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When I heard that beach volleyball might become an Olympic sport, I remember standing in a laundromat wearing one sock.
The other sock was trapped inside a dryer with three tournament uniforms, two towels, a knee brace, and somebody else’s red sweatshirt.
I had never owned a red sweatshirt.
That was normal on the road.
Clothing traveled between players almost as often as partnerships did.
The television above the change machine had no sound. A sports report moved across the screen beneath footage of athletes playing on a packed beach. The words OLYMPIC CONSIDERATION appeared at the bottom.
I stopped folding towels.
My partner, Dana, was sitting on top of a washing machine eating cereal from a motel cup.
“What?” they asked.
I pointed toward the television.
Dana watched for several seconds.
Then returned to the cereal.
“You’re not excited?”
“I’ll be excited when the dryer gives me my shorts back.”
“This could change everything.”
Dana looked at the screen again.
“No.”
They shook their head.
“It’ll change what everybody thinks everything means.”
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At twenty-four, I considered that unnecessarily cynical.
Years later, I understood it was one of the most accurate things Dana ever said.
This was 1991.
Beach volleyball existed inside several overlapping worlds that did not always recognize one another.
There were the famous tournaments, where crowds surrounded center court and photographers waited
beneath the referee stand.
There were professional tours trying to persuade sponsors that women’s competition deserved equal attention and real prize money.
There were local associations where players earned ratings one weekend at a time.
There were public courts where people arrived after work carrying grocery bags, construction helmets, schoolbooks, or children who built sandcastles beside the service line.
Then there were people like Dana and me.
Good enough to enter serious events.
Not good enough to stop working.
We traveled between tournaments in a brown station wagon that overheated whenever the air temperature climbed above eighty degrees, which made it poorly suited to Southern California.
The rear windows did not open.
The radio received one station clearly.
The roof rack had been repaired with rope, athletic tape, and an optimism no mechanic would have
endorsed.
We called the car Dolores.
Nobody remembered why.
Dolores carried everything.
Volleyballs.
Coolers.
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Umbrellas.
Folding chairs.
Uniforms.
A portable fan that worked only when connected to an outlet we almost never had.
The car smelled like sunscreen, coffee, damp towels, and the kind of ambition that has not yet learned to
calculate gasoline.
Dana drove.
Always.
They did not trust my braking.
I navigated using tournament flyers and maps purchased from gas stations.
I did not trust Dana’s sense of direction.
That arrangement lasted six years.
So did the partnership.
Almost.
The First Side Change
We met at a four-person tournament in Hermosa Beach.
Dana was blocking for a team wearing matching yellow shirts. I was defending for a team whose shirts
matched only because we had all agreed to wear white.
By noon, everybody’s shirts were gray.
The tournament used side-out scoring, which meant a close game could last long enough for spectators to
leave for lunch and return without missing the ending.
Our teams played in the quarterfinal.
Dana blocked me three times.
The first was clean.
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The second hit my shoulder before landing under the referee stand.
The third struck the ball so hard it rolled beneath a neighboring court and interrupted another match.
Dana smiled through the net.
“You going to hit somewhere else?”
“No.”
“Good.”
They blocked me again.
My team lost.
Afterward, I found Dana beside the equipment trailer helping a volunteer repair a broken net cable.
“You always this annoying?”
Dana looked up.
“Only when winning.”
“You aren’t playing anymore.”
“Still won.”
The volunteer handed Dana a wrench.
“Stop flirting and hold this.”
“We’re not flirting,” I said.
Dana answered at the same time.
“Maybe.”
The volunteer laughed.
I walked away.
Dana followed.
“Need a partner next weekend?”
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“For what?”
“Santa Barbara.”
“I have a partner.”
“So do I.”
“Then why are you asking?”
Dana shrugged.
“Neither one’s very good.”
That was how partnerships formed before email, online profiles, recruiting services, and highlight reels.
Insult.
Invitation.
Tournament.
We played Santa Barbara.
Finished fifth.
Argued through most of the drive home.
