Misty

by Misty May-Treanor

  Over the years, my parents compensated for this lack of acceptance by creating their own extended family. Dad adopted people who needed help. He embraced them and took care of them. Mom adopted stray animals. She always had a menagerie at our house. She had numerous dogs (Noodles, Sandy, Claudia, Kolohe, Madison, Holly, Chewy, Katie) and cats (Mr. Peepers, Lola, Spike, Pokey, Red, Speedo), along with a yard filled with birds. Dad and Mom taught me a valuable lesson, in this regard: Families are what you make them. They come in all sizes, shapes, and forms. And they even come with fur, feathers, four legs, and wings.

  Mom never questioned her decision to marry Dad. She never gave it a second thought. I learned some valuable lessons in her bold, controversial move. The importance of having the courage of your convictions, of doing what you think or feel is right even when others disagree. The richness of the rewards that come from following your heart and taking the road less traveled. The strength and wisdom you gain from being true to yourself.

  With Dad keeping his distance from my grandparents, and they from him, it changed the dynamics of our family. It made the three of us extremely close. We were the Three Musketeers, one for all and all for one, loyal to each other through thick and thin. No one would, or could, ever come between us. We got the best, and the worst, of each other. We lived in a hermetically sealed world, our own special, little, impenetrable bubble. Mom created it, and as time went on, Dad understood the benefits of it, too. She was of the mind-set, “This is now our family.”

  Complicating matters, Dad had been married twice before, to the same woman, Linda Stutsman. Although they weren’t married very long either time, together they had had two sons, Brack and Scott. Basically, Dad married Linda a few months before each of the boys was born, then they divorced soon after. There was, and still is, a lot of acrimony. Dad recalls Linda instructing the boys to call him “Uncle” after the divorces. It was, and still is, a very painful situation for all of them.

  Growing up, I didn’t see my half brothers all that much, mostly during the summers. They didn’t see Dad a whole lot either because of his crazy work and volleyball schedules. Dad’s mother, Mele May, who lived in San Francisco, or Dad’s sister Genevieve Vanek, who lived in Fremont, California, would phone Linda and ask to see the boys. Then Dad magically appeared for a visit with them.

  In my parents’ minds, their special, little, impenetrable bubble was necessary, so I didn’t become encumbered by negative emotions. Dad got a hard time from Linda, and Mom got a hard time from her folks. It hurt them both, very deeply, but they coped with it, figuring there was no reason to subject me to the hard feelings, too.

  In their way of thinking, that special, little, impenetrable bubble was necessary, in order for all of their concentration to be on me. That was especially true after they both got sober. That bubble was their excuse not to have to be with everybody else, to shut out all of the bad influences, to focus on something more positive and a whole lot healthier than whatever the dysfunction was. I was the focal point. In addition, Dad promised himself when I was born that he’d be a better father to me than he had been to Brack and Scott. He threw all of his energy behind me, into my well-being and my future. I became his mission.

  I also think that special, little, impenetrable bubble was important to Dad and Mom because it shielded them from alcohol. They’d both been great athletes earlier in their lives, but they’d had some sort of deficiency that had kept them from becoming as great as they could have been or had hoped to be. My parents certainly weren’t going to let that happen to me. Perhaps it was the drinking. Perhaps it was not having somebody to take them to their athletic competitions. Perhaps it was not having someone to introduce them to the right people. Whatever the reason, Dad and Mom failed to realize their potential in sports, and they were going to make sure I had every opportunity.

  What kinds of values did Mom teach me?

  To love yourself. On the outside, Mom was not a stereotypical Southern California beauty. She was a large, muscular woman. She weighed about two hundred pounds. Strong arms. Powerful legs. Aggressive. Competitive. Tough. Growing up, she and I competed in “nose-offs.” We’d stand side by side and stick our noses in the air to see who was taller. When I was a sophomore at Long Beach State, I lost the “nose-off” for good (I stopped growing): Mom was five feet ten, I was five feet eight and a half. Back in Mom’s day, when women’s sports weren’t as accepted by society, there was a term used to describe her and other sports-minded females: tomboys. Nobody ever called me a tomboy, which shows how far women have come.

