The Phone Call That Saved My Career

We’ve all had those mornings. The ones when it feels like the jersey feels too heavy to put on or the thought of stepping on the court or field feels like an impossible task. For many athletes, these moments happen in the heat of a high school or college season or during a dreaded finals week. For me, the first time I almost quit actually happened before I knew how to barely serve a volleyball over the net. I was only ten years old, on a beginners’ city league team called the Orange Thunderbirds, and I was ready to quit in my first season.

I remember when I first signed up to be on a team. I was super excited to try something new, but my excitement quickly turned into a silent form of anxiety. Since I was brand new to volleyball, every practice felt like a highlight reel of my mistakes and inadequacy. I just wanted to be good. I looked up to the older players that had the power and experience when they played. But I was just a newbie, and I was really clumsy.

By the time Saturday morning came for one of my games mid-season, what used to be excitement became debilitating nervousness. I walked into my mom’s room, not in my jersey, but in my pajamas. I told her in a shaky voice, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

My mom didn’t argue. She didn’t try to give me a pep talk or tell me I was great. Rather, she just looked at me calmly and said, “So, you want to quit?” When I slowly nodded, she picked up her phone then said, “Okay, then I will call your coach and you have to tell him why you want to quit.”

I remember in tears crying out a loud, “NOOOOO!” The thought of calling my coach and hearing the disappointment in his voice was something I never wanted to hear. Even more so, thinking about abandoning my teammates was more terrifying than the game itself. I realized in that moment that quitting wasn’t just walking away, it was letting down the people I had committed to for selfish reasons.

My mom started dialing the number. As the phone started to ring, it hit me. I couldn’t do it. “Fine! I’ll go!” I interjected. She quickly hung up the phone, and just looked back at me, still with a calm expression and tone, but a bit more stern, and said, “Schnebergers never quit.”

She continued to explain to me that once you commit to something, you always finish what you have started. But my mom did give me the option that after I completed this season, I never had to touch a volleyball again if I didn’t want to. All I committed to do for the time being was to do this one season. I just had to honor my word for now.

To my complete surprise, once my misconception and pressure of “having” to play forever was gone, I started to actually play my way. I learned to love the rhythm of the game. I got better with more practice, and I eventually found my confidence. The ten-year-old girl who was crying in her pajamas is the same person who is a student athlete at UVU playing volleyball at the highest collegiate level and also helping younger players find their own footing as an athletic mentor.

The twist of this story isn’t that I became a great player, it’s that the day I felt the weakest actually was the day that I became the strongest. My mom taught me a very valuable lesson. Commitment isn’t a feeling, it’s a choice you make when the feeling goes away.

Today, when I’m mentoring other athletes who are struggling with burnout or injury, I think back to the Orange Thunderbirds. I tell them that it’s okay to want to quit, but it’s not okay to break your word. Sometimes, you just have to stay in the game long enough for the "Force" of the grind to turn back into the "Flow" of the passion. Because at the end of the day, we finish what we start.

Today, when I am mentoring other athletes who are struggling with burnout, injury, or thoughts of quitting, I think back to my time as an Orange Thunderbird. I tell them that it’s okay to want to quit, but it is not okay to break your word. Sometimes you just have to stay in the game long enough for the “Force” of the grind to turn back into the “Flow” of the passion. I guess the biggest lesson I’ve learned is that my mom was right. The only way to see what you're capable of is to refuse to let a bad Saturday morning be the end of your story.