The first lesson I learned in beach volleyball was that you could play the perfect rally and still not earn a point.
Back then, under side-out scoring, only the serving team could score. I remember diving for impossible balls, making incredible saves, winning long rallies, and hearing the referee call, “Side out!”
The crowd would cheer.
My teammates would clap.
The scoreboard wouldn’t change.
For years, I thought that was unfair.
I didn’t realize life worked the same way.
I joined the WPVA when I was nineteen. To me, it wasn’t just another volleyball tour—it was proof that women had built something of their own. The veterans told stories about hauling nets across beaches in station wagons, convincing local businesses to sponsor tournaments, and competing because they loved the sport long before television cameras showed up.
Those women weren’t chasing fame.
They were protecting something they’d created.
Then the rumors started.
“The AVP wants the women.”
“The sponsors are meeting with the men’s tour.”
“The television deals are moving.”
Every tournament seemed to begin with volleyball and end with politics.
Some players believed joining forces with the AVP meant bigger prize purses, larger audiences, and finally receiving the recognition women deserved.
Others believed the WPVA would disappear if too many players left.
The conversations grew louder every weekend.
“You have to pick a side.”
That became everyone’s favorite sentence.
One sponsor representative even asked me directly after a tournament.
“If the opportunity comes,” he said, “where’s your loyalty?”
I surprised both of us with my answer.
“My loyalty is to beach volleyball.”
He smiled politely.
“That’s not how business works.”
Maybe he was right.
But I wasn’t sure business was always right either.
The divide became obvious in the players’ tent. Friends stopped eating together. Veterans questioned rookies. Every decision became political. If someone practiced with the wrong player or accepted the wrong invitation, people noticed.
Meanwhile, something else was changing.
Officials announced that beach volleyball would begin using rally scoring.
Every rally would count.
Whether you were serving or receiving, someone would earn a point.
Some veterans hated it.
“It rewards mistakes.”
“It changes the rhythm.”
“It isn’t real beach volleyball.”
Others welcomed it.
“It’ll make matches easier for fans to follow.”
“It’ll help television.”
“It’ll grow the sport.”
Again, everyone picked a side.
I didn’t.
At first, I secretly hated rally scoring too. I had spent years learning the patience of side-out volleyball. Under the old system, one mistake wasn’t the end of the world. You could fight through long stretches without the score changing. Mental toughness meant surviving frustration.
Now every rally carried weight.
One lapse in focus immediately appeared on the scoreboard.
I blamed the rules for every loss.
Until one afternoon.
My partner and I were playing one of the strongest teams on tour. Late in the match, I missed an easy serve.
Point.
A few rallies later, I hesitated instead of calling for the ball.
Point.
Another passing error.
Point.
Three tiny mistakes.
Three huge consequences.
We lost by two.
Walking off the court, I kicked the sand so hard it sprayed over my ankle.
“I hate this scoring system,” I muttered.
An older player overheard me.
She’d competed through almost every version of professional beach volleyball.
She laughed softly.
“You know what’s funny?”
I shrugged.
“You think the rules beat you.”
“They did.”
“No,” she said. “Your thinking did.”
I frowned.
She pointed toward the empty court.
“Side-out scoring let you pretend some mistakes didn’t matter because they didn’t always cost points.”
She paused.
“Rally scoring doesn’t create pressure. It reveals whether you can handle it.”
That sentence stayed with me.
The next morning, I realized the same thing was happening off the court.
I couldn’t control whether sponsors left.
I couldn’t control whether tours merged.
I couldn’t control whether executives argued over television contracts or whether volleyball’s future belonged to the WPVA, the AVP, or something completely different.
But I could control every decision I made.
Every conversation.
Every practice.
Every teammate I encouraged.
Every younger girl who asked me for an autograph.
Every point counted.
Not just on the scoreboard.
In life.
Years later, when people asked me what it was like to compete during one of the most complicated eras in beach volleyball, they expected stories about politics, contracts, and organizational battles.
Those things mattered.
But they weren’t what shaped me.
What shaped me was learning that change isn’t your opponent.
Resisting every change out of fear can hold you back just as much as chasing every new opportunity without thinking.
The strongest athletes don’t succeed because the rules stay the same.
They succeed because their character stays the same while everything else changes.
Whether the scoreboard only rewarded servers or rewarded every rally, the game always came down to effort, resilience, and trust.
And that’s true far beyond volleyball.
Life eventually changes the rules for everyone.
The question isn’t whether you’ll like the new rules.
The question is whether you’ll keep competing with courage when every point suddenly counts.
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