  It didn’t bother Mom that she wasn’t a supermodel. She wasn’t fazed by the wrinkles on her face, from years of playing tennis, paddle tennis, and beach volleyball in the blazing sun. She didn’t dress in the latest fashions, and she wasn’t a size 0. She wore my old stuff, mostly shorts and T-shirts. I remember her wearing a dress only once.

  “You don’t want to embarrass Misty,” her girlfriends would say, before my banquets and awards ceremonies. “Are you sure you’ve got something nice to wear?”

  Of course, I always held my breath, wondering what getups Mom and Dad would show up in. For instance, Dad didn’t have an outfit to wear to the 1999 Honda-Broderick Cup reception in Reno, Nevada, when I was named the nation’s outstanding collegiate female athlete. So he went shopping at a local western wear shop. When he sauntered into the ballroom, I gasped. Wrangler jeans. Quilted western shirt. Bolo tie. Leather jacket. Cowboy boots. He looked as if he’d stepped out of the movie Lonesome Dove.

  Because of Mom’s influence, I’ve never had an eating disorder or a body image problem. I’ve never been hung up on how I look physically. I’m proud of my body. My ideal playing weight is 150 to 155 pounds. At one time, I weighed almost 170 pounds, but I also was bench pressing about 145 pounds.

  Just like Mom, I’m also not interested in clothes. “Life’s not a fashion show,” my parents always taught me. I’ve had a difficult time breaking out of that mind-set. Even today, I hate trying things on, I have a horrible eye for clothes and I despise spending money. I like shopping, but I have no fashion sense. If I’m really stuck, a friend, who’s a stylist, will dress me. Fashion is just really hard for me. It’s tiresome to have to think about it.

  To be compassionate. Mom and Dad opened their hearts to people and animals. Without thinking twice, they’d give you the shirts off their backs. Mom helped families raise funds to participate in our club volleyball programs. Giving to others was a prominent part of growing up for me. It wasn’t unnatural. You give to others without asking for anything in return. You just give, and give, and give . . . and things will come back to you in little ways, in different ways.

  To be charitable. Mom never turned down any charity that asked for help. Dad had no clue how much money she’d donated until after she died. Then he studied the family checkbook. She always said, “If you don’t ask, Butch, you won’t be upset.” It wasn’t in the hundreds of dollars—it was well into the thousands. She felt her $25, $50, or $100 check would make the difference to whatever cause her heart was behind. Mom always had canned food, granola bars, and clothing packed in the car, to give out to the homeless and less fortunate.

  To be generous. Mom was a great coach, always willing to instill her passion and share her knowledge, especially with teams I wasn’t involved in. She coached tennis for the Beverly Hills and Culver City parks and recreation departments. She coached paddle tennis at the Sand & Sea Club. She coached boys’ and girls’ volleyball teams at Saints Simon and Jude, a parochial school in Orange County. She also coached at Santa Monica College. She always felt if she helped one person, she’d done her job, especially if she’d touched kids who’d never play again, after leaving middle or high school.

  To be inclusive. At the beach, there’d be people who wouldn’t be included in games because they were older, disabled, new to beach volleyball or paddle tennis, or just not part of the “in” crowd. Mom and Dad always were the first to say, “Would you lik
e to play?” They remembered how important it was to them to be included, especially when they were starting out in beach volleyball. They knew how painful it was to be an outsider, and they liked making people feel comfortable.

  They had a friend, Gwen Foledar, a member of the Sand & Sea Club, who was physically challenged. She had a genetic condition that caused her to be unusually small. She’d never tried paddle tennis, and Mom sensed Gwen always was on the outside looking in. One day, Mom asked Gwen, “Would you like to play paddle tennis with me?”

  “Oh, no, I can’t play,” Gwen said.

  “How do you know? You haven’t tried,” Mom said.

  Gwen was so grateful to be included, when she took the court, she was shaking. Mom was inspired by Gwen to work on a master’s degree in adapted physical education. Gwen encouraged Mom, telling her she’d be great with the disabled. Gwen was with Mom when I was born. In fact, Gwen held me before Dad even saw me.

