and an idiot didn’t make me work harder. Your humiliation made me hide deeper within myself and forced me further away from my “family.” Living in constant fear didn’t make us a team, it made us resentful. Leaving tournaments in tears made me ache. Your harsh words and personal attacks made me go through the motions emotionless, just trying not to make you mad. With every practice and game with you, my love for the game diminished. I no longer begged my brother to pass with me in the front yard. My natural talent was covered up by my fear of failing. My volleyball unglued from my hip, and my love for the game was squashed.
Positivity doesn’t make weak players. Laughter doesn’t make unfocused players. Kindness doesn’t lessen the competitiveness. All these things would’ve made me respect you more, and play harder. Please don’t kill another player’s love for the game.
