Point, set, match, career

Has it really been two years?

Got to looking at some old sports memorabilia the other day, and realized that an important anniversary was approaching. On this day in 2009, I attended the final high school game played by one of my children.

It was in Noblesville, Ind. My daughter Alissa and her Indy Silver Lightning homeschool volleyball team were taking on the Hamilton County Tigers. The evening was one of pride, joy, excitement and, yes, a tinge of sadness. While I was happy to see her go out with a win – Alissa led her team with 11 assists and set up the match-winning kill – I realized a special period in both our lives had ended.

The morning of that match I wrote Alissa the letter that follows. The words ring as true today as they did 24 months ago. I'm still cheering her on, urging her to keep on fighting, and grateful God brought her into my life:

Dear Alissa,

Well, sweetheart, here we are. In a matter of hours you will step onto the volleyball court for the last time in your high school career. It’s hard to believe we’ve reached the last match. Time has passed far too quickly.


This Lightning always struck

Before you and I put our game faces on, there are a few things I want to say to you. I might not get to say them prior to your match, so I’m going to say them here. It’s also easier this way. I’m not sure I’d be able to get through this face-to-face without my emotions getting the best of me.



I’ve been privileged and honored to share these past five volleyball seasons with you. It’s been a highlight of my life watching you compete and, more importantly, develop into a fine student-athlete.



We’ve shared a journey that has taken us to more than 100 matches, easily three times that number of practices, and way too many trips to the doctor and physical therapist. We’ve traveled to big cities like Indianapolis, Fort Wayne and Terre Haute, and out-of-the-way hamlets like Linton, Mexico and Covington. I don’t know how many miles we’ve logged along the way. Whatever it was, it was worth every tick of the odometer.



You’ve come a long way in a very short period of time. I saw you start as a complete novice afraid to make a mistake, and become a two-time All-Conference player and team captain.


I’ve witnessed the grit you exhibited as you played the better part of two seasons on what we thought was a chronic ankle sprain. Little did any of us know the true nature of your injury: a torn ligament. How you managed to run down balls, dive for point-saving digs, make precise sets to teammates and jump for a kill with that serious foot condition, I’ll never know. But you did. You played in pain more often than you did not. There’s something to be said for that kind of determination.



I’ve observed your competitive fire – a fire much like my own. You were never satisfied with second, and often said so. Sometimes your words got you into trouble, especially if you thought teammates weren’t as dedicated to excellence and worked as hard as you did. They might not have known where you were coming from, but I did. If you expected maximum effort from yourself, you were going to expect it from them.

Senior night with dad and mom



I remember how, when others were happy finishing a surprising runner-up in the state junior varsity tournament one year, you were devastated. You didn’t even want to look at the second place medal they draped over your neck. Although I outwardly spoke to you of being content with having done your best, inside I could relate to your deep disappointment. Championship opportunities don’t come along often, and you have to seize those moments when you can. At your tender age, you already understood what that meant.



This season presented a new challenge for you. A new team, a new cast of characters, a new coach, a different philosophy. You jumped right in, ready to contribute. Although I knew it would be difficult starting with a new team in your senior season, I believe you’ve made the most of the situation. You probably disagree. It’s that never satisfied character trait, I’m sure.



As this chapter in your life draws to a close, I have but one regret. I regret that as the athletic director for four of your five teams, I was unable to deliver you a championship. With the hard work and energy you invested in the sport of volleyball, you deserved to stand at the top of the winner’s podium. Perhaps that will happen in some other aspect of your life later on. I hope so.



When your brother played his final high school basketball game a couple of years ago, I felt a deep sense of loss. My only consolation was that I still had your volleyball to look forward to. In a little while that, too, will be gone. It will be hard, and I probably will shed some tears.



I guess what I’m saying is that as much as you needed volleyball, I’ve needed to be a part of your volleyball. Some people might say I’ve lived vicariously through you. I don’t know, maybe that’s true. What I do know is that when your final match ends later tonight, there will be an empty spot in my heart.



Somewhere down the road I hope you are able to look back on these years with fond memories. I know I certainly will.



So go out there tonight and enjoy your final match. Win or lose, I’ll be sitting in the stands as proud as ever.



Thanks once again for giving me the gift of you. I’ll treasure it always.



Love today and forever,


Dad




Alissa's final set, and assist (http://youtube/H_c7c9MSbB0)