Rally
Rally
We are in the gym early, an hour before the first serve, with our opponents, the International School of Bangkok (ISB), nowhere to be seen. That was the nature of the Singapore American School boys' volleyball team, a culture carried over decades of our school history. The program valued an almost militant-like sense of professionalism, conduct, and discipline, both on the court and off the court. It was a bit excessive, particularly considering that we were a low-level volleyball team in the middle of Southeast Asia, playing against other Southeast Asian schools. But our hope was that when our team’s ability faltered, our culture would triumph. The hours of discipline before the game would bring us through a difficult moment.
As we walk into the gym, we put our game-faces on, or at least attempt to. I try to look a bit more serious to fit in with my junior and senior counterparts, but inside, my sophomore self was jumping for joy. It is not every day that you get to play in an IASAS (Interscholastic Associate of South Asian Schools) volleyball semifinal, much less as early as sophomore year. Our setter, Reid, leads us into the locker room on the side of the gym, telling the coaches to give the players a moment alone. Reid has played an amazing tournament thus far, playing every point and seldom putting a foot wrong.
The locker room is a crowded place, with barely enough room for each of us to stand. Reid sets up a phone on top of one of the lockers, signaling us to come closer. “Watch,” he says.
The video begins. It takes me a while to recognize the person speaking, but the returners on the team know in an instant; it is James Soutendijk, the former captain of the volleyball team that placed 4th in the IASAS championships last year. I can see his college dorm room in the background with its lofted beds and small cupboards. He stresses how much he regrets their 4th place finish and how much he misses the feeling of playing IASAS volleyball. As he tells us about the pain he felt last year, I can see the pain reflected on my returning teammates’ faces. Our primary middle blocker, Luke, a 200 pound 6’4 machine, is in tears. Crying before a game starts certainly does not bode well for its outcome. For my upperclassmen teammates, this game meant redemption for last year. Losing is not an option, because moments like this only come around once per year and fleet after high school. It is what makes competitive sports entertaining; there is a sense of desperation for every player because they do not know when they will get their next chance.
As we take the court for warmups, the emotions carry over. Some of my teammates are still emotional and it reflects in our warmup routine. Our star outside hitter, Gabe, is not flooring the balls like he usually does. Our power hitter, Justin, does not have the rhythm today that we have grown accustomed to. And myself, I just cannot seem to get powerful swings in through the middle. Over the tournament, we had grown accustomed to winning games by a landslide; we had only dropped one set in all our five round robin matches and routed our semifinal opponents, ISB, easily in our last game. As a result, even though we were disciplined and, in the gym early, we are overconfident and believe victory will naturally come our way.
As we move on to warmup serves, I feel the grooves of the ball before I make my toss. The grooves always give me a sense of security because I know they remain the same regardless of the situation, even in a gym that feels so different. The gym is hot; most of us are already in a full sweat, our jerseys sticking to our bodies amidst the slow flow of air conditioning. There is also a panel of horizontal windows lining the top edge of the gym, just above the championship banners, facing me as I line up the serve. It is 8am in the morning, with the sun just starting to creep out of the clouds, and its glare shines strongly through the window panels. This is a clear design flaw; the light through the windows blinds those on the opposite side of the court, indirectly granting the opponent an advantage for the first plays of the game. Our libero and right-side, Minsuk and Victor, immediately notice the glaring sunlight. They are our passing specialists, performing a thankless but crucial job for our team; without their passes, there are no sets, and there are no attacks.
ISB has not arrived at the gym yet, so Minsuk signals us to go to the bench. “Let’s switch sides. The light isn’t doing us any favors,” he claims. We scurry to our bags by the bench and non-chalantly walk over to the other side. We return to the court and continue with our service routine. As I get ready to toss the ball, I see the far corner gym doors opening, directly opposite the sunlight. ISB enters the arena with a certain air of confidence about them, which I did not see from them in the round robin. They look up around the gym, noticing the crowd, banners, and eventually fixating their eyes on the horizontal window panels facing the court. They know what we have done; the light is so glaring that it makes our actions obvious. The ISB captain, George Condra, signals Reid over. They mumble something to each other and shake hands. Reid points back to our previous bench, so we ship our bags over to their original position.
I unleash one final practice serve, with the ball kissing the opposite baseline on its way to the floor. Coach Bildfell, our coach, gestures us to give way for ISB to begin their warmups. Coach Bildfell is a disciplinarian; his stewardship of the program is what paved the way to instill the prized culture the volleyball program carries forward. He is a man of few words, but when he talks, we listen, and when he does not, we have done something wrong.
