The second the excitement settled enough for me to breathe normally again, my brain immediately moved to the next problem.
"We need to print the forms."
Dad blinked from the couch. "Right now?"
"Yes."
"It's eight in the morning."
"And the registration deadline is July third."
Mom laughed softly while reaching for her coffee. "Matteo, that's still a week away."
"But what if somebody forgets? Or the system glitches? Or another kid takes my spot because we were irresponsible?"
Dad stared at me for a few seconds before looking at Mom. "He's definitely your son."
"I heard that," I muttered immediately.
Within ten minutes, I already had the registration packet spread across the dining room table while Dad connected the printer. The stack of papers looked enormous to me. Waivers, emergency contact forms, medical information, transportation permissions, uniform sizing sheets. Real team paperwork. Real athlete paperwork.
I sat beside the printer watching pages slowly slide out one by one like they were sacred historical documents. Every few seconds another paper appeared, and every time it did, my excitement somehow grew stronger instead of calming down.
"This one needs initials," I announced while pointing dramatically at one of the pages Dad hadn't even picked up yet.
"Buddy," he sighed while sorting through the stack, "I haven't even finished printing them."
"We need organization."
"You're eight. Be a kid"
"That's old enough for organization, and Im a kid"
Mom was laughing again by then while signing the first few forms near the edge of the table. I could barely stay seated for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Every couple minutes I reread the acceptance email like it might suddenly disappear if I stopped checking it.
Stormbreaker Volleyball Club Boys U10 Development Team.
Every time I saw those words, my chest tightened all over again.
The moment the paperwork situation became "acceptable," another thought hit me so hard I nearly slid out of my chair.
"CHARLIE."
Mom looked up immediately. "What?"
"I need to tell Charlie."
Before either of them could answer, I was already sprinting toward the kitchen wall phone. Technically we had cordless phones too, but for some reason I liked the wall phone more because it felt important. I dialed Charlie's house number from memory while bouncing on my toes so aggressively the cord wrapped around my arm twice.
Her dad answered first.
"Hello?"
"MR. THOMPSON HI IT'S MATTEO IS CHARLIE AWAKE."
There was a short pause. Then distant yelling somewhere deeper in the house.
"CHARLIE! THE VOLLEYBALL KID IS CALLING."
"I HEARD THAT," Charlie yelled back immediately.
A few seconds later she picked up.
"Hello?"
"I MADE THE TEAM."
Charlie screamed directly into the phone so loudly I had to pull it away from my ear.
"YOU MADE IT TOO?!"
"I KNEW YOU WOULD."
"My mom cried."
"My dad almost cried."
"That counts."
I started pacing across the kitchen while holding the phone against my shoulder, talking so fast I could barely breathe between sentences. We immediately started discussing tournament schedules, practice days, uniforms, and which kids from tryouts probably made the teams too.
"I'm picking number eight," I announced confidently.
Charlie paused for a second. "Why eight?"
"Because my birthday is the eighteenth."
"That's actually kinda smart."
"I know."
She snorted. "You sound proud of yourself."
"I am."
Charlie eventually informed me she wanted jersey number nine because it was "a setter-looking number," which honestly sounded completely fake, but I accepted the logic anyway because volleyball people apparently believed weird things about jersey numbers.
After hanging up, I walked back into the kitchen already thinking about the next important thing.
"Dad."
He looked up cautiously. "That tone worries me."
"We should go look at volleyball shoes today."
"…Today?"
"Yes."
"You already have athletic shoes."
"These are DIFFERENT."
Dad looked toward Mom like he was asking for support. Unfortunately for him, Mom betrayed him instantly.
"He does kind of need volleyball shoes now."
I pointed dramatically at her. "THANK you."
Dad sighed the sigh of a defeated father. "Alright. After lunch."
The drive to the sports store felt way longer than it actually was because I spent most of the ride talking nonstop about volleyball equipment. By the time we arrived at the giant sporting goods store, I was practically vibrating with excitement again.
The volleyball section smelled weirdly like rubber, fresh fabric, and new shoes. Rows of kneepads, arm sleeves, volleyballs, athletic tape, and court shoes lined the walls while giant posters of professional athletes hung overhead. I think I stopped walking for a second just to stare around me.
Dad noticed immediately. "You okay?"
"This place is incredible."
A store employee eventually helped measure my feet while I stood completely still for maybe the first time all day.
"Looks like he's around a kids' size four," the employee explained while writing something onto a clipboard.
Dad nodded, but I had already turned toward the shoe wall like my life depended on it.
There were so many. White ones. Black ones. Neon ones that looked radioactive. Some looked heavy. Some looked weirdly futuristic. Then I saw them.
A pair of ASICS Upcourt 6 GS shoes with white, navy, and bright blue details across the sides.
I picked one up carefully and turned it over in my hands. "These are libero shoes."
Dad blinked slowly. "That's not a real category."
"It is spiritually."
The employee laughed quietly while Dad rubbed his forehead.
"They're lightweight," I continued immediately. "Good grip pattern too. Also ASICS are popular with defensive players because the court feel is better."
Dad stared at me. "You researched shoes?"
"Obviously."
A few minutes later, I was already jogging tiny circles around the aisle while trying them on. The shoes squeaked lightly against the polished floor, and honestly, that sound alone made me happy.
"They fit?" Dad asked.
"They fit perfectly."
"You look like you're about to enter the Olympics."
"That's the long-term plan."
Dad laughed under his breath before finally nodding toward the employee. "Alright. We'll take them."
That should have been enough. It absolutely was not enough. Because then I saw the equipment wall.
Specifically, the jump training resistance bands.
I stopped moving completely.
Dad followed my line of sight and immediately frowned. "No."
"But—"
"You're eight."
"They improve explosiveness."
"You are not attaching resistance parachutes to yourself."
"It's for athletic development."
Dad physically turned me away from the display before I could keep arguing, but unfortunately that only made me notice something even more dangerous a few feet away.
A weighted setter training volleyball.
I gasped softly. "Oh my god."
Dad closed his eyes immediately. "Absolutely not."
"But what if I need emergency setting abilities?"
"You're a libero."
"Liberos still set sometimes."
"You learned that like four days ago."
"Thats not true, coach daniel told me when I was 6, because i just wanted to practice recieves."
I picked up the weighted volleyball carefully while reading the description on the box. It explained hand positioning, setter touch development, wrist strengthening, and control training.
Honestly, it looked amazing.
Dad crouched slightly beside me. "Buddy."
"What?"
"You do not need specialized setter equipment right now."
"But what if the setter touches the first ball and I have to set the outside hitter?"
Dad blinked twice.
"…Why do you already know emergency offensive systems?"
"Because volleyball is complicated."
The employee helping us laughed so hard he actually had to walk away for a second.
Eventually Dad compromised by letting me get a new volleyball backpack and upgraded kneepads alongside the shoes. I accepted this deal mostly because Mom later whispered that "starting with smaller purchases makes parents easier to negotiate with over time," which honestly sounded strategically genius.
By the time we left the store, I carried the bag against my chest the entire walk back to the car like somebody might steal it.
And for the first time since opening the email that morning, something inside me finally settled enough to fully understand what had happened.
This wasn't pretend anymore. I really belonged to a volleyball club now.