Misty

by Misty May-Treanor

  My half brothers Brack and Scott, along with Aunt Gen and Uncle John, Dad’s sister and brother, offered the communion gifts. Aunt Betty Ann and Uncle Edward represented Mom, walking down the aisle in her place. While I missed Mom deeply, I felt her presence. I’d taken great care to honor her in a multitude of ways. I carried a bouquet of pink peonies, roses, and tropical monkey tails, sprinkled with crystals. Her wedding band was tied to the bouquet. Mom helped me make it through the ceremony without crying, although Dad and Matt certainly shed some tears.

  Cards tied to each pew featured words that were meaningful to us: Love, Cherish, Family, Eternity, and finally, on the pew closest to the altar, I Do.

  Everyone received a three-tiered program, bordered with a pastel green vine and tied with a sheer pink bow. Titled Misty & Matt, it included the names of the bridal party, an outline of the ceremony, and a message from us:

  To our parents who have guided us, loved us, and given so much to us, we thank you and love you with all of our hearts. To our family and friends for sharing this day with us, your love and support has meant so much. Thank you for enriching our lives in ways that will last forever. Prayers and angels are around us today. We honor all those who have passed on before us . . .

  Our cocktail hour had a tropical theme, a nod to my family’s Hawaiian heritage and my days on the beach. It was held in an open-air portion of the club, decorated in shells, orchids, and sea-blue linens. We served coconut shrimp, shrimp roll-ups, mushroom puffs, and bruschetta, and we had a steel drum band for background music. A bamboo tray was filled with volleyballs and baseballs for our guests to sign.

  Our dinner was held in the ballroom, on tables topped with pink linens, pink and sage satin napkins, and tall candelabra centerpieces bursting with pink and white flowers and crystals. The menu consisted of tossed romaine and baby oak leaf salad with Gorgonzola cheese and toasted pecans, tossed with champagne vinaigrette; a duo of filet of beef and mustard-baked salmon with demi-glace and wild honey chardonnay sauce; garlic whipped potatoes; and seasonal vegetables. Each table was named for something meaningful to us, including SMI, the Florida Marlins, and the 2004 Olympics.

  Our first dance was to “When You Say Nothing at All,” by Alison Krauss.

  It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart

  Without saying a word, you can light up the dark . . .

  Throughout the evening, guests toasted us with pink sugar-rimmed champagne glasses.

  Our intricate six-tiered wedding cake, designed by Let Them Eat Cake, was the showstopper. A white cake with strawberry and lemon filling, it was covered in pink, white, and sage fondant. I didn’t eat it—I shoved it in Matt’s face.

  Our “Sweet Dreams” table was laden with treats, including chocolate baseballs and gold-wrapped candies that looked like Olympic gold medals, which people could put in beautiful boxes to take home. Our guests also received mini souvenir volleyballs and baseball bats, engraved with our names and the date.

  From the anticipation of seeing my soon-to-be husband, to getting ready with all of my girlfriends, to being with Dad and our family, to entering the reception, every moment was amazing. I truly felt like a princess.

  Falling in love with Matt helped plant my feet on the ground. I still felt discombobulated by Mom’s death. A day didn’t go by when I didn’t think about her. I missed her very much. Dad did, too, and I felt responsible for him. We both were still a little lost without Mom. I just wanted Dad to be okay. Matt made me feel much more solid in every aspect of my life.

  From day one, I felt as if Matt was the missing link in my life. Before I met him, I felt like there was something missing. He has helped me grow as a wife, a daughter, a friend, and a professional athlete. Most important, he has helped me become a better communicator. He’ll tell you exactly how he’s feeling, whereas I hold it in. Since Matt came into my life, it has been easier for me to explain myself and let out my emotions. Our differences in communication come, in part, from his being one of eight kids and my being an only child. Plus, he’s a baseball player, and baseball players just let it fly, whatever it is they’re thinking and feeling.

  I’ve added a lot to Matt’s life, too. I introduced him to the concept of doing more structured workouts, got him involved with personal trainers, Pilates, and yoga. I inspired him to do whatever it takes to get to the top. He’ll tell you it isn’t a coincidence that our first date was in January 2004 and that season, at twenty-eight, he broke into the big leagues for the first time in ten years. He credits me with giving him a kick in the pants.

