The Real Warriors

My photo

My photo

My photo

The bright white fluorescence of the gym lights blinds me as I step inside. Following Coach Mary and John, we file in through the purple double doors. We are on the top level; below us two sides of bleachers surround the court like an amphitheater. The white lights reflect off of the it’s shiny wooden beams. The gym is quiet. We are early–it’s only five and the game’s at 7. Mary overestimated traffic, as usual. We are the only one’s there.

I’m sleepy. The 45 minute car ride made me drowsy. I have to wake up; to get ready.

17 pairs of thumping shoes reverberate the hollow silence as we trot down the purple stairs. A line of marching grey shirts, bobbing backpacks, black spandex, and white knee pads, making our way down to the court. Our line becomes a shifting mass as we walk across the court to the “away” side–some of us walk around, others cross under the net, jabbering and laughing, not focused yet. I walk around the white ref stand, eyes up, reading the purple banners hanging along the far wall. They tell of past legacies: the one I’m looking at is titled, “Women’s Volleyball SCIAC Champions.” Under it is a single year: 2009. Tonight’s game decides who is going on to the SCIAC tournament, and who’s season is over. This is it. 

We line up our black Mizuno bags behind the row of plush folding chairs: the bench. There’s a squeaky roar of zippers as we all get out our maroon and white uniforms–our away jerseys. We drape them over the backs of the chairs; number 11 mine reads.

11 was my high school number. I started in high school games, so maybe if I was number 11 again I’d get to play in college. That’s what I hoped, but I’d yet to be proven correct.

Mary calls “Ok girls, let’s start warming up at 50!” I look up at the blinking scoreboard, hanging on the far wall back by the door we entered through: “51 minutes and 12 seconds;” the seconds tick down. We have one minute. I pull my ponytail tighter, walking to the end line. Large painted black eyes meet mine from the bleachers. The purple face of the Poet mascot is painted over a section of the wooden bleachers–I hadn’t noticed it until now. And now it stares at us, menacing; like even it wants to beat us. The clock reads “51 minutes and 5 seconds.” 51 minutes and 5 seconds till game time. 

I know I probably won’t play tonight; I haven’t played at all this year, or last year. But I have to warm up as if I might. Tonight we need everyone: starters and nonstarters. A win starts with me; it starts with all of us.

We line up, facing the net. Everyone’s quiet now. It’s time to focus. Five, four, three, two, one the electric clock blinks. “Ok, go!” Mary yells. In unison we run towards the net, our thumping shoes echoing in the silence.

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The clock counts down–14 minutes left. The bouncing of balls thumps through the gym, interweaving with the blaring of Ciara’s “One, Two Step.” Our warm up is almost over. We’ve thrown, hit, served, and passed the blue and white leather balls until, like us, they glistened with sweat. We’ve dove along the smooth wooden floor boards; sprinting, gliding, and chasing–even for balls we know we won’t be able to save. I’m breathing hard, my gray shirt dotted with misshapen patches of dark sweat. I’m working just as hard as the starters. It’s hard to warm up and then just stand on the side–but I do it anyway. 

“Ok girls, put your jerseys on!” We sprint off the court; sweat drips down my neck. My heart thumps deep and fast in my chest. We run in a herd; snatching our jerseys from the bench and running out the back door to change. Outside it’s cool and crisp, almost dark. The sun has set and the sky above me is a dark violet blue. A few pinkish streaks hover above the rooftops, framed by the branches of trees. I pull off my sweaty shirt, wiping my headband off too. I tug on my tight long-sleeved jersey, and put the headband back in place. Everyone is talking loud and at once. “Ok guys, let’s win!” “Yeah we gotta play like we want it!” “We got this game!”

We run back inside for our pre-game huddle. The gym looks new, intimidating. Fans in black Whittier shirts trickle in from the doors above. Whittier’s side has at least forty; a dark cloud of black t-shirts. Chapman’s side is almost empty; six parents in white and red dot the left side of the stands. Gotta love the home team advantage.

Skrillex’s angsty pump-up “Get Out of Your Mind” screams over the speakers, the chatter of the crowd mingling with the dub step, making it hard to hear Mary. She’s saying how she doesn’t remember the last time we beat Whittier at home. “But don’t let the crowd phase you. Let’s just play our game,” John adds. Our sweaty arms are draped around each other; our bodies tense with anticipation, eyes and ears focused. “Just do our jobs girls. This game is ours girls, now let’s go out and get it.” We cheer and put our hands in.