We embrace in a huddle, interlocking our arms with one another. “Focus. These moments only come around occasionally, so make use of your opportunities when you have them. Write your own stories,” Coach Bildfell remarks. There is a bit of apprehension in his voice; he knows our warmup could have gone a bit better, but it is not the right occasion to cause alarm as the game has not started. Reid and Minsuk say a few more words, but my head keeps drifting out of the huddle and onto the court where ISB is warming up. They look in a terrific form, a transformed team from the group we played in the round robin. This makes for a weird concoction of emotions; I am overconfident, nervous, and excited all at once.
The referees whistle and we take the court for the sixth time in this IASAS tournament. Our starting lineup takes the floor: our outside hitters Gabe and Justin, our setter Reid, our right-side Victor, our libero Minsuk, our middle hitters Luke and I, all focus on the task ahead of us. We huddle together once more, echoing the messages Bildfell gave us. Shortly after, I step off the court, giving way for Minsuk in our first rotation.
The game starts with ISB leading off the serve; he places a nasty float, drifting into the far-right corner of the court. Minsuk receives on the hands, placing a perfect pass into Reid’s hands. Reid sets a quick set down the middle, with Luke eager to contact. This has been a combination that has worked seamlessly for us all tournament. Luke swings hard. Hard.
Net. We are down 0-1. The set is to 25 points, and we are only one point in, but something does not feel right. Maybe it is the carryover of the emotions from the video Reid played in the locker room.
ISB serve again. It is another float, drifting into the middle of the court. Victor takes it on the forearms, but it is not in Reid’s hands. He shanks the pass out, and we are now down 0-2. I am helplessly watching on the sidelines, eager for our next point to be won. I know my being in the game would not make that much of a difference, but I hope we can get it together.
Points pass. Reid and Gabe rally together a few combinations, but ISB seems to return most of our attacks. Their star outside, Lucas Wilson, is having a great game as well, ruthlessly attacking the ball against our weak block. Their setter, Kaden Bernhard, is also smooth with his hands, and has a great connection with their middle hitter. We cannot figure out their timing, and they are able to penetrate our block easily. In addition, the dreaded sun keeps flashing into our player’s eyes, blinding us from stringing together any meaningful attacks. We get bounced in the first set and find ourselves down 0-1.
Volleyball is a kind-hearted yet ruthless sport. In basketball or soccer, if you perform a violation, the other team gets the ball. In volleyball, a violation costs a point, worth the same amount as a powerful spike down the line. In other sports, the game is not stratified; there is always a chance to mount a comeback at any point in a basketball game. In volleyball, once a set is concluded, you cannot get it back; you find yourselves in an uphill battle once again, and psychologically, this messes with your thinking.
We are down 0-1. In the huddle, we look into each other’s eyes but barely talk; we know we cannot lose this next set, and we do not need words to substantiate our intentions. As I take the court for the second set, I lie to myself to justify our voiceless huddle. I tell myself it is because of our hyper focus in the moment; but in truth, it is because we are out of our depth, and we do not know what to do.
The second set starts, and it is more of the same, if not worse. The sun is not in our eyes anymore, but our thinking is still blinded. Everything is going right for our opponents; digs are coming up out of nowhere, blocks are landing just within the bounds of the court, and their spikes are seamlessly bypassing our blocks. I look up at the scoreboard. 10-7. There is still time left in the set, but I already see us losing. Not only the set, but the game. I am wincing, wishing I trained a bit harder or jumped a little higher to not let my teammates down. We keep putting in effort to our points, but our spirit seems broken; we are not playing with the vigor and confidence we had grown to cultivate during the tournament. We lose the set and now find ourselves down 0-2 in a best of 5.
We switch sides once again, gathering on our original bench. The crowd around the stadium is going crazy; it is always fun to see a no 1. seeded team go down. The ISB team is ecstatic, hugging one another and fist-bumping as they refuel for the third set. I look over to the crowd and see our fans; they look stunned, unable to comprehend the events that have just taken place. I tilt my head back into the huddle and look around once more; I see more of the same faces. I want to say something, but I am only a sophomore, so I catch my words, afraid that I will mess it up for all of us.
I look around again, and I see Minsuk, our libero, smiling. With all due respect, he has played a mediocre game, as have most of us. And we are on the verge of being knocked out from the tournament. Our heads all tilt towards him in a state of confusion; why, with nothing to be happy about, is our captain smiling?
