Chapman Essay Mikaela Armstrong

I am dragged to focus on hundreds of voices, the raging determination and instruction of my coach’s yelling, the encouraging cheers of my classmates, the steady affirmation of my teammates, and the screaming silence in my head. They all lead up to the utmost awaited whistle to begin. I can literally taste a perfect pass, just pressing on the “sweet spot,” on my platform, the perfect formation of my shoulders just over my knees and my knees over my toes. I envision the perfect arch and speed directed precisely at my prepared setter. The setter gracefully pushes the ball to our overbearingly tall middle hitter, who effortlessly yet powerfully swings with all of her might at this small object: the ball.

If you’ve ever desired a place or situation so much you could touch and taste the energy, that’s how the volleyball court is to me. I can feel the sturdiness of the hardwood floor and can feel sweat dripping down my right temple as I try not to be distracted by the heat effect it actually brings me. I constantly desire that feeling of using my torn and battered kneepads to make the greatest save as the ball is but centimeters from the ground, until I give that last bit of energy and fight. Success, swiftness, sweat, and hard work...