Practice Makes Perfect
Practice Makes Perfect
It was another scorching day in July and I had just awakened from the sun shining through my bedroom window. I stretched my legs and yawned, dreading the running I would soon be doing. My dad had the same breakfast menu I had been eating all week waiting for me in the kitchen: banana, whole wheat toast, skim milk, and four ounces of water. I devoured the banana and toast, then gulped down my milk and water and scurried out of the door. As I walked to the gym I thought to myself, “This is the last day I have to get myself prepared for the tiring volleyball tryouts”.
All week I had run on the treadmill and practiced on my over-hand serve. Ever since the fourth grade when I began playing for Fellowship Christian Athletes volleyball league all I had dreamt about was playing volleyball in high school. I had been to Sullivan North’s volleyball games before; in my mind I could hear the girls yell out to their teammates, “Help!” or, “I got it!” At the same time I could hear the screeching from the shoes on the shiny, golden court moving fast, not letting the ball touch the floor. The thuds from the players diving on their knees intrigued me so much. I looked up to the girls as role models because they were superior at volleyball; I only hoped that I could play volleyball as good as them one day.
When I finished my workout, I decided to call my older sister Raegan to come over and play a game of volleyball against me. She willingly accepted the invitation. I rushed back to my dad’s apartment and sped through the door. I yelled to my dad, “Toss me the volleyball! I have to practice my serve before Raegan gets here!”
My dad replied, “Honey, chill out. It’s just your sister, not the actual tryouts.” I shut the door and raced to the tennis court. Luckily, Raegan hadn’t arrived yet. I began to practice my serve. Over and over I hit the ball against the wall. “Let your whole palm touch the ball,” I kept telling myself.
I heard someone call out, “Hey,
It was another scorching day in July and I had just awakened from the sun shining through my bedroom window. I stretched my legs and yawned, dreading the running I would soon be doing. My dad had the same breakfast menu I had been eating all week waiting for me in the kitchen: banana, whole wheat toast, skim milk, and four ounces of water. I devoured the banana and toast, then gulped down my milk and water and scurried out of the door. As I walked to the gym I thought to myself, “This is the last day I have to get myself prepared for the tiring volleyball tryouts”.
All week I had run on the treadmill and practiced on my over-hand serve. Ever since the fourth grade when I began playing for Fellowship Christian Athletes volleyball league all I had dreamt about was playing volleyball in high school. I had been to Sullivan North’s volleyball games before; in my mind I could hear the girls yell out to their teammates, “Help!” or, “I got it!” At the same time I could hear the screeching from the shoes on the shiny, golden court moving fast, not letting the ball touch the floor. The thuds from the players diving on their knees intrigued me so much. I looked up to the girls as role models because they were superior at volleyball; I only hoped that I could play volleyball as good as them one day.
When I finished my workout, I decided to call my older sister Raegan to come over and play a game of volleyball against me. She willingly accepted the invitation. I rushed back to my dad’s apartment and sped through the door. I yelled to my dad, “Toss me the volleyball! I have to practice my serve before Raegan gets here!”
My dad replied, “Honey, chill out. It’s just your sister, not the actual tryouts.” I shut the door and raced to the tennis court. Luckily, Raegan hadn’t arrived yet. I began to practice my serve. Over and over I hit the ball against the wall. “Let your whole palm touch the ball,” I kept telling myself.
I heard someone call out, “Hey,