  Now, I’d have to say Matt might be the only person in the world more relentless and resilient than I am. Dad and Mom were my role models for a blue-collar work ethic, and Mom taught me never to give up. Matt personifies both of those qualities. He’s the son and grandson of firefighters. His mother works for the Catholic Church. He exemplifies dedication, determination, and devotion. He’s the first to arrive at the ballpark and the last to leave. He’s tough, he plays hurt, and is a great teammate.

  “My wife is significantly more famous than I am. I have no problem marrying up,” Matt once told ESPN the Magazine. (Never mind that Matt knew nothing about volleyball or me when we met. In fact, he asked his little brother Markell if he’d ever heard of “Missy May.” “What’s with you, man?” Markell said. “You’ve got problems. She’s one of the most famous players in the world.”) In California, I often get stopped for autographs. Even in Tahiti, while renting jet skis on our honeymoon, Matt says he heard people on the dock, saying, in broken English, “Olympic volleyball” and pointing to me. Because bikinis are my uniform, Matt’s major league baseball teammates regularly razzed him. Before a spring training game, Marlins outfielder Jeff Conine wrote “Matt May” on the blackboard. From that point on, that’s how Matt’s Marlins teammates referred to him. It takes a secure man to handle ribbing like that.

  Joel Wolfe, Matt’s agent, once described him as “the anti-Crash Davis,” a reference to the minor league catcher played by Kevin Costner in Bull Durham. And it’s true, Matt’s baseball résumé is so mind-boggling, it sounds dreamed up by Hollywood screenwriters.

  Matt was drafted out of Mater Dei High School in Santa Ana, California, by the Kansas City Royals in 1994. How’s this for a small-world story? Guy Hansen, Aunt Betty Ann’s first husband, says he scouted Matt for the Royals. He was selected in the fourth round, the 107th player overall, and he signed for eighty-six thousand dollars. And thus began Matt’s unique journey through baseball. He played in about 916 minor league games over 12 seasons, in places like Springfield, Illinois; Lansing, Michigan; Calgary, Canada; Portland, Oregon; and Albuquerque, New Mexico, and for teams named the Sultans, Lugnuts, Manatees, Hammerheads, Sea Dogs, and Isotopes. He didn’t get out of Class-A ball until his eighth season.

  The Marlins finally called Matt up to the big league club on June 2, 2004. That day, in a game against the Cincinnati Reds, he went one for three with a run scored. I’ll never forget getting that call from him. I was headed to practice, and I got so excited, I jumped into the car pool lane (which is reserved for two or more people) and raced to Redondo Beach. Then I phoned DirecTV and ordered the Major League Baseball Extra Innings package, so I could watch him. On June 17, Matt experienced one of the highlights of his career, recording his first RBI on a walk-off single against the Chicago White Sox.

  The following season, Matt made the Marlins’ 2005 Opening Day roster, and he has been a big leaguer ever since. In his first full season, he played backup to starting catcher Paul Lo Duca, and he recorded a few more career highlights: He threw out all three baserunners who attempted to steal in a game against the Washington Nationals on April 15, and he hit his first major league home run against Baltimore Orioles pitcher Daniel Cabrera June 20. He was released by the Marlins on December 10, 2008, to make room on the team’s forty-man roster for the Rule 5 Draft, held the following day. On December 18, he signed with the Detroit Tigers as a backup catcher. After a great s
pring training, he was sidelined with a hip injury on April 24, limited to just four games that season, subsequently had surgery for a torn labrum, and was put on the disabled list. In December 2009 Matt signed with the Milwaukee Brewers, and in March 2010 he was traded to the Texas Rangers.

  People fuss over my Olympic gold medals, but honestly, I’m more impressed by Matt’s accomplishments. I wouldn’t have had the patience to stick it out. When we met, he was so frustrated he hadn’t made the big leagues, he was thinking about quitting. I encouraged him not to. I told Matt that I knew too many athletes who gave up before reaching their dreams, then lived the rest of their lives filled with anger, bitterness, and regret. I told Matt I’d hate for him to get eaten up by the What Ifs? As an example, I told him I felt unfulfilled because I’d left indoor volleyball before reaching my potential. I’ve encouraged Matt to keep going as long as his body holds up.

