The only explanation I could find for their slow start was that it was simply too early in the morning. After an hour-and-a-half drive across the state for only their second-ever playoff game, fatigue and nerves seemed to catch up with them. As the first set began and the score tilted the wrong way, a few parents in the crowd voiced, “They just haven’t woken up yet.” Then, just like that, they flipped a switch. A couple of breaks, an ace here and there, and suddenly they were back in it.

They came up short in the first set, losing by only a few points, but the rally gave them new energy. In the second set, they never trailed. Now it was tied, and everything came down to a third and final set. Here’s the part about volleyball that still confuses me: the first two sets go to 25, but the third only goes to 15 (at least at the middle school level). That shorter finish made me nervous—momentum and nerves can swing everything in just a handful of points.

We started tight again, even after winning the previous set. The score went back and forth like a heavyweight match. Their opponent had been here last year and fallen in this same semifinal round. They’d also driven farther, near the Alabama line to the South Carolina border, so they understood the grind and were hungry for redemption.

For our girls, this season was already a fairy tale. After two years without a single win, they’d gone 8–2 in league play, losing only to one powerhouse team. That same team sat in the other playoff bracket—meaning if we both won, we’d face them in the championship. But first, we had to get past this battle.

One of the things I love most about our team is the way the parents rally, too. Throughout each set, the girls motioned to us in the stands to get louder. We matched the other crowd cheer for cheer. I couldn’t sit still—I literally stood the entire match, too nervous and excited to stay in my seat. Every time Olivia touched the ball or served, I held my breath. She made it look easy, almost casual, walking up to the line as if nerves didn’t exist for her.

Finally, it came down to the last few points. We trailed 13–14, but it was our serve. Keep it inbounds, avoid mistakes, that’s all we needed. But the ball sailed wide. Our entire crowd let out a groan as the match ended. Tears welled up as the girls shook hands, reluctant to leave the court, as if stepping off would confirm the Cinderella run was over.

On the sidelines, a few dads and I waited quietly. “Man, that was a tough loss,” one said, speaking for all of us. We overheard the girls consoling each other, reminding themselves how far they’d come. One tried to downplay it, maybe as a shield against the sting. I couldn’t help stepping in with a reminder. First of all, we’re so proud of how far you all have come and how hard you’ve worked to get here. And yes, we play to win. But, remember this feeling and use it to make you better, not bitter.

That’s a hard lesson, but one I hope they carry forward. Even the team that beat us didn’t win it all; they lost in the championship. And the only other team that beat us this season? They lost their semifinal too. It looks like we all now have unfinished business.

As a parent, it’s tough to watch your child pour their heart into something and come up short. But it’s even sweeter to walk alongside them as they pursue their hero’s journey. This season I saw Olivia grow into a fiery, vocal team leader (I wonder where she gets that from). I saw her put in the hours to sharpen her skills, even as an undersized player. I’ll take a determined Olivia every day of the week—and twice on Sunday—because I know she’ll find a way to get it done.

And I can’t wait to see what she brings to the court next year.

SDW3