Early in the season, during the team’s two-a-day practices, it was just Debbie and me. The first session, I worked out, without a ball and away from the team, for three hours. The second session, I worked with the team. Debbie taught me the basics, including footwork and hand position. I nicknamed her “my shadow,” because she was always right next to me, catching my sets. During the season, I also worked with Debbie after practice. Freshman outside hitter Jessica Alvarado served as the “ball baby.” (Perhaps most important, Jessica was the one who ran ahead after practice to make sure we got to the cafeteria before they stopped serving dinner.)
I threw myself into setting. I worked and worked at it. It was the most difficult aspect of volleyball I’ve ever had to learn, and sometimes I looked ridiculous transitioning to my new position. In those days, because of NCAA rules, in spring training we could practice only two hours a week, for eight weeks, and believe it or not, we couldn’t touch the ball. So Debbie and I concentrated on footwork. Standing in front of a mirror, I pretended to set an invisible ball.
As a setter, you run the offense, much like the quarterback on a football team or a point guard on a basketball team. You make the plays happen. If the first contact isn’t good, you position the ball better so your team can get a point. You keep the team together, mentally, after they’ve made mistakes. There’s a lot of leadership involved in the position. Most important, as the setter, you’re the only player on the team who always has one of three contacts every time the ball is on your side of the net.
I’m glad I was a hitter before I was a setter, because I was better able to adjust the set to a hitter, depending on the situation. I also anticipated hitters’ mistakes and knew how best to motivate them. As a hitter, I knew where the sets should be. I knew their timing. And beyond all of that, once a hitter, always a hitter: I was a huge threat from the setter position. My teammates could set me, forcing opponents to defend three hitters.
In the spring of my freshman year, because I seemed to have some free time, I joined the Long Beach State women’s track team. But that adventure didn’t last long. Running from spring volleyball practice to track practice, and trying to keep my grades up, soon became stressful. So stressful, in fact, my body fat dropped to 9 percent, and I stopped menstruating. I went to the school’s student health center and learned I was suffering from athletic amenorrhoea. It is suspected that low body fat levels and exercise-related chemicals (beta endorphins and catecholamines) disrupt the interplay of the sex hormones estrogen and progesterone. Long-term complications of untreated athletic amenorrhoea include susceptibility to broken bones and premature aging.
The ideal body fat for average females is 22 to 25 percent; for average males, it’s 15 to 18 percent. The ideal body fat for female athletes is less than 17 percent; for male athletes, it’s less than 10 percent. The doctors told me to eat enough food to take in enough calories for my workouts and to make sure I had enough calcium in my diet. They put me on progesterone and birth control pills. (I was thankful for the birth control pills because my menstrual periods were, and still are, extremely painful and debilitating, often including migraines. I need Advil, Motrin, ice packs, and bed rest.)
In addition to the physical toll of playing two sports, it didn’t help matters that the first time I performed a high jump in track practice, per a coach’s orders, I was so close to the bar, I ended up hitting a standard with my head. I needed two stitches to close the cut in my scalp.
That was my short-lived college track career.
From then on, it was all volleyball.
I picked up the mental aspect of setting the fastest, getting used to the quick decision-making the position demanded right away. During our sessions my freshman year, Debbie talked to me about leadership and communication as a setter. I kept reminding her I was playing with upperclassmen. I told her I did not want to appear bossy. I admitted I was hesitant to proclaim myself a team leader.
“But I’m only a freshman,” I kept telling Debbie.
“It doesn’t matter, Misty,” she’d reply. “You’re the setter. That’s the role you have to play.”
A little-known fact: I couldn’t set in warm-ups as a freshman and sophomore. I had a complete mental block, until the game started. It’s like a quarterback not being able to complete passes in warm-ups, then connecting in the heat of battle.
As a result, I got picked on in practice every day.
“Come on, you can figure it out,” Brian would always say.
But I just couldn’t get it.