Entered again the following week.
Our styles did not match naturally.
Dana liked aggressive serving and immediate decisions.
I preferred patience, deep shots, and enough information to reduce uncertainty.
Dana believed hesitation created mistakes.
I believed certainty created different ones.
We spent our first season proving each other wrong.
It worked.
By autumn, we had climbed through local divisions and begun entering professional qualifiers.
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The prize money rarely covered travel.
The competition made us believe it might someday.
That belief became our budget.
The Women’s Tour
The women’s professional events felt different from local tournaments.
Not cleaner.
Not richer.
More intentional.
Every banner, interview, clinic, and sponsor meeting carried the same unspoken argument:
This belongs here.
The players understood that simply competing was not enough.
We had to promote.
Coach clinics.
Speak with reporters.
Meet sponsors.
Explain the sport to people who believed beach volleyball was a vacation activity rather than a profession.
At one event, an interviewer asked Dana whether the women played on a smaller court because the men
were stronger.
Dana stared at them.
“We play on the same court.”
“Oh.”
The interviewer checked the notes.
“Do you use the same ball?”
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Dana looked toward me.
I stepped between them.
“We should warm up.”
Later, Dana complained that I had prevented an educational opportunity.
“You were going to insult them.”
“Education takes many forms.”
We received our first sponsor in 1992.
A local sandwich shop offered uniforms, free meals, and five hundred dollars toward travel.
The owner handed us shirts with the restaurant logo across the front.
Dana held one up.
“It’s enormous.”
“They ordered men’s sizes.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t ask.”
The shirts reached halfway to our knees.
We wore them anyway.
Free sandwiches solved several problems pride could not.
Our sponsor expected us to make the main draw at Manhattan Beach.
We did not.
We lost the qualifying match after leading 13–10.
Dana missed two serves.
I overpassed a ball at match point.
The final rally ended when both of us called the middle and neither touched it.
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The ball landed between us.
Thirteen years later, people still remembered that point.
Not the crowd.
Our argument.
“You called it late,” Dana said.
“You moved early.”
“You were behind me.”
“I was in position.”
“For what? Watching?”
We carried the fight off the court.
Past registration.
Past the food stand.
Past the photographer, who lowered the camera when we approached.
Into the parking lot.
Dana threw the volleyball bag into Dolores.
“You don’t trust me.”
“You don’t wait for me.”
“Because waiting costs points.”
“Guessing costs partnerships.”
The words stopped us both.
A volunteer nearby pretended not to listen while loading folding chairs.
Dana closed the car door.
“Maybe that’s what this is.”
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“What?”
“A partnership built on both of us believing the other person will eventually change.”
I wanted to argue.
The problem was that Dana had described us perfectly.
We drove home in silence.
Stopped for gasoline without speaking.
Bought coffee without speaking.
When Dolores overheated near San Clemente, we stood beside the open hood while steam rose into the
dark.
Neither of us knew anything about engines.
For nearly an hour, we waited.
Finally Dana said, “We should split.”
The sentence should have hurt more than it did.
Mostly, it felt tired.
“After the season?”
“Now.”
“What about the sponsor?”
“They sponsored the team.”
“We are the team.”
“Not anymore.”
The tow truck arrived before I answered.
The driver looked at the volleyball gear packed to the roof.
“You win?”
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Dana laughed once.
“No.”
The driver nodded as though that explained the car.
Separate Roads
Dana partnered with a tall blocker from Los Angeles.
I teamed with a defender who had recently left indoor volleyball and believed every set should be fast
enough to injure someone.
We saw each other at tournaments.
Politely.
Sometimes we warmed up on neighboring courts.
Sometimes one partnership eliminated the other.
The beach watched for drama.
We denied it any.
That disappointed people.
Then beach volleyball appeared as a demonstration sport at the 1992 Olympics.
The footage reached every volleyball community we knew.
Suddenly the sport was not only professional.
It had an international destination.
Players who had once measured success by California rankings began discussing national teams.
