There’s a video of my son learning how to spike a volleyball. He’s twelve, nearly 5’7”, and just tall enough to touch the top of the net on his tiptoes. He jogs three steps, his eyes fixed on the ball as the coach tosses it in front of the net. Shawn leaps, his right-hand swooping to connect, but the ball either gets tangled in the net or ricochets to the side. Over and over, he repeats the motion—jog, leap, swing—until finally, in perfect rhythm, he spikes the ball, and it slams down onto the other court.

Five years later, he is a senior in high school and the captain of the volleyball team. I had sunny premonitions of a spring filled with wins, opponents dizzied by all my son’s spikes, and me screaming hysterically in the stands. I was ready for senior night and holding Shawn’s hand as the coach listed all his varsity triumphs. As I sat on the bleacher, swaying side to side to make the bench softer, Shawn walked onto the court wearing the libero shirt. His fellow senior teammate and a junior were playing outside. I gestured to Shawn, my hands up in the air, and mouthed, “What the heck!”

Shawn shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to play libero, effortlessly serve-receiving the other team’s ball, directing it to the setter, playing the back row, and only getting a chance to score each time he served. I wrapped my arms in front of me in a giant “humph,” refusing to cheer for anyone else’s kid as they scored or blocked the opponents’ attempted point.

“You need to talk to the coach,” I instructed Shawn that night. I had worked myself into a tizzy on the drive home and was ready to call the school, the superintendent, the governor of Connecticut—maybe even the National Guard to give them all a piece of my mind.

Shawn just shook his head, “Coach said I’m the only one on the team who knows how to pass the ball. Everyone else is an underclassman. Besides, Dean is a stronger outside.”

“No, he isn’t,” I shot back. “He hits the ball too hard, and it goes out more than it stays in.”

Which was true and not a figment of my imagination or rage.

Shawn always maintained a calm demeanor while playing, and he was strategic in his plays, which was probably why the coach made him the libero—because he knew how to direct the ball throughout the game. He was a smart player, helping to make other players the heroes.

“Coach said he’ll have me play outside and middle once in a while.”

“He’s using you as a utility player. You’re a senior. It’s your turn to have a little glory!”

The town we lived in was all about sports. Football, lacrosse, soccer, basketball—the great athletes were identified by the time they turned nine. I was relieved to finally find a sport where Shawn could shine a little. Now, in his final year of school, he’s a libero.

“Don’t talk to the coach, Mom. You’ll only embarrass me.”

The season puttered along, and Shawn was given the occasional opportunity to play outside, tallying up points, high fives, and back slaps from his teammates—one ace after another from his beautiful, skyrocketing serves.

I complained once to a work colleague, and she tried to remind me, “It is a team sport, Brenda.”

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t care. I’m going to see Shawn, not those other mothers’ kids.”

Then the town weekly newspaper arrived in the mail. Each issue featured high school sports, and this edition had a big photo of Dean with an article and quotes from him.

While eating dinner, Shawn nonchalantly shared that the coach nominated him for All-Conference, “But I didn’t get selected because it’s based on the number of points a player earns, and because I played libero, I didn’t tally as many as the other players.”

I dropped my fork on the table. “I bet Dean and Jason made All-Conference!”

“Yep.”

I lost my appetite. “Well, the coach should name you MVP.”

“Jason, the setter, will be MVP.”

“But he’s a junior. He can get MVP next year.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Shawn shrugged, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and jogging up to his room for homework.

But it did matter. It mattered to me. All those mornings, afternoons, and evenings watching Shawn play volleyball. All the drives to Rhode Island, Boston, and New Hampshire for weekend tournaments. Didn’t Shawn realize how much I loved watching him play, how I marveled at his athleticism, and how much he had grown as an athlete, team player, friend, and leader? Why couldn’t the rest of the world see it?

Senior night was coming up, and I needed to make sure the coach said all the right things when he announced Shawn in front of the crowd, so I wrote him an email detailing Shawn’s entire volleyball career, including playing varsity for four years, being a sophomore starter during an undefeated season, and being nominated as a rising star.

Senior night arrived, and I gripped Shawn’s hand. I couldn’t make out what the coach mumbled over the bad sound system. He might have read what I wrote. I beamed like a crazed, middle-aged cheerleader sporting a T-shirt of the college my son would soon attend.

The next day, yearbooks were handed out, and Shawn called me.

“They didn’t print my activities under my senior photo.”

“WHAT? I remember you filling out the form for that. What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

I called the school. I was mad—probably certifiable.

“Which office is in charge of graduation?”

I was connected to another office, and I shouted, “Can you check and see if my son’s name is on the program and if you have it written correctly on his diploma?”

The woman laughed. “Why, do you think your son misspelled his name?”

I answered, “No, I don’t think you or the school even knows my son exists!”

Shawn graduated, and his name was in the program and spelled correctly on his diploma. That was months ago now, and the diploma, varsity letter, pins, and programs are all boxed away. When it came time to try out for volleyball at college, Shawn decided against it.

“I’m thinking ultimate frisbee might be fun.”

All the emotion, the angst, the thrill, and the worry are over, boxed up in memorabilia. Shawn’s moved on to a different world where there is no volleyball or weekly papers promoting who got on the honor roll or made it to states.

Shawn called me a few days ago. “It’s weird how much my life has changed, but you know, I’m really content. I don’t miss high school. I’m right where I need to be.”

I don’t miss high school, middle school or elementary school. I miss Shawn and maybe I miss being needed.  But I will always be his number one cheerleader. His game is just beginning, and I can’t wait to see how he plays it.