Ruminations-Why Did I Cry?

I cried happy tears as Jordan Larson collapse to the court after her last kill of the tournament landed at Ariake arena. The euphoria was indescribable and uncontrollable. In the aftermath of that match and watching the players, coaches, and support staff hug and cry together, I continued my emotional catharsis until I was able to get to sleep in the early morning hours.

As I read through the postings on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, I noticed people expressing surprise at their own emotional responses, as well as the responses of other people who had cried tears of joy at that moment. Perhaps a more reserved response is the more rational one, but I doubt it.

I can’t explain why so many felt the same emotions as I did, all I can do it try to explain my own reaction.

I first became aware of volleyball when I saw the fuzzy footage of the 1976 Olympic competition in Montreal. I remember seeing a small man, playing a big man’s game, digging everything in sight. It was the great Stan Gościniak of Poland, and I was hooked.

In the run up to the 1980 Olympics, I became aware of the USA women’s national team, I learned that they had a great chance at winning gold. I was excited, yet I knew next to nothing about the team nor the stories that swirled around them until much later in my life. Then, the USSR invaded Afghanistan and the world changed. The western democracies boycotted the Moscow games and politics interrupted the flow of what was supposed to be.

Ever since then, I have followed the USA men’s and women’s teams. I went to undergrad and then grad school, I played a little pickup in gradual school, I was a never-bloomer, a fat and slow grad student playing with freshmen and sophomores. I loved it, even though I was out of my league and got my butt handed to me every time I played. I continued to play in rec leagues after I graduated and started working. During a league night, one of my teammates asked me to help him coach a 14 and under girls’ team and I have been coaching ever since. I caught the fever.

True to my Type A nature, I dove into coaching: reading, going to clinics for both players and coaches, and talking volleyball with anyone who love it as much as I did. It was through coaching that I met John Kessel, amongst the many other things that he taught me over Mexican food and beer, he taught me the history of American volleyball.

It was while learning to coach that I met Arie Selinger in a coaching clinic in Chicago. A connection to that 1980 and 1984 USA team. It was also through coaching that I met Janet Baier (Howes), one of the original members of that 1980 team. An undersized middle, Janet was supposed to play in 1980 but was denied that chance. She was then replaced on the roster in 1984. Janet worked as an official and she also coached junior volleyball. While she was doing those things, she also always had a presentation with her. She had all her memorabilia from her time on the national team, all of them. She would show them to kids during her volleyball clinics and she would regale them with her stories. A true ambassador of the game of volleyball. She would tell me stories about Flo, and her beloved teammates on that 1980 team. Janet was usually a very upbeat person until the subject of the boycott comes up, then she visibly darkens, and the vitriol comes out. She never forgot and she never forgave. The pain of losing her chance competing in the Olympics gnaws at her even decades later.

All that personal history serves to give an idea of what shaped my mindset about the Olympics and the USA Women’s National Team. I always felt that there was unfinished business for that group of athletes, I deeply felt they were owed a debt for the missed chance to compete and claim their spot in volleyball history. It  was a debt that someone needed to pay them, and us, the American volleyball fan.

As I became more involved and educated in coaching, I started to learn more of the history of American volleyball from the people I met through coaching volleyball, as well as experiencing history in the intervening years. Every four years I lived and died following Olympic volleyball: 1984, 1988, 1992, 1996, 2000, 2004, 2008, 2012, 2016, and now 2020 (2021).  I followed the national teams in their journey to the quadrennial in the other three years of the quad. I watched players grow from club players to college players to national team players. I celebrated with every triumph and suffered with every defeat. I followed the scant media reports on the technical and strategic nuances of each win and loss, even though I was always on the outside looking in. While I would not consider my experience unique or comparable with the experiences of the coaches and players throughout the years, I would have to give myself credit for being committed to the cause. I am sure I am not alone; I know  others who have had the same fervent desire to see the USA women’s team get their gold. The silvers and bronze were great achievements, but to reach the top of the podium is the goal.  I suffered with the team and my fellow fanatics in 1984, 2008, and 2012 when we were so close, and I cheered mightily in 1992 and 2016 as the teams won the last match of their Olympics. Buried deep inside me, I had a mental ledger to balance, a debt that needed to be made good.

I knew rationally that I was being overly emotional and small minded, but rationality had nothing to do with what I was feeling. This was volleyball.

You ask me why I cried when the 2020 edition of the USA women’s team won gold? I cried because the ledger is balanced, the debt has been made good. I cried because Flo and Janet did not live long enough to see it. I cried because all the players and coaches who were a part of this team throughout history finally know that the mission is accomplished, built on the foundations that they provided for this group of #12Strong. I cried because the chase is finally over, and we can reset the balance to my personal volleyball scales. We can start anew, without that sword of Damocles hanging over us.

Of course, that is just me.