  To be a positive role model. Mom taught me that you can learn something from everybody, that nobody is more special or important than anybody else, that you never know who you’re going to run into or how you’re going to affect someone. For instance, I could take my Olympic gold medals to “Show and Tell” at an elementary school, and the next thing you know, some kid is doing something extraordinary. It was an aha moment: “Oh, my gosh, it wasn’t until I saw that Olympic gold medal that I knew I could do this.” If you affect one person, and that person affects another, it’s a trickle-down effect. I learned a long time ago you only need one grain of sand to make a pro.

  To live passionately. One of my favorite Mom stories has to do with her Fountain Valley volleyball league crew. There were about thirty-five regulars, or five teams or so. You know how some people say, “We just play for the fun of it”? That wasn’t Mom and her girlfriends. In fact, her nickname, on the beach and indoors, was “Killer B.” If you were playing the middle, and you made three mistakes, she’d say, “You’re outta here.” She was determined not to lose. Why? Because the first-place team didn’t have to bring lunch the following week. She prided herself on not having to cook.

  To never back down—especially not from Dad. My family’s most infamous volleyball story occurred when Mom and Dad were playing as partners in the 1975 Marine Street Mixed Open. I hadn’t come along yet. They were ahead, 12–9, in a fifteen-point game in the finals of the winners bracket. They had to win it to advance to the championship. One thing led to another, and it didn’t take long for Dad to start coaching, or rather overcoaching. Soon, they both were hotter than the Southern California sand, and they were letting their opponents Buzz Swartz and Nina Grouwinkle back into the game.

  “Hey, B., why didn’t you get that one?” Dad asked. “Put it up on one, and I’ll put it away.”

  “Well, if you think you can put it away, how come you didn’t put the fourth one away?” she snapped.

  “I’m the captain, I’m going to have the last word,” he lectured.

  “Well, if you’re the captain, you’d put more balls down,” she argued. “Just deal with it.”

  “If you want to be the captain, set the ball up higher and closer,” he snarled.

  “Just deal with it,” she said.

  Just deal with it? Dad was infuriated. He didn’t like being challenged on the volleyball court. And he was such a talented player that he could hit any spot he wanted to. That’s a dangerous combination. As he went back to serve, he said, “Move up. Watch the first pass coming over.”

  She groaned.

  “Just deal with it,” she said, loudly.

  Just deal with it? Mom pushed Dad’s buttons again. Finally, he muttered under his breath, “The hell with it!” He used a top-spin serve, threw up the ball as hard as he could, then he bopped Mom on the back of her head.

  Their friend Sandy Malpee, officiating the match, came to Mom’s rescue.

  “Barb, he did it on purpose!” Sandy said.

  With that, Mom and Dad stormed off the court, quitting the tournament and forfeiting their chance for a second-place finish. They loaded their stuff into their van, and roared away. It was a seventeen-minute drive to their apartment in Santa Monica, without traffic. That day, though, it felt like seventeen hours. They hit every red light. When they reached Ocean and Lincoln, just two blocks from Muscle Beach, Dad said, “Hey, B., want to go down to the beach and finish that tournament?”

  “With you?” Mom asked, disgustedly.

  “Yeah,” Dad said.

  “Oh, all right,” she moaned.

  And off they went to pretend to finish the Marine Street Mixed Open.

  The next day, Dad’s temper tantrum made the sports pages of the South Bay Daily Breeze, under the headline, “Butch May Goes Berserk.”

  9

  LONG BEACH STATE

  As the top high school recruit in the country, I had my pick of colleges. I received more than three hundred recruiting letters, and my final list was a Who’s Who of the nation’s best programs: Stanford, Hawaii, Arizona, University of the Pacific, and Long Beach State.

  Having the freedom to go anywhere should have made my choice a no-brainer. I couldn’t have made the wrong choice if I picked the school by throwing at a dart board, right? Wrong. College helps you discover who you are, who you can become, and what life is all about. It was important for me not to make a decision just to make a decision, but rather to put a lot of thought into what I wanted to get out of volleyball and what I wanted to do after I was done playing. I had to be mature, intelligent, and strategic.