I look around the huddle. In this moment, I feel connected, needed–like I’m really a part of the team. It feels better than standing on the side, watching–what I know I’m about to do. Here in the huddle, we are all equals. But we are equals in the game too. I have to remember that on the side, I am just as needed. They need me to make the starters feel encouraged, excited–to believe that we can do this. And I can do that; I will do that. It’s hard–pouting is easier–but I can do it. I smile; I do my job. Mary calls out the familiar “Chapman on three: one, two, three!” We yell “CHAPMAN!” our hands flying in the air.

We all run out to the court together, then separate. Starters stand on the end line; nonstarters stand on the side. The excitement builds as the glowing scoreboard counts down. Ten seconds left. Whittier walks out, matching in white jerseys. The crowd hushes, looking down in anticipation. 

The starters stand tall with excitement. The nonstarters look on. But even though only 6 of us are on the court, we need the whole team. Individuals don’t win games; teams do. It takes all of us.

According to Dr. Allen Goldberg, Sports Performance Consultant, “It’s not the starters that are the real warriors on a given team.” It’s hard; it’s a fight; it’s an internal war. As sports psychologists Robert J. Rotella and Douglas S. Newburg from the University of Virginia note, “After a while, sitting on the bench chips away at your confidence…It is hard to keep thinking you could play when continually cut down and told you are not good enough.” The bench tests you, and can break you.

Or you can rise above it.

Rotella and Newburg continue with, “commitment must be strong in order to endure those times when playing time is simply not available. Understanding this commitment can not only help an athlete enjoy his or her sports experience more but it can also teach invaluable lessons.” Being on the bench is like a mirror; its self-reflective. It will teach you about yourself. It will show you how mentally tough you are. It will show you if you’re in it for yourself, or if you’re in it for the team. It will show you if you are a real warrior. It will show you if you can, as Coach George Raveling says, “‘believe in,’ ‘trust in’ and then ‘buy in’ to [your] role.” It will show you if you love the sport so much that you are willing to give up the glory; that you are willing to take the selfless job, and make it glorious.

It’s not easy, but it’s why I play. It’s why I don’t quit. It’s who I am. 

The stands are quiet. The electric numbers flicker above from four, to three, to two, to one…”BEEEEEEPPPP!” The timer goes off. Game time. The announcer says, “Welcome to tonight’s SCIAC match: the Whittier Poet’s versus the Chapman Panther’s!” The crowd applauds and cheers. I smile. It’s time.

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Analysis

The two pieces I was most inspired by were “There and Back Again: A Comic-Con Tale” by Hannah Lajba, and “The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America” by Mike McIntyre. Both these authors use descriptive techniques that I mimicked, and evolved for my own use.

Hannah Lajba is very descriptive; describing the attendees of the place more than the place itself. Her physical description of people is brief, but effective: “As soon as I arrive in artist alley, I see a familiar redhead with a bow, and we make awkward nerd eye-contact, it’s sporadic and uneasy.” Yet her descriptions of the characters as they relate to their corresponding stories is very in-depth: “That pale orc, Azog the Defiler, that very orc who killed Thor…” In other words, the author uses brevity in physical description to compensate for her lengthy character descriptions. This emphasis on characters rather than place suits comic-con as the physical place (I’m assuming a typical convention center) would not be nearly as important to the author to describe as the characters themselves. She also does not bother thoroughly explaining each character she describes, and rather tosses the reader into the lingo and culture of the space; something I tried to do with volleyball culture in my piece. Yet unlike Lajba, I wanted to focus more on the physical place: Whittier’s gym. A description of the other team or my teammates would not have been as powerful as focusing on the place itself; the gym and the thoughts that I have while I’m there, are the focus of the piece. Regardless, I tried to suit her detailed narration and description techniques to the needs of my piece, as she does.

In his piece “The Kindness of Strangers: Penniless Across America,” Mike McIntyre also uses descriptive techniques that I try to mimic. McIntyre sets up exploration of this new place well with his detailed description of his surroundings in the very beginning: “My head throbs from hunger and heat as I wilt on the side of a country road in northern California…The summer sun tattooing my face suggests hitchhiking inside a microwave oven…It’s 1994. This is America. Land of the free and home of the serial killer.” This is a masterful description as it situates the reader in the piece’s primary location–the open road–while also defining the context, and the overarching themes of the place: exposure, isolation, and fear of the unknown. After reading this initial description, the reader is well-prepared to co-embark on this journey of place. I try to combine my description of space with the themes of piece as well. I try to be very descriptive in writing about the gym, while also incorporating my larger theme of the predicament of a bench warmer; making for a nuanced, dynamic piece like that of McIntyre.