an ode to the game

It’s been about 6 weeks since I played beach volleyball. My partner (beach volleyball partner, that is, but also life partner if you disregard the fact that she’s actually married) has been consistently out of town, leaving me to fend for myself. She’s lucky it’s been raining and freezing in LA (i.e., at or below 60 degrees) – otherwise, I might’ve traded her in for a new model.

Just kidding, she’s the best and I only have eyes for her!

I may be slightly biased because I grew up around the game and learned to bump a ball before learning to stand up on my own, but beach volleyball is something of an artform if you ask me. Let me set the scene for you:

It’s 9am and the sun is beginning to peak through the cloud coverage. I grab my beach chair, a towel, a water and my ball and hop on my bike (late again – games were supposed to start at 9). Sunglasses on, sweats over my bathing suit. Flip flops molded to my feet.

I pedal on down to the sand, ditch the bike and setup my chair courtside. My partner likely makes some comment about how I live the closest but am the last one to get there… *shrug*.

It’s starting to warm up as the clouds get fewer and further between. The strand is beginning to buzz with people walking their dogs, out for morning jogs, pushing strollers, biking or perhaps doing the walk of shame home courtesy of one too many Fanta shots the night before at Shellback (kidding, but it’s possible).

The sand is like a blank canvas, waiting for our feet to dig in and form little mountains and valleys all around the court.

There’s just enough wind to make the ball float just right, and fall just in.

We warmup our arms, pepper, serve and pass. Someone may have brought a speaker (fingers crossed for a good playlist) but if not, we’re listening to the best soundtrack to the game there is – the ocean.

We play 5 or 6 competitive games to 21. Switch sides on multiples of 7. We’re covered in sand like powdered sugar doughnuts.

This, my dear readers, is the good life.

When your dogs are barkin’ (as my dad would say) and your legs are shot. When your arm should be iced (mostly because you’re old but also because you just pounded volleyballs for 5 hours… well maybe not quite “pounded” but close…) and you can actually feel your abs. When you’re a little toasty from the sun and all you can think about is jumping in the ocean. YES, THIS. This is the good life.

It’s been about 6 weeks since I’ve played beach volleyball, but my partner and I are playing in a tournament this weekend. When she initially asked me if I wanted to play, I thought she was somewhat crazy since we haven’t played in so long. There’s a solid chance we’ll get our behinds handed to us. We’re both very competitive people and hate losing, so the prospect of getting beat by God knows who – could be 16-year-olds who play everyday, could be has-beens like us who at least play every weekend – is a little depressing.

But I said yes. I said yes because at the end of the day it truly doesn’t matter if we win or lose. I get to spend the whole day (well, maybe only half the day if we lose) with my best friend at my favorite place doing one of my favorite things. I get to bike down and be late even though I live a block away. I get to paint the sand like a canvas with my bare feet. I get to feel the wind and listen to the ocean. I get to compete. I get to use my legs and my arms and my abs. And I get to have fun.

I might even get a cold beer at the end of the day.

My point is – if there is something you want to do but you’re afraid you won’t be good at it or it’s been a long time since you’ve done it… you should go for it. What do we have to lose? Well, besides the glory of winning. But if we’re being honest, aren’t we already winning if we’re doing what we love? I think yes.

new year same me

Monday, January 1st was when I was going to get it together. New year, new me. It’s now January 3rd and I haven’t gotten it all together just yet… turns out it’s more like new year, same me.

Same me. Let’s start at the beginning.

Ever since I hung up my jersey for the last time and didn’t have a mandatory workout to be at at 6am or any other ungodly hour, I’ve been admittedly less than committed to my exercise routine. And that’s putting it lightly. I currently weigh more than I'd like. And that's putting it lightly, again. But it’s not really about that – the ever elusive number I’d like to see on the scale isn’t really my concern when I take an honest look at myself in the mirror.

I was a student-athlete at Loyola Marymount University for 5 years (red-shirted my 2nd year due to shoulder surgery) competing at the highest level many athletes, including myself, manage to climb to -- NCAA Division 1 Volleyball.  

At the end of my Sophomore year, headed into Junior year of high school, I signed my National Letter of Intent to play at LMU. I graduated from high school a skinny, hopeful string bean and packed my bags for summer training with the LMU Strength and Conditioning coach.

Over the course of the next 5 years I had no choice but to transform into a MUCH physically & mentally stronger version of me. I remember going through 2-3 shirts per practice (had to change so the floor wouldn't get slippery from sweat); lifting heavier weights than some of the male athletes (volleyball players have strong legs y'all); and being forced to take ice baths before being allowed to leave the training room (because soreness is really real after 3+ hours of practice and an hour of strength & conditioning). If you would've told me then that I'd miss those things 7-8 years later, I would've laughed in your face (or slapped you upside the head).

But here I am. I may not miss those particular things, per se, but I miss the feeling -- the feeling of being so physically, mentally and emotionally challenged and drained at the end of the day and waking up and doing it again the next day because that's what we do. That's what athletes do. That's what teammates do. You don't let your team down; you have no choice.

I'm still an athlete at heart – you never lose that – but I no longer have a team pushing me and holding me accountable. No one will be directly affected by my choices. No one will know if I go through the motions at a workout, don't finish my reps or flat out don't show up to the gym. No one will make me run, or bench me or yell at me. No one will see me fail.

It's taken me a number of years to fully understand why that mentality is wrong. I have myself to push me and hold me accountable. I will be directly affected by my choices. I will know if I don't show up. I will see me fail.

And I matter.  My opinion of myself is the one that matters the most, come to find out (at thirty years old no less).

When I look at myself in the mirror I want to see an athlete. I want to see a reflection of how I feel on the inside – beautiful, strong, powerful. I want to make myself proud.

And above all, I want to be the healthiest version of me possible – mind, body & spirit.

So yes, this is a new year and I’m the same me. The same me who hits the snooze button at least 6 times, who doesn’t get super pumped about workouts or eating salads, who has been starting and stopping this post-glory days fitness journey for years.

But I’m also the same me who played D1 volleyball. The same me that is competitive and passionate about sport. The body can withstand almost anything; I proved that to be true for myself in college, and many people prove that to be true in extraordinary ways every single day. It's the mind that has to be convinced. I’ve come to understand that after you’ve done that, it’s all about finding your rhythm.

I flat out didn’t get it together on January 1st. I hit snooze for 2 hours on January 2nd and when I got home from work I turned on Netflix, unbothered.

I could go on about what I didn’t do. What I failed to do. But instead, I think this time around I’m going to find my rhythm by focusing on the tiny victories. Perhaps they'll all amount to something truly great in the end. 

This week's goal: blog up and running. So far, so good!