Olympic pathways.
International events.
Selection systems nobody fully understood.
Dana called for the first time in six months.
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“Did you watch?”
“Yes.”
“We could do that.”
The word we arrived before either of us examined it.
“You already have a partner.”
“So do you.”
Neither partnership was working well.
We did not say that.
“When?” I asked.
“Tuesday.”
“Same court?”
“Same court.”
We returned to the public beach where we had practiced for years.
No conversation about the breakup.
No apology.
We served.
Passed.
Played defense.
After an hour, Dana said, “You still wait too long.”
“You still move too early.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Means we know what we’re getting.”
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That was the beginning of our second partnership.
It was better than the first.
Not because we changed completely.
Because we stopped requiring change as proof of commitment.
Dana remained aggressive.
I remained careful.
We developed systems that used both instincts.
On serve receive, I called seams early.
On defense, Dana chose the first read and I adjusted.
During disagreements, we described what we saw before announcing what the other person had done
wrong.
That last rule saved more matches than any serving strategy.
We chased international points.
Traveled farther.
Shared motel rooms with rivals.
Learned to compete on heavier sand and in weather California had not prepared us for.
At one overseas event, rain delayed play for two hours.
Teams crowded beneath tents.
Someone produced cards.
Another player connected a portable speaker to a battery.
Language barriers disappeared once everyone began arguing over rules.
Dana leaned toward me.
“This is the Olympics.”
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“We’re at a qualifier in the rain.”
“Exactly.”
The dream had expanded our world.
It also made the sport more complicated.
Results mattered more.
Partnership decisions carried national implications.
Coaches appeared with opinions about height, age, and compatibility.
One told me Dana was too inconsistent.
Another told Dana I lacked enough terminal offense.
Both offered replacement partners.
We told each other about the conversations immediately.
That became our new promise.
No secrecy disguised as strategy.
Atlanta
When beach volleyball became an official Olympic sport for Atlanta in 1996, the announcement did not
create celebration so much as acceleration.
Everything intensified.
Training.
Selection.
Travel.
Politics.
Rumors.
Who had support.
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Who had access.
Which results counted most.
Which partnerships selectors preferred.
Athletes who had built the sport through underfunded tours and improvised events now faced a system
deciding which few would represent it.
Dana thrived under pressure.
I studied it until I could no longer sleep.
Every match became a referendum.
Every mistake seemed to confirm someone’s criticism.
At a domestic trial event, I passed poorly through the opening game.
Dana tried to calm me.
“Next ball.”
“I know.”
“No, you’re still playing the last one.”
“I said I know.”
The sharpness surprised us.
We lost.
Afterward, a coach asked Dana to speak privately.
I watched from beside the medical tent.
The conversation lasted ten minutes.
Dana returned.
“What?”
“They want me to try with someone else.”
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My body reacted before my mind.
Heat.
Pressure.
A tightening beneath the ribs.
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“You should consider it.”
Dana stared at me.
“That’s what you want?”
“I want you to qualify.”
“We said no secrecy.”
“This isn’t secrecy.”
“No.”
Dana picked up the bag.
“It’s surrender dressed as generosity.”
I followed toward the parking lot.
“What if I’m the reason you don’t make it?”
“What if I leave and still don’t?”
“At least you’d know.”
Dana stopped beside Dolores, older now but still carrying us.
“I already know something.”
“What?”
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“I don’t want to reach the biggest tournament of my life by treating the person who built the road with me
like replaceable equipment.”
The sentence should have reassured me.
Instead, it created another pressure.
Loyalty became something I could fail.
We stayed together.
We did not qualify.
The final chance ended at an international event where we lost a three-set match after holding two match
points.
On the final rally, Dana served deep.
The opponent passed perfectly.
The set went outside.
I read line.
The hitter cut short.
The ball landed untouched.
Olympic dream over.
No controversy.
No bad call.
No injury.
Just a shot placed where I was not.
Dana walked beneath the net and shook hands.
I remained near the back line.
For years, I had imagined failure as collapse.
