Saturday started before the sun fully came up. When Dad knocked softly on my bedroom door at 5:45 in the morning, I was already awake. like tournament-awake.
My brain had been turning on and off all night thinking about rotations, passing angles, serving zones, whether my jersey would feel different during real games, and what would happen if I accidentally shanked the first ball in front of everybody.
I sat up immediately the second Dad opened the door.
"Are we late?"
Dad looked at the clock on my nightstand. "It is literally five forty-five."
"That wasn't my question."
He laughed quietly. "No. We're fine."
The house felt strange that early in the morning. Quiet. Dim. The kitchen lights glowed softly while Mom packed snacks into a cooler bag near the counter, still wearing pajamas under a hoodie because apparently normal adults didn't wake up fully functional before six in the morning.
I, however, was functioning at approximately one thousand percent.
My Stormbreaker backpack already sat beside the table completely packed from the night before. Jersey folded carefully inside. Kneepads. Water bottle. Volleyball shoes. Extra socks because Coach Daniel said tournaments were long days and "nobody wants trapped-feet energy."
I didn't fully know what that meant, but it sounded serious. Mom slid pancakes onto a plate while I bounced one knee so aggressively beneath the stool that my orange juice shook slightly every few seconds.
"You need to eat something," she reminded me.
"I'm trying."
"You've been cutting the same pancake for like two minutes."
"I'm thinking."
Dad poured coffee into a travel mug and glanced at me. "About volleyball?"
"Obviously."
Outside, the California sky still looked dark blue when we finally left Pasadena. Tournament check-in started at seven-thirty, and the sports complex sat about forty minutes away near Anaheim. The freeway stayed mostly empty that early, long stretches of highway glowing beneath streetlights while soft music played quietly through the car speakers.
For maybe ten minutes, I actually stayed quiet. Then I opened my tablet.
Dad glanced in the rearview mirror immediately. "Volleyball videos?"
"Educational preparation."
Mom twisted slightly in her seat to look back at me. "What are you watching?"
"Serve receive clips."
"At six in the morning?"
"The Brazilian libero has really good control."
Dad laughed under his breath. "Of course he does."
The rest of the drive passed with me alternating between volleyball videos and staring out the window while my stomach slowly filled with nervous energy the closer we got. By the time the sports complex finally appeared ahead of us, huge and already crowded despite the early hour, my chest felt tight enough that even breathing seemed different.
Cars filled the parking lots. Kids in warm-up shirts crossed between buildings carrying giant volleyball backpacks almost as big as they were. Parents carried folding chairs and coffee cups while coaches rolled carts filled with volleyballs toward the entrance.
It looked important.
Stormbreaker Volleyball Club had already claimed a section near Court 3 by the time we walked inside. The sound hit immediately — sneakers squeaking against hardwood floors, whistles echoing through multiple courts, volleyballs bouncing everywhere, parents talking loudly from the bleachers while announcements played faintly overhead through old speakers.
The entire gym smelled like sports tape, rubber shoes, and breakfast sandwiches.
Honestly? It was amazing.
Coach Daniel stood beside a folding table holding a clipboard while Coach Mia organized check-in packets nearby. Players slowly gathered around them still looking sleepy, nervous, or wildly overexcited depending on the kid.
Mason looked fully awake already and was bouncing a volleyball against his forehead repeatedly for no reason.
"Dude," Tyler complained while fixing his jersey, "if you give yourself a concussion before the first game I'm stealing your snacks."
"You can't get concussions from volleyballs."
"That sounds fake."
Nearby, Ethan sat quietly tying his shoes while Noah stretched beside the wall with the terrifying seriousness of a child preparing for the Olympics instead of a U10 tournament.
Lucas looked nervous enough to throw up. Real nervous.
He kept adjusting the sleeves of his jersey over and over while glancing toward the courts.
Ben noticed immediately. "You okay?"
"What if I double-touch like… immediately?"
"You probably will," Mason answered cheerfully.
Lucas looked horrified.
"I'm kidding," Mason said. "Probably."
Coach Mia pointed sharply toward them. "Mason."
"I'm supporting emotionally."
"You are doing the opposite of that."
I sat down beside Owen while pulling on my kneepads. Owen was technically the backup libero, although he clearly still wished he played outside hitter instead.
"It's weird wearing the jersey," he admitted quietly while staring down at the Stormbreaker logo across his chest.
I nodded immediately because I understood exactly what he meant. The uniforms changed everything.Practices felt like practice. This felt like being part of something real.
Coach Daniel finally clapped twice loudly enough that everybody turned.
"Alright guys, bring it in."
Children shuffled closer in uneven messy lines while parents slowly drifted toward the bleachers nearby.
Coach Daniel crouched slightly so he spoke closer to eye level.
"First tournament of the season," he said calmly. "That means today is about learning how tournaments work. Nobody expects perfection. You will make mistakes. Probably lots of them."
Mason raised his hand immediately. "What if we make impressive mistakes?"
"That seems likely too."
Several kids laughed.
Coach Daniel pointed toward the courts around us. "You're going to hear whistles constantly. You're going to hear parents yelling. Some teams will look bigger than you. Some players will serve harder than you've seen before. None of that matters once the ball crosses the net."
Coach Mia stepped beside him holding the lineup sheet.
"For Game 1, we're running two primary rotations. Remember your base positions."
She pointed toward players one by one.
"Lucas setting first rotation. Ben setting second rotation."
Both boys nodded immediately.
"Noah and Ethan, middles."
The two boys bumped fists.
"Tyler and Mason at opposite."
Mason saluted dramatically for some reason.
"Dylan and Alex outside hitters."
Dylan grinned while Alex immediately started bouncing nervously on his toes.
"And libero rotation will primarily be Matteo, with Owen rotating depending on serving substitutions."
My stomach flipped the second she said it out loud. Across the gym, another team in red jerseys started warming up near Court 3.
San Marino Volleyball Club.
Their players looked about our age too, though a couple boys already seemed taller than most of us. One outside hitter kept jump-serving warm-up balls into the back wall accidentally while his coach corrected him loudly.
"That's definitely going out during the game," Mason whispered beside me.
The San Marino setter , a blond kid, looked calm though. He moved smoothly during warmups while talking constantly to his hitters. Their libero wore a green jersey and stayed low almost the entire time, passing balls cleanly toward the net over and over.
Coach Mia noticed me watching.
"Good libero," she said quietly beside me.
I nodded immediately. "His reflexes are amazing."
She looked mildly impressed for half a second before turning back toward the team.
Meanwhile, parents had fully settled into the bleachers now. Mom and Dad sat beside Ethan's parents and Tyler's mom while several adults introduced themselves awkwardly like sports parents always seemed to do.
Dad waved once toward me from the stands. I waved back immediately. Then suddenly the announcer called our court number. And just like that, everything became real.
The teams lined up near the end line while referees checked rosters and coaches handed over rotation sheets. Volleyballs bounced across surrounding courts. Whistles echoed everywhere. Somewhere nearby, another group of children screamed after winning a rally.
Coach Daniel gathered us into one final huddle.
"Deep breaths," he said calmly. "Talk to each other. Move your feet. Trust your teammates."
Mason stuck his hand into the middle first. "Stormbreakers on three?"
Everybody crowded closer immediately.
"One," Lucas said.
"Two," Tyler added.
"THREE!"
"STORMBREAKERS!"
The team broke apart laughing and shouting while we sprinted toward the court.
On the opposite side of the net, San Marino finished their own huddle.
The referee checked both benches one final time.
Then Coach Daniel tossed the ball toward our side.
And Tyler stepped behind the service line to begin the first match in Stormbreaker history.