  Now look at him. He is a big leaguer and a good volleyball player. He passes and sets very well, although all he wants to do is play defense. His vertical, eh; his hitting, eh. But he’s learning. I’ll pepper with him. We couldn’t win a tournament together, but we’d sure have a lot of fun.

  As for my baseball, well, I’ve asked to take batting practice, but Matt doesn’t think it’s a good idea. We’ve gone to the batting cages together, and I can’t even hit a 40 mph softball. I’m like, “Can’t they increase the size of the ball? This is too small!” I’ve also tossed baseballs to Matt to help him with his catching skills, like blocking.

  However, I am batting 1.000 when it comes to throwing out first pitches before major league baseball games. The first one was at a Marlins game at Dolphins Stadium in 2004—I threw it from the mound and put it right over the plate—and Matt caught it. I’ve also thrown out first pitches before home games for the Los Angeles Dodgers, Arizona Diamondbacks, California Angels, Chicago White Sox (who won it all that season, so I was good luck), and Chicago Cubs. And I’ve been a guest conductor at Wrigley Field, leading the singing of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh-inning stretch. They gave me a cheat sheet, but I already knew the words. When you’re doing something like that, you figure most fans have had a couple of beers, so it doesn’t really matter what you sound like.

  Throwing out first pitches is nerve-racking. I get nervous because the baseball is so small. I’ve been in the stands when others have thrown out first pitches and botched them badly, listening as fans boo and yell, “You stink!” Some people actually warm up before getting out there, but I never have. Matt’s advice to me: “Don’t throw it in the dirt.” If I were given a volleyball to throw over the plate, I wouldn’t be the least bit nervous. I’d know how hard to throw it, when to release it, and I’d throw a strike every time.

  17

  FIRST OLYMPIC GOLD MEDAL

  I was floating on air.

  We were about to kick off our 2004 Olympics run.

  We were dominating women’s professional beach volleyball.

  We were riding a record winning streak on the sand, and away from the beach, we were enjoying our fifteen minutes of fame.

  We were scheduling interviews and photo shoots, appearing in cover stories of newspapers and in spreads in magazines, wearing everything from teeny tiny shorts and itsy-bitsy bikinis to togas and Donna Karan white satin, spaghetti-strap gowns.

  We were on millions of McDonald’s cups and wrappers.

  Life was good.

  Kerri and I began the 2004 FIVB season in early March in Fortaleza, Brazil, beating Shelda Bede and Adriana Behar in the final. Three weeks later, we opened the AVP season with a victory in Fort Lauderdale. We extended our winning streak to sixty-four worldwide, including forty-four straight on the AVP, defeating Holly McPeak and Elaine Youngs, 21–11, 21–11, in the final.

  “They are not only beating up on us, they are beating up on the rest of the world,” Holly told the Los Angeles Times.

  Despite our dominance of the women’s pro beach volleyball tour, Kerri was, typically, nervous before the final.

  “The first AVP match of the year, there’s always a lot of nerves and a lot of jitters,” she told the media. “Throughout all of that, we stayed pretty steady, and that’s the sign of a really good team.”

  I, on the other hand, felt as if I were dancing in the sand. I kept showing off my engagement ring to anybody and everybody and pretty much blinding them with it.

  Yes, our lives were good. Too good to be true? Perhaps.

  While Kerri and I were preparing for our final FIVB Olympic qualifying tournaments, our coach Dane Selznick pushed us through intense training sessions. I was having trouble with my hitting, so he had me hit dozens of balls in a row. I beat the heck out of them, in the wind, again and again. When Dad stopped by the beach to watch practice, he went ballistic.

  “Misty, what are you doing?” he bellowed. “That isn’t necessary! That isn’t good for you!”