It felt quieter.
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A scoreboard changing.
A referee signing a sheet.
Another team advancing.
The world continuing without consulting us.
At the motel, we watched part of the Olympic coverage on television.
Neither spoke.
Finally Dana turned it off.
“Do you regret staying?”
The question had lived between us for months.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Dana nodded.
“Me neither.”
It was the most honest conversation we had ever had.
After the Dream
We continued playing.
People seemed surprised.
As though Olympic qualification had been the only acceptable reason to remain.
The professional tour kept moving.
Rules evolved.
Rally scoring entered discussion.
Court dimensions changed.
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Some veterans said the sport had been simplified for television.
Younger athletes adapted without mourning what they had never played.
Dana complained about rally scoring for an entire season.
“You can’t recover from mistakes.”
“You can by making fewer.”
“That is not philosophy.”
“It’s arithmetic.”
The smaller court changed defense.
Shots once unreachable became playable.
Serving strategy shifted.
Matches moved faster.
The sport we knew became another version of itself.
We adjusted.
That had always been the real game.
In 1999, Dana injured an ankle during warm-ups.
A deep sprain.
No fracture.
Enough to end the season.
I played with temporary partners.
Nobody fit.
One talked constantly.
Another never spoke.
One wanted every set tight.
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Another treated wind as a personal attack.
I realized how much of partnership lived beneath conscious thought.
Dana knew when my silence meant concentration and when it meant panic.
Knew which shoulder I protected when tired.
Knew when to ignore my apology and when it concealed something worse.
You cannot replace accumulated attention quickly.
During rehabilitation, Dana became unbearable.
Corrected everyone from the sideline.
Argued with trainers.
Created recovery deadlines no medical professional approved.
Finally, June—the equipment vendor—handed Dana a box of tangled boundary lines.
“Fix these.”
“My ankle’s injured.”
“Your hands aren’t.”
Dana spent two hours untangling lines.
Returned the next week voluntarily.
Then began helping juniors.
Coaching softened parts of Dana competition had sharpened.
Not all.
A twelve-year-old once asked why every drill became a contest.
Dana replied, “Because otherwise it’s movement.”
The child said, “Movement can be fun.”
Dana stared.
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Then redesigned practice.
I watched from outside the court and realized our playing partnership was nearing its natural end.
Not because we had failed.
Because another role had begun asking more from Dana.
When the ankle healed, we entered one final season.
We did not announce it as final.
That would have made every tournament too important.
We played local events.
Professional qualifiers.
One costume tournament where Dana dressed as a referee and argued every call against us for
authenticity.
At Santa Barbara, we reached a final.
The afternoon wind had become severe.
High sets moved several feet.
Spectators held umbrellas with both hands.
Our opponents were younger and stronger.
We won through patience.
Short serves.
Controlled shots.
Long rallies.
On championship point, Dana blocked line.
I defended angle.
The hitter swung directly into the block.
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Ball down.
Match over.
The crowd applauded.
Dana looked at me across the court.
Neither ran.
Neither shouted.
We simply smiled.
The victory did not erase Atlanta.
Did not restore younger bodies.
Did not prove loyalty had been strategically correct.
It belonged to itself.
That was enough.
We retired as partners after that season.
Dana coached full-time.
I became an official.
People found that amusing.
After years of questioning referees, I climbed the stand and discovered the game looked completely
different from above.
Players believed calls were obvious.
They rarely were.
The first time I made a disputed touch call, the defender approached.
“You missed it.”
I heard my younger self.
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The certainty.
The insult hidden inside disappointment.
“I saw a touch,” I said.
“There wasn’t one.”
“I understand you disagree.”
They continued.
I waited.
Eventually their partner led them away.
My hands shook after the match.
Dana found me beside the trailer.
“Bad call?”
“I don’t know.”
“Welcome to officiating.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“No.”
Dana handed me coffee.
“It’s accurate.”
The Last Assignment
Years later, I was assigned to referee a college tournament where Dana served as head coach.