One day, after warm-ups, I ran off the court, crying. I just couldn’t take the criticism anymore.
“I can’t do this,” I sobbed to Debbie.
She took me into the laundry room, handed me a piece of paper, and told me to sign my name.
“Now, I want you to look at it and sign it exactly how you did it before,” she said.
When I tried to do it so exactly, I couldn’t do it. Then Debbie asked me to close my eyes, and when I opened them, I was looking at a blank piece of paper. Again, she had me sign my name, and lo and behold, it looked exactly like the original signature. Her exercise taught me if you try to be too perfect, if you overthink, you’ll mess up. Just go with the flow. That was one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned.
Debbie was right; eventually, I got it. However, even when my setting was clicking, I never took it for granted. How did I break out of my mental block? By telling myself, “Clear your mind.” Once the whistle blew, the game unfolded so quickly, and I was focused on so many elements, I didn’t have time to overthink. Then, I was fine. But there were moments, here and there, when I was standing back at the service line, thinking, “I hope I get this ball in.” And I’d always serve it out because I was focused on not being able to do it.
By my junior year, Brian says I was “the best setter ever to have played in college,” and by my senior year, he says, I had a profound impact on how the sport was played.
“Misty May did for volleyball what Wayne Gretzky did for hockey, and Magic Johnson did for basketball,” Brian always says. “They all changed the way the game was played.”
I am deeply touched by Brian’s words, because he’s one of the best volleyball minds in the country.
“It’s very hard in a sport to control and tackle the rhythm of a game, especially if you can’t stop the ball,” Brian has said. “Misty could control the rhythm of the match, just by setting the match, which I haven’t seen done before, and that is remarkable when you think that it’s done without stopping the ball.
“She could take the height of the ball, the speed of it, the release of it, and make it easier for defenders to take the ball, or for people to pass it. Or she could take the height, speed, and location of a pass and change that rhythm to suit the needs of the hitters. And she could confuse the opposition by changing the way she released the ball, changing her body position, changing the speed and height of the ball.
“That’s harder than people think because it involves changing the center of gravity, changing the time the ball is in your hands, changing your hand position on the ball, changing your body position. She is the best I have ever seen do it, and do it on purpose, and she can even do that in a time between plays, when she is served, or when her teammates served; she was able to control and tackle the rhythm of the match.”
Here’s an example of where I think I took the position: During my senior year, I learned to jump set. When I was in the front row, I’d jump up and set with my feet off the ground. As a setter, you’re supposed to be a threat, because when you’re in the front row, you have two hitters on your side of the net, but your opponent has three blockers on her side. So you want to be a threat by attacking on the second ball. Instead of setting, you hit it or dump it. I became so good at jump setting, so acrobatic in the air, blockers would jump up with me, and my hitters would not have to deal with blocks. I became so deceptive, my own teammates didn’t know which way I was setting.
There were lighthearted moments, too. I was known for my ability to have fun.
Take my pigtails, for example.
Inexplicably, to me, when I was at Long Beach State, my pigtails became all the rage in volleyball. They never were part of a grandiose plan to generate publicity or to set me apart from the other women. It was very simple. One day, I got my hair cut, and it became too short to pull back into a ponytail. I had to keep my hair out of my face, so I just pulled it back into pigtails. Who would’ve imagined pigtails could set off such a firestorm? Little girls in pigtails began showing up for our games at Long Beach State’s Pyramid. A local sportswriter referred to me as “Pigtails” instead of Misty May. And, at a match at UOP, an adult male fan wore a pigtailed wig atop his head. After the match, I gave him some advice: “Sir, please straighten your pigtails. They’re crooked.”
I enjoyed making my Long Beach State coaches and teammates laugh. I still love cracking people up. I take after Dad in this area.
My voracious appetite always is great for laughs. I’ll eat anything put in front of me, if it’s remotely edible. I attribute my love of food to being raised in a family of Hawaiians. Whenever I’ve been in Hawaii, it’s always been a nonstop eating marathon.
