The gym parking lot glowed orange beneath the late evening California sun, and I climbed into the passenger seat already half exhausted. The second Dad turned the car on and the air conditioning hit my face, I could feel myself getting sleepy almost immediately. Practice always did that to me. My brain worked so fast during volleyball that afterward it felt like somebody had unplugged my entire body all at once.
Dad glanced over while backing out of the parking space. "You look dead."
"I'm not dead," I muttered while leaning my head against the window. "Just physically destroyed."
"That sounds dramatic."
"It's an athlete thing."
Dad laughed quietly under his breath and pulled onto the road while I watched the gym disappear behind us through the window. For a few minutes neither of us talked much. The car stayed comfortably quiet besides the sound of traffic outside and the occasional squeak from my hoodie whenever I shifted positions. I was probably a few minutes away from actually falling asleep when another thought suddenly slammed into my brain hard enough to wake me back up completely.
"Oh, wait."
Dad glanced over briefly. "What?"
"I forgot something important."
"That sentence never leads anywhere good."
"At the gym there was this older kid wearing actual volleyball shoes and they were REALLY cool."
Dad sighed immediately, which honestly felt unfair because I hadn't even explained yet.
"They were white with blue bottoms," I continued quickly, sitting up straighter now. "And they had gum rubber soles specifically for indoor traction and lateral movement. The sides were lower too, probably for flexibility during defensive positioning."
Dad stared at me for a second at a red light. "You memorized somebody else's shoes?"
"Yes."
"You are unbelievably strange."
"I researched volleyball equipment last week."
"Of course you did."
I crossed my arms and looked down at my current shoes. "Mine squeak weird when I move sideways."
"That's because they're basketball shoes."
"Exactly."
Dad shook his head while trying not to smile. "Alright. If you make the club team, we'll go look at volleyball shoes."
I turned toward him so fast my seatbelt locked for a second. "Real volleyball shoes?"
"Yes, real volleyball shoes."
"With court grip?"
"Yes."
I sat back in my seat grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
The second we walked into the house, the smell of dinner hit me immediately. Mom had apparently made pasta, and the entire downstairs smelled like garlic bread and tomato sauce. Normally after long days my brain kept running nonstop, but for about five full seconds volleyball disappeared completely because I suddenly realized I was starving.
Mom looked up from the stove the moment we came inside. "So," she said while setting plates onto the counter, "how was practice?"
I think Dad was about to answer first, but honestly there was no possible way that was happening.
"It was SO GOOD," I blurted immediately while kicking my shoes off near the door. "Coach Mia taught us actual defensive dives today and Mason almost faceplanted into the mat and Charlie kept yelling across the divider net during practice and we learned peixinho saves and—"
Mom started laughing before I even finished the sentence. "Okay, slow down. One thing at a time."
Dad walked past us carrying my backpack. "Good luck with that."
I followed Mom into the kitchen still talking because once my brain started replaying volleyball things, it was almost impossible to stop. "The best part was this cross-court defensive drill," I explained while climbing onto my chair at the table. "Coach Mia was hitting from a box and she opened her shoulder too early before contact so I knew where the ball was going before she actually hit it."
Mom looked genuinely interested. "You can tell that already?"
"Sometimes," I answered quickly. "Most hitters accidentally show where they're aiming if you watch carefully enough."
Dad pointed his fork at me while sitting down. "He moved before the ball even left her hand."
I tried not to smile too much at that, but honestly hearing Dad say it out loud made my chest feel warm.
"And then later during peixinho drills," I continued while spinning pasta around my fork, "I had this save where the ball dropped short and I slid underneath it perfectly and Coach Mia said I wasn't scared of the floor."
Mom smiled softly. "You looked really happy walking in."
"I was happy."
The answer came out before I even thought about it.
Because it was true.
Volleyball made me feel different from school sometimes. At school I constantly had to slow myself down or stop talking halfway through thoughts because people looked confused or overwhelmed. But volleyball rewarded the exact things that usually made me feel weird. Paying attention helped. Remembering helped. Noticing tiny details helped. My brain finally felt useful instead of just different.
Dad leaned back slightly in his chair. "He also wants volleyball shoes now."
Mom immediately looked at me. "Already?"
"They improve lateral traction."
"You researched this, didn't you?"
"Yes."
Dad pointed dramatically toward me. "See? This is what I deal with."
After dinner I showered because Mom said I smelled "like gym floor and childhood," then changed into pajamas and climbed into bed while still replaying practice in my head. The diving drill kept coming back first. Then the cross-court dig. Then Coach Mia calling my reading ability "good instincts." My knees hurt a little every time I shifted under the blankets, but honestly I liked it. It made practice feel real somehow.
The next thing I knew, sunlight was coming through my curtains.
And immediately my brain remembered.
Emails.
Team placements.
Club decisions.
I sat upright in bed so fast I almost hit my head against the wall. Then I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand and ran downstairs still half asleep.
Mom was already sitting at the kitchen counter drinking coffee when I rushed into the room.
"Did I make the team?"
She blinked once slowly. "Good morning to you too."
"Well?"
"Matteo," she said carefully, "it's seven in the morning."
I stared at her. "And?"
"The coaches are probably still asleep."
"That seems irresponsible."
Mom laughed into her coffee cup while I climbed onto the stool beside her.
"The emails probably won't come until later this weekend."
"How much later?"
"I don't know."
"Can you check anyway?"
"I literally just woke up."
Waiting turned out to be one of the worst experiences of my entire life.
The problem with my brain was that once something important entered it, the thought stayed there constantly whether I wanted it to or not. I couldn't just "forget about it" or "relax for a while" the way adults always suggested. My thoughts kept circling back automatically.
Volleyball.
Emails.
The team.
Coach Mia.
Tournament schedules.
Volleyball shoes.
Everything repeated over and over all day.
By lunchtime I had already asked Mom four different times if anything arrived yet.
At one point Dad looked up from his laptop and said, "Buddy, staring at the inbox won't make them type faster."
"It could psychologically pressure the universe."
"That is absolutely not how email works."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
The longer the day went on, the worse the waiting felt, because now I realized I didn't just want to make a team.
I wanted this team.
This gym already felt familiar. I liked the coaches. I liked the drills. I liked how seriously they treated defense instead of acting like passing was less important than hitting. Even the noise of the courts and the squeaking shoes already felt comfortable in my head.
Later that afternoon, Mom sat beside me on the couch while I refreshed Dad's email again for probably the hundredth time that day.
"You know," she said gently, "if this club doesn't work out, there are other good volleyball programs too."
"I know."
"And you can always try another team."
"I know."
She stayed quiet for another second before asking softly, "But you really wanted this one?"
I pulled my knees closer against my chest and stared down at the refresh button on the screen.
"…I liked this one."
Mom's expression softened immediately, and I think that was the exact moment she realized volleyball had stopped being just another activity for me.