Mom's expression softened immediately, and I think that was the exact moment she realized volleyball had stopped being just another activity for me.
The rest of Saturday felt strange after that. Not bad exactly, just heavy in a way I didn't like. Usually weekends were easy for me. Volleyball practice, watching games online, annoying Dad with statistics during breakfast, texting Liam random things about school or soccer. But the entire afternoon felt like my brain was waiting for something it couldn't control, and I hated that feeling.
At dinner, I barely talked at first, which alone was enough for my parents to notice something was wrong. Normally I talked through entire meals about school, volleyball, random facts nobody asked for, or things I'd researched online. One time I explained how volleyball rotation rules changed in the late nineties while Mom was trying to eat soup. Tonight I mostly pushed rice around my plate while staring at absolutely nothing.
Dad finally looked over from across the table. "Okay. What's happening inside your head right now?"
I sighed dramatically. "Statistically speaking, waiting is one of the worst human experiences."
Dad snorted into his water while Mom smiled slightly. "That bad?"
"Yes."
"You know the email won't come faster because you keep thinking about it."
"I know," I muttered. "But my brain doesn't."
For a few minutes the room went quiet again except for silverware softly hitting plates. Outside, the California evening had already started getting darker, warm orange light fading behind the houses across the neighborhood. Eventually Dad leaned back slightly in his chair and looked at me carefully.
"What do you think happens if you don't make it?"
I hated the question immediately. Not because he was being mean, but because I'd already been thinking about it all day.
"I don't know," I admitted quietly.
Mom reached over and squeezed my wrist gently. "Nothing bad happens."
"It feels bad."
"That's different."
I stared down at my plate for another second before speaking again. "…I think I'd feel embarrassed."
Dad frowned slightly. "Why?"
"Because I studied really hard."
That made both of them go quiet for a second because they understood exactly what I meant. Volleyball wasn't something I casually liked anymore. I spent hours watching matches, rewinding plays, studying defensive systems, memorizing rotations, reading about players from Brazil, Japan, Italy, and Poland. Sometimes I watched tutorials before bed instead of cartoons.
I cared. And caring meant failure could actually hurt now.
After dinner, I helped clean the kitchen mostly because keeping my hands busy stopped me from checking Dad's email every thirty seconds. Eventually Mom told me to go relax before I "analyzed myself into another dimension," so I went upstairs, although relaxing didn't really happen.
Around nine-thirty, I ended up lying in bed with my Ipad watching volleyball highlights quietly while the room stayed dark except for the glow of the screen. It was a VNL match from last summer — Brazil versus Japan. The Volleyball Nations League happened every year during international season and was basically one of the biggest tournaments in the world outside the Olympics and World Championships. National teams played across multiple countries over several weeks, and the level was ridiculously high.
I loved it.
Especially the liberos.
Most people watched hitters first because they scored points and got all the attention. I watched defenders instead. I watched how early they moved, how balanced they stayed, how they read shoulders before contact, and how they somehow turned impossible balls into perfect passes.
One rally replayed three times in a row because the Brazilian libero made a diving save that honestly didn't even look physically possible. I paused the video afterward and stared at the screen before replaying it again. Then again.
By the time Mom checked on me later, I was still awake.
"You're supposed to be sleeping."
"I was studying."
"You're eight."
"That doesn't invalidate the studying."
Mom laughed softly while sitting beside me on the bed. For a second she just brushed curls away from my forehead quietly.
"You know what I think?" she asked.
"What?"
"I think sometimes you forget you're allowed to just enjoy things."
I frowned slightly at that because honestly, I didn't fully understand what she meant. I already enjoyed volleyball more than basically anything. Eventually I closed my eyes anyway and curled beneath the blankets while Mom turned off the lights.
The last thing I remember before falling asleep was mentally replaying my diving save from Friday's practice again. The one Coach Mia praised. The one that felt real. The one that made me think maybe I actually belonged there.
Sunday morning, I woke up before seven without anybody waking me. My brain simply refused to stay asleep anymore. The house stayed completely quiet while early sunlight spilled softly through the windows. For a few minutes I tried pretending I could go back to sleep.
It didn't work.
By seven-thirty I was already downstairs sitting on the couch with Dad's laptop open on the coffee table while bouncing one leg hard enough to shake the cushions slightly. Dad eventually walked downstairs wearing sweatpants and looking half asleep.
"You're stalking the inbox."
"The email could arrive at any moment."
"It's seven-thirty in the morning."
"Volleyball never sleeps."
Dad stared at me silently for two seconds. "…That sentence was upsetting."
By seven-fifty-eight, Mom had joined us too, mostly because apparently my nervous energy had become impossible to ignore. Then the clock changed.
8:00 AM. I refreshed the inbox again. Nothing.
My stomach dropped instantly. Maybe they hated me. Maybe I moved weird. Maybe I talked too much. Maybe Coach Ryan thought I was annoying.
Then suddenly a new email appeared.
My entire body froze.
Dad leaned forward immediately. "There it is."
I think my heart actually stopped working for a second while Dad clicked the email open and Mom moved closer beside me on the couch.
Then I saw it.
Congratulations! We are excited to offer Matteo Smith a roster position on the Stormbreakers Volleyball Club Boys U10 Development Team for the upcoming season.
I stared at the screen before rereading the sentence again.
"You made it," Mom whispered immediately.
Dad laughed softly beside me. "Buddy, you made the team."
I think my brain stopped functioning for about three seconds after that.
Then suddenly I was moving again.
"WAIT. WAIT. SCROLL DOWN."
Dad laughed harder while scrolling.
The email was huge. There was an evaluation summary from the coaches explaining strengths and areas for development.
Coach Notes:
Excellent early court awareness and anticipation.
Very advanced defensive instincts for age level.
Strong platform control.
Highly coachable.
Needs continued development socially and verbally during team communication.
Shows natural libero tendencies.
Natural libero tendencies.
I reread that line at least four times.
Below that was everything else. Practice schedules for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Information about regional developmental tournaments across Southern California. At this age, the club didn't play inside an official standings league yet. Most U10 teams focused on skill development, tournament experience, and learning competitive volleyball environments before entering more structured league systems later.
There were also attachments for everything else: medical release forms, transportation waivers, uniform sizing sheets, tournament policies, and registration paperwork. Everything needed to be submitted before July 3rd.
And suddenly it all felt real. Not pretend volleyball anymore. Not camps. Not clinics.
A real club team. With tournaments. Uniforms. Travel. Teammates.
I slowly looked up toward my parents while trying very hard not to explode with excitement.
Dad failed first. He grinned. "You're trying not to scream right now." "I am screaming internally."
Mom laughed immediately. "You can scream externally too." That was apparently all the permission I needed because I launched off the couch so fast I nearly tripped over the coffee table.
"I MADE THE TEAM!"