My fear of the boogeyman has made me the brunt of many jokes. Teammate Brandy Barratt, also a roommate, can’t get over what a wimp I can be. As a kid, I was afraid to be home alone. When Dad and Mom weren’t around at night, I’d make sure to turn on all of the lights in our apartment. When the wind rattled through our louver windows, I was sure the night stalker was lurking outside. In college, I got hooked on the TV show America’s Most Wanted, although it convinced me that criminals could burst through our front door. I’d run through the house, flipping on lights, every time the show was on. One night, as a junior, I was at home with Kristin Harris, one of my two roommates. We were watching TV in her room, and we heard a strange noise. We got so scared that we barricaded ourselves in her bathroom. Two and a half hours later, Brandy walked in the front door.
“Hello! Anybody home?” she yelled.
“Brandy, knock three times on the bathroom door, if it’s you,” I said.
As it turned out, the strange noise was nothing more than a tree branch that had rubbed against a window.
At the team’s annual volleyball banquet at the end of each season, I was always at my comic best. My sophomore year, Brandy and I dressed up in seventies disco outfits, complete with psychedelic bellbottoms, platform shoes, Afro wigs, and sunglasses. We danced to “Saturday Night” by the Bay City Rollers. We threw everybody into an uproar—and started a tradition.
My parents were never far from the fun, either. Dad and Mom knew better than to sit with the other players’ parents. They’d hide out in the back of the stands because they knew nobody wanted to listen to what Dad had to say.
“Take her out!” he’d scream, if I made a bad play.
“Lucky!” he’d holler, if I made a good play.
My comic relief contributed to our accomplishments at Long Beach State. It made our hard work seem easier. It lightened disappointments. It brought us together, as teammates, classmates, and women. Brian referred to us as “the sisterhood.” Most important, the humor greased the skids for the serious moments.
Before I go any further, I want to come clean about two serious moments, two mistakes that I made at Long Beach State that I’m not proud of. As a freshman, I learned there were certain ways I had to act because I was the star of the team. The first serious moment: I was late to practice because I’d gone to get a hot dog at Wienerschnitzel, my favorite fast food joint. I got caught in a slow drive-through line, and when I realized what was happening, it was too late to back up. I walked into practice after everybody else, and Brian was so mad that he kicked me out. The incident taught me I had to do a better job of planning my schedule and that nothing could ever interfere with practice.
The second serious moment: I’d gone out partying on a Sunday night, and I was still so sick and hungover on Monday afternoon that I couldn’t make practice. Or, maybe I should say, I couldn’t bring myself to go to practice. I knew I’d done something wrong. As I was throwing up into the toilet, I told myself, “I want to quit volleyball,” which was a cop-out. I should’ve faced the fact that I’d made a mistake, that I’d screwed up and hurt my teammates, and dealt with it. I didn’t have my parents there to tell me to be in at a certain time, not to do this or that. I got mixed up with the wrong group of kids.
Later, Debbie talked to me about the incident.
“You really didn’t want to quit,” she said.
“No,” I admitted.
After that, drinking was a big no-no. College helped me realize that people had their eyes on me, no matter what I was doing. I had to be conscious of that. I was a role model. Little kids were starting to look up to me. I had to set the best example. And that’s exactly what I did, once I set myself straight.
In 1995, I became the first freshman to start at setter for Long Beach State since Sheri Sanders in 1986, although I also played six matches at outside hitter in an attempt to shore up the team’s passing and defense. It’s not like I became a superstar setter when the whistle blew. I’d do okay, but I had to learn. I’d describe it as a roller-coaster season. I had good games and bad games. The coaches called plays for me because I didn’t understand. We had a fairly young team. We finished with a 22–10 record, losing at San Diego State in the second round of the NCAAs.