  I know this now, in part because, early in the process, without doing my research, I’d made an emotional decision, verbally committing to the University of the Pacific. One day, I got completely carried away, thanks to Elsa Stegemann, a friend I’d played against in club volleyball. Out of the blue, we suddenly promised we’d play together in college. Elsa wanted to attend UOP; I wasn’t clear about my choice. But since we were a package deal, I verbally committed to UOP, too, as a sophomore at Newport Harbor. However, until you sign an NCAA letter of intent, you aren’t legally bound to a program. Soon after committing, I started re-examining my decision.

  If you’d asked me, when I was a freshman in high school, what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would’ve said a professional soccer player. By my junior year, though, I began seeing myself playing professional indoor volleyball, in an international league. I also thought I had a shot at the U.S. Olympic indoor team.

  Although I was a highly touted outside hitter, I believed my pro and Olympic career hinged on becoming a setter. While I’m considered tall in the real world, I’m shorter than the prototypical world-class indoor volleyball player. Actually, I’m a midget. These days, the best college and pro outside hitters are about six foot three. I’m only five foot eight and a half. Being a setter, I figured, would give me more cachet. When I was growing up, Dad insisted I learn every position because you never know when a teammate will suffer an injury and you’ll have to fill in for her. That was one of the most important volleyball lessons Dad ever taught me. Knowing how to play every position has made me the player I am. Sadly, these days, kids specialize in one position.

  While researching college programs, I’d ask, “Who’s the best setting coach?” Time and again, the same name came up: Debbie Green, Long Beach State assistant coach. Experts called her “the best female U.S. setter ever.” A two-time All-American at USC, she led the Trojans to two national championships. She also was a member of the 1980 Olympic team (the U.S. boycotted the 1980 Moscow Olympics, so she didn’t go) and then led the U.S. to a silver medal at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics.

  And so, in August, before my junior year at Newport Harbor, I phoned Brian Gimmillaro, Long Beach State’s head women’s volleyball coach, and verbally committed to being a part of his program. Under Brian, the 49ers had won two NCAA championships (1989, 1993). You would’ve thought the first words out of his mouth would be: “Yippee! I’ve just landed the number one recruit in the country!”
Instead, he said, “Who’s playing a prank on me?” (That was Debbie’s reaction, too, when Brian told her about my call.) They were stunned by my decision, since I hadn’t yet made an “official” visit to campus.

  Truthfully, I didn’t need to go through that exercise. I’d attended Long Beach State’s girls’ volleyball camps every summer from the time I was in sixth grade. I liked the coaching staff, the players, the program, and the school. There were other pluses, too. It was twenty minutes from Costa Mesa. My parents could see me play. I could go home for laundry, meals, and money. In addition, Long Beach State had a good kinesiology program, which is what I planned to major in. Originally, I’d wanted to become a veterinarian, but Long Beach State didn’t have a veterinary program. Also, that major would’ve required a lot of schooling, which wasn’t realistic, given my dreams of a pro volleyball career. I’d also thought about marine biology, but with field trips, I couldn’t focus on the requirements of that major and play volleyball at the same time.

  After giving Brian the good news, the next call I made was to UOP’s head coach, John Dunning, explaining I’d decided to go to Long Beach State. It was bad form to renege on a commitment, and I felt horrible about having to make that call. I’d genuinely wanted to play with Elsa, but I never should have made the decision without doing my homework. I’ll chalk the embarrassing episode up to immaturity.

  From the get-go, Brian and Debbie understood that I wanted to learn to set, and their plan was to gradually teach me the position. Then, perhaps, by my junior or senior year, I’d become the full-time setter. In the meantime, I’d play outside hitter. However, Lori Price, the team’s starting setter, came into camp out of shape. (She later transferred to William and Mary.) So three days into my freshman season, I was the 49ers’ starting setter, and my foray into the new position was baptism by fire.