I thought winning the tournament would be the memory I carried with me forever.
I was wrong.
The trophy, the handshake at the net, the crowd cheering as the sun dropped behind the ocean—those moments mattered. But the story I tell most often happened after everyone had already packed up and gone home.
It was the summer of 1995, and I had just finished playing in the Malibu Women’s Classic. Back then, beach volleyball tournaments were different. Everyone knew each other. The same players showed up weekend after weekend, traveling with old vans full of gear, sleeping wherever they could, and spending as much time talking on the beach as they did competing.
My partner and I had just finished one of the toughest tournaments of my career. We weren’t the favorites, but we had played smart. We survived windy conditions, long rallies, and three matches that went deep into the deciding game.
When the final point landed, I collapsed into the sand, completely exhausted.
After the awards ceremony, most of the players packed their bags and left. But the regulars stayed behind. That was one of my favorite parts of beach volleyball—the tournament never really ended when the referee blew the final whistle.
That evening, a group of us gathered near the empty courts with folding chairs, leftover food, and stories from the weekend. The sun was gone, but the sand was still warm beneath our feet.
I noticed one player sitting away from everyone else.
Her name was Michelle, and she was one of the best defenders on the beach. She had just lost in the semifinals after a heartbreaking three-set battle. Most people would have been upset, but she was quietly watching the empty court.
I walked over and asked if she was okay.
She smiled and said, “I’m just trying to remember this feeling.”
I didn’t understand what she meant.
She pointed toward the court.
“Everyone remembers the winners,” she said. “But the reason we love this sport is because of everything that happens before the last point.”
We ended up talking for nearly an hour. She told me about her first tournament in the late 1980s, when she showed up with borrowed equipment and played against women she had only read about in magazines. She talked about long drives to tournaments, playing through injuries, and the friendships that lasted longer than any championship.
The next morning, before leaving, I walked back onto the empty court one last time. There were no crowds, no whistles, and no pressure. Just the sound of the waves and footprints from the matches played the day before.
I found something buried near the baseline—a small piece of athletic tape with a player’s initials written on it. I knew it probably meant nothing to anyone else, but I kept it.
That piece of tape stayed in my volleyball bag for years.
Whenever I had a bad tournament or questioned why I was still playing, I would see it and remember that night in Malibu. I remembered that beach volleyball wasn’t only about medals or rankings. It was about the people you met, the battles you shared, and the moments that happened after the scoreboard stopped counting.
Looking back, the tournament victory was special.
But the night after the finals was when I truly understood the game.
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