From Zero to Spike: My Unexpected Encounter with Volleyball

If someone had told my high-school self—who used to sprint away at the first glimpse of a volleyball—that just a few years later I would treasure an hour on court every week, I would have rolled my eyes. Yet, during my year at Zhejiang University, life has unfolded in unexpected ways—and the most surprising of them all is that I now love volleyball.

It began with a roommate’s casual, “Come play one set.” My first pass veered straight into the net, my arms turned tomato-red, and humiliation nearly sent me packing. But his cheerful “One more try!” and “That was better!” worked like a warm catalyst. So I bent my knees, extended my arms, and corrected my stance—again and again. The ball stung every time it slammed into my forearms, yet each shouted “Nice!” left me grinning.

Later, we formed a team for an intramural tournament. Determined not to be the weak link, I haunted the empty gym, bumping against the wall alone and sneaking into scrimmages whenever enough people gathered. The first time I floated a perfect pass to the setter and heard his surprised “Great ball,” I was hooked. I realized that volleyball is less a scoring contest than a millisecond relay of trust between six people—every arc the ball carves carries the signature of teamwork.

Recently, the Malaysian Students’ Association announced a friendly match, and I signed up without hesitation. Memories of failed serves still flicker in my mind, and I sometimes worry that my shaky technique might drag the team down. But every “Don’t sweat it—try again!” from the captain lifts the weight off my shoulders. Teammates patiently refine my form until I can send a solid float serve over the net. With each drill, I feel myself inching from liability toward reliable. And when they circle around me after a furious rally, laughing that I’ve “come a long way,” every lingering doubt fades.

The court has become my unexpected classroom. Every serve feels like a pop quiz, every rally a collaborative project.

Volleyball has taught me the true heft of the word “growth.” It’s shown me that pain marks the frontier, not the limit; that mistakes are invitations, not verdicts. It teaches trust—the kind where six lungs share one rhythm, where his approach, her jump, and my bump mesh like gears. And it teaches courage—the guts to take the first, hardest step, and to stare a fresh failure in the face while still saying, “Again!”

Perhaps the true victory was never on the scoreboard, but in the quiet blend of passion and resilience now circulating in my blood. The next time I lace up and step onto the hardwood, I won’t just be the rookie afraid of messing up—I’ll be a teammate who understands cooperation, who can read a setter’s silent cue, and who dares to chase every impossible save. That evolving version of myself—equal parts grit and joy—is the best prize volleyball could offer.