My dodgeball team had its playoffs tonight. We did not, by any means, win. In fact, we lost fairly fantastically. But I’ll tell you something: I am way better at dodgeball now than I was when I first played at the start of the season. Like, way better. Not by any means good, mind you — I still get pegged in the face with an embarrassing level of regularity — but I feel a lot more in control and useful than I did when I first played. I feel like I kinda sorta understand the game, and the strategy, and my arm is getting much stronger. I have less fear about the whole thing, and more focus. And I wasn’t even trying to get better at dodgeball. I was just dragging my ass to that gym every Thursday night for the cardio and the camaraderie. I could not possibly have taken it less seriously. But somehow, just by putting one foot in front of the other every week, I got better at dodgeball. Markedly better.
It’s just so rarely that I stick with things I’m not instantly good at — I forget that there’s the possibility of improvement. I forget it every single time. I wander around the world with this idea that if I’m not instantly good at something, I should give up on it.
I remember when I first played volleyball, at school, in the fifth grade. I was not good at it. I was, actually, way worse than most of the other girls at my ridiculously-athletic-girl school. I was mortified. I hated not being good at something. I was good at all the other sports — my father had been training me in baseball, basketball and soccer since I could walk — and I was not used to being athletically disinclined. I came home in tears. “The other girls have had practice at volleyball,” he said. “It’s the first time you’ve played. All you need is practice.” I didn’t believe him. I was too busy crying. “We will go to the gym and practice volleyball every day,” he told me. “We’ll do it until you’re as good as the other girls.”
And that’s exactly what we did. Every day after school, my father would take me to the gym, and we would run volleyball drills, just he and I. I can’t remember how long we did this for — weeks or months, probably. I just remember it being a daily routine: Get home from school, go to the gym, practice volleyball with dad. We did this until I was not only as good as the rest of the girls, but better than most of them. I went on to play varsity volleyball in high school and then beach volleyball after college, and to this day I play in a weekly volleyball league. I love it. It’s my favorite sport ever, and I’ve played it for most of my life. But the first time I played it, I sucked. I got better with practice.
I feel so fortunate to have had such amazing parents: parents who encouraged me in everything I did and always reminded me that I could do anything I set my mind to. I never felt like anything was out of my reach. I need these voices in my life today. I wish I could train my dog to say “Mom, you just need to practice some more. You can do it.” Maybe I will tape a sign to his butt. I dunno. But dodgeball tonight was a good reminder. I was practicing even in spite of myself, and I still improved. Anything is possible.