“The game is in our heads. Be happy and play,” Minsuk claims. The huddle ends immediately afterwards, and we take the court once more. And somehow, Minsuk’s smile transferred to the rest of our faces, and we take the court invigorated. The ISB players look confused as we face them; they cannot understand why a team down 0-2 could be happy to be in this position. But we know.
The third set begins. Reid serves a nasty float to the deep corner of the court, forcing ISB to return a free ball. Minsuk takes it perfectly on the hands, allowing Reid to set his signature outside set. Gabe stands over the ball and destroys it, bypassing the block. We scream, smile, all with only being up 1-0 in the third set. As the set passes, it is more of the same. The sun is in our eyes once again, but for some reason, we can see a little better. It is brightening up the passing corridors, guiding our spikes, and heating up our serves. Justin is destroying the ball, meaning both of our outside hitters are firing. This makes the game much easier, and with each point, we gain momentum. The ISB confusion we saw at the beginning of the set remains on their faces. We rally, bouncing back to a 1-2 match.
We scurry back over to the other side of the court, although this time with visibly more excitement. The crowd is getting into it as well; I hear our crowd chirping for the first time this game, drowning out the loud ISB cheers that rung throughout the first sets. We take the court, battle-hardened and determined. We are down 1-2, but psychologically, it feels like we are up. I look over the other side, and ISB still maintains that confused look. But we keep smiling.
As the set begins, I can tell it is going to be Gabe’s set. We keep feeding him, and he keeps destroying the ball. He is playing aggressive but smart; he knows where the block is, and Reid’s sets are setting him up perfectly. We jump to a 10-5 lead. I am still waiting for my first kill of the game, and I signal Reid, hoping that he would take pity on a lowly sophomore. Next play, he sets. I fob the hit, deflecting the ball just over the next but with limited power. The ball deflects back up once again, and this time I do not leave it to chance; I destroy the ball into the far corner. We destroy the set, coming back to a 2-2 tie.
We transition back to our original side for the final set. The gym is going wild, filled to the brim with fans on either side, as well as neutrals who have come to watch a phenomenal volleyball game. In the huddle, I can barely make out what Coach Bildfell is saying over the raucous cheers of supporters. I think to myself: how lucky am I? I pinch myself because I do not know the next time, I will be in a situation so communally important.
As the set begins, ISB plays cautiously. We maintain our aggression from the previous two sets, feeding off each other’s momentum. This strategy is risky; it causes us to risk losing points but grants us energy and a psychological advantage over our opponents. Justin is killing the ball this set, a statement of intent. I can tell he wants the game to finish, and he does not want to leave anything down to chance. Each of his hits has a certain aura surrounding them, too powerful for our opponents to even attempt a return. Victor is playing fabulously as well, shutting down ISB’s hitter Lucas Wilson who had caused us so much damage in the first two sets. It is like poetry in motion; we are playing fearlessly, excited for each point and bringing the game down to its simplest level, worrying about the task rather than the end result. From the net, I look back at Minsuk; he is still smiling. I can tell we are going to win, quietly confident.
We reach the end of the set, and we find ourselves up 14-13. The final set in volleyball is played to 15, meaning a point would take us over the edge. ISB serves, penetrating our defense. Minsuk takes it on the hands again, placing it into Reid’s hands. Reid sets it, giving Justin a way to make his mark. Justin hammers it, deflecting the ISB block and sailing into the court. 15-13. Game.
The fans storm the court, and I run over to hug Justin. As I look around, there are such moments of elation and joy; my teammates are crying, my friends are screaming, and Coach Bildfell has a cheeky smile to himself. I do not really understand what has just happened; coming back from 0-2 to win a semifinal 3-2 is not something which happens every day, and I am happy to be there. I look over to Minsuk once again, and he is still smiling. We rush over to shake our opponents' hands.
Epilogue
Even though this moment was five years ago, the comeback against ISB still holds a special place in our hearts. Many of my teammates are now working jobs, some are still in college, and Coach Bildfell has left the school. No matter how far removed we are from that moment, we all still think about that game for some time every year and text our group chat to remind each other. At the time, I did not know that game would be one of my last competitive volleyball games as the COVID-19 pandemic hit just after, curtailing most of my high school volleyball career. But I count myself lucky to be in that moment, to become part of something bigger than myself for a short while, even if I did not have another opportunity. This is the power of sports; no matter how inconsequential a game is, like this low-level high school volleyball match in Southeast Asia, it can leave an indelible impact on those involved. I will always have a special bond with my teammates because of our shared lived experience, and for that, I am forever grateful to sports.
Comments
Post a Comment