In 1996, when I was a sophomore, we put together a fine regular season, especially given changing lineups and game plans, travel snafus, and a rash of injuries. We went undefeated longer than any team in the nation, rising to number three despite the obstacles. We finished 32–2, drawing a first-round bye in the NCAA tournament. We were the number two seed in the Central Regional and the number seven seed in the entire NCAA bracket. Unfortunately, Michigan State upset us in the regional semifinal.
Early that season, against Cal Poly San Luis Obispo on November 1, I dove for a ball and all my weight landed on my bent left knee. I heard it make a noise, but since I’d never injured it before, I figured I’d nailed my funny bone. On the next play, I did the same thing. The result? I partially tore the posterior cruciate ligament (PCL) in my left knee. I spent five matches on the sidelines, rehabbing my knee, strengthening the ligaments around the tear. But I was never the same physically after that. I returned for the Big West Conference tournament at University of California–Santa Barbara, where we were the number one seed for the Western Division. It inspired the team. We mowed down North Texas in the first round, 15–10, 15–9, and 15–4. That victory set up a semifinal match with UCSB, our third meeting of the season. We played one of our finest matches ever in the Thunderdome, with an incredible 18–16 win in the second game, which propelled us to a three-game sweep. Then, in the finals, we lost in five games to UOP. I was named the 1996 Big West Player of the Year, and I led the way for the 49ers to top the conference in team hitting percentage. I was ranked among the top ten in the Big West in hitting percentage (fifth), assists per game (fifth), and digs per game (ninth).
In August 1997, I was faced with a personal crisis: I was sexually assaulted. It was a very painful time in my life. Until now, I’ve never spoken about it publicly. To this day, few people know it occurred. It wasn’t something I talked about, not even to my coaches, my teammates, or my closest friends. It was mortifying. It was humiliating. And although I later had to testify at a trial, the word never got out about the incident because, back then, I wasn’t a volleyball icon, I wasn’t in the media spotlight, and quite frankly, the media was a lot less aggressive and Internet driven. It happened at the rental house I was living in off-campus. My roommates and I had been to a party, and I’d gone to bed about 1:30 A.M. Normally, I locked my bedroom door at night, but for some unknown reason, this time I didn’t.
I was startled from a deep sleep. I sensed a shadow over me. I called out my boyfriend’s name, but there was no
answer. Once I became more awake, I realized a man was on top of me, groping my private parts. Mom always had taught me if I was in a situation like that to kick the guy in the groin, which is exactly what I did. He ran out of my bedroom. I thought I’d recognized him—he looked like the family friend of one of my roommates, who’d been visiting earlier that evening. I woke up my buddy Zach Caiger-Greaves, who’d been sleeping on the sofa in the living room, and I told him what had happened. I woke up my roommates, too. We all decided I had to notify the police.
Then I phoned my parents. Mom answered, and I explained the situation. I told her I was all right, but I was very upset, and I wanted her and Dad to meet me at the hospital for moral support while I went through interviews and a physical examination. I figured she’d be hesitant about waking Dad because she knew how furious he’d be with the guy, and that if he ever saw him face to face, he’d probably pummel him.
The authorities came to my house, collected my clothes and my bedding, and put me through a preliminary interview. For evidentiary reasons, I was told not to shower or bathe, brush or comb my hair, use the restroom, brush my teeth or gargle, eat or drink anything, or put on makeup. Then I went to the hospital.
When Mom and Dad arrived, I was being set up for the examination room. By this time, the suspect had been apprehended at the John Wayne Airport in Santa Ana—indeed, he was the family friend of a roommate—and he was in another examination room. I was a jumble of emotions. I was angry. I was embarrassed. I was confused. Why hadn’t I locked my door? Was I to blame for this? I was in a pool of tears. Mom held me, and Dad kept saying, “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.” Sure enough, the cops had to restrain Dad to make sure he didn’t get a chance to act on his threat.
Misty Page 11