Neither of us had planned the overlap.
Dana’s team reached the final.
Before the match, we stood near the scorekeeper’s table.
“This weird?” Dana asked.
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“Only if you argue.”
“I’m a coach.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
The final went three sets.
Dana’s athletes played with the same qualities our partnership had taken years to develop.
One aggressive.
One patient.
Different instincts used rather than corrected.
At 13–13 in the final set, a hard attack traveled toward my sideline.
The defender reached.
The ball changed direction slightly before landing outside.
Touch.
I blew the whistle.
Dana’s team lost the point.
The defender looked up.
“No touch.”
The crowd reacted.
Dana called timeout.
For a moment, history folded over itself.
The Manhattan qualifier.
The Olympic trial.
Every argument.
Every demand for certainty.
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Dana walked toward the stand.
I prepared for the question.
Instead, Dana looked at the athlete.
“What did you feel?”
“Nothing.”
Dana nodded.
Then looked at me.
“What did you see?”
“Touch.”
Dana turned back to the team.
“Then we play the next point.”
No argument.
No performance.
The match continued.
Dana’s team lost 15–13.
After handshakes, I climbed down.
Dana waited.
“You think I missed it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
I laughed.
“Then why didn’t you argue?”
“Because I trust you made the call you saw.”
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“That sounds mature.”
“I hated every second.”
“Better.”
Dana looked toward the athletes packing chairs.
“Disagreement used to feel like betrayal.”
“What changed?”
“Time.”
They shrugged.
“And losing enough arguments.”
We helped dismantle the court.
Coaches.
Officials.
Players.
Parents.
The roles had changed.
The work had not.
Changing Sides
At the end of every beach-volleyball game, teams switch sides.
The reason is practical.
Wind.
Sun.
Conditions.
No side should belong permanently to one team.
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As a young player, I treated side changes as interruptions.
Walk.
Switch.
Resume.
I understand them differently now.
Every beach-volleyball life eventually requires one.
Player to coach.
Partner to opponent.
Athlete to official.
Child to mentor.
Dreamer to witness.
The difficult part is not crossing the court.
It is accepting that the game continues after your view changes.
Dana and I remained in beach volleyball for decades.
Not as the athletes we imagined in the laundromat.
As people our younger selves would not have recognized as successful.
Dana built a college program where players learned to communicate across difference instead of searching
endlessly for perfect compatibility.
I officiated professional, junior, and community events.
Taught new referees to separate certainty from integrity.
We both volunteered.
Of course we did.
The beach does not allow anyone to remain impressive for long.
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Eventually everyone carries poles.
Rolls lines.
Searches for missing scoreboards.
One Saturday, I found Dana teaching a group of juniors how to read the wind.
They held a handful of sand and let it fall.
The grains drifted toward the pier.
One athlete asked, “How do you know when it’ll change?”
“You don’t,” Dana said.
“Then how do you prepare?”
“You pay attention.”
The athlete frowned.
“That’s it?”
“That’s most of it.”
Dana noticed me watching.
“You want to help?”
“I’m officiating in twenty minutes.”
“So you’ve got nineteen.”
They tossed me a volleyball.
We worked with the juniors until the announcer called my assignment.
Before leaving, one player asked whether Dana and I had ever competed together.
“For a while,” I said.
“Were you good?”
Dana answered.
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“Eventually.”
“Why’d you stop?”
I looked toward Dana.
They smiled.
“We changed sides.”
The player accepted that answer more easily than adults usually did.
I walked toward the referee stand.
Dana returned to practice.
The wind shifted before the first serve.
Everyone adjusted.
That was the year I finally understood what Dana had meant in the laundromat.
The Olympics did change what everything meant.
It turned ambition into pathways.
Partnership into strategy.
Local beaches into beginnings for international careers.
But the deepest meaning had always existed before the television report.
Show up.
Pay attention.
Share the conditions.
Change sides when required.
Keep playing.
The dryer eventually returned Dana’s shorts.
I never found the missing sock.