  Dad’s argument was this: Because I’ve been exposed to so much volleyball, I can visualize, then imitate, anything I’m instructed to do. Some players need things choreographed; not me. To this day, Dad has a certain way of working on skills. He takes a ground-up approach. He breaks them down, then builds them up, piece by piece. Dad was worried I might injure myself. All he could see was me thrusting my body into a violent, crunching, contorted position, dozens of times over. All he could see was me sailing high in the air, swinging my arm across my body, and making contact with the ball just before slamming down hard in the sand. All he could see was my right arm finishing all the way to my left hip, which was incorrect, unnatural, and straining my abdominal muscles. All he could think was, “Misty’s making a muscled swing.”

  Afterward, I sheepishly told Dad, “My stomach hurts.” He immediately flashed back to the abdominal tear I had suffered before the 2000 Olympics, and the terrible time I went through, trying to get healthy to compete in Sydney. “Of course it hurts,” he screamed. “You’re swinging diagonally across your body.” Dad was fuming, and his face was turning bright red. “Misty, you shouldn’t be doing this before the final qualifying matches for the Olympics,” he barked.

  Over the next few days, I didn’t feel any further repercussions from the hitting session, so I figured I was out of the woods. Kerri and I flew to Europe for the second FIVB event of the season. We kept our perfect streak going in Rhodes, Greece, defeating Shelda and Adriana in the semifinals, then Holly and E.Y. in the final. All of our matches, except the semis, lasted thirty-four minutes or less. And that was only thirty-eight minutes. We were on quite a roll.

  Then, five days later, in the AVP event at Huntington Beach, I felt discomfort in my abdominal muscles. In the final, I dove for the ball, and my body went into complete extension. I heard a crack, and from that moment on, I couldn’t get rid of the abdominal pain. Yet, you wouldn’t have known anything was wrong by watching my performance on the court. We won the event, cruising past Barbra Fontana and Jennifer Kessy. We were riding a mighty wave of a winning streak that had few, if any, parallels in sports: We now had won eighty-six matches and fifteen tournaments.

  “Kerri and Misty are taking the sport to another level,” Barbra Fontana told the Long Beach Press Telegram.

  But the streak was the furthest thing from our minds. We were on a mission to win an Olympic gold medal. All of these tournaments (and the streak) were just the steps along the way.

  “I swear to God, we don’t think about the streak,” Kerri told the Long Beach Press Telegram. “I’ve heard people say that we should lose, so we don’t have the pressure of the streak. But we always want to win, and I don’t know how we could do that.”

  We were the talk of professional beach volleyball, around the world. We were being labeled as the spark the struggling AVP tour desperately needed. We were being called the most dominant duo in the history of the sport. We were, undoubtedly, hands down, the gold medal favorite in Athens.

  The following week, in the AVP event in Manhattan Beach, my abdominals fl
ared up again, but this time, the pain affected my performance. We lost to Annett Davis and Jenny Johnson Jordan in the semis, 19–21, 19–21, ending our fifteen-tournament winning streak. One after another, friends and colleagues approached us, saying it was good we’d finally lost. It would alleviate some of the pressure heading into the Olympics, they reasoned. Regardless, the loss still stung. Kerri, who got teary-eyed afterward, kicked herself for not stepping up and carrying a bigger load.

  “I felt ineffective,” she told Dig magazine. “I wish I would have just played crappy, because ineffective is worse. It’s like the difference between when my mom says, ‘Kerri, I’m pissed off,’ and saying, ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ Pissed off I can handle. Disappointed, that’s the worst thing you can hear.”

  A week later, we won in Gstaad, defeating Shelda and Adriana in the final. My abdominals were screaming, and I fought through the pain. But it wasn’t fun. Not one bit. And then the bottom caved in. My abdominal pain was so constant, and so intense that by mid-June we elected not to play in the AVP event in San Diego. A week later, after only one match, we withdrew from an FIVB Grand Slam event in Berlin, which paid more money to the winner ($43,000) than a regular event ($27,000). I tried to gut it out. Big mistake. After forfeiting, Kerri, Dane, and I discussed how we were going to handle the next several weeks. Because we’d already qualified for Athens, our sights were set on the Olympic gold medal. The money wasn’t nearly as important. We all decided it would be best for me to take some time off. After not being able to dial it back in 2000, when I suffered an abdominal injury but kept right on playing because Holly McPeak and I were trying to qualify for the Sydney Olympics, I wanted to be smart this time around. Kerri agreed. However, she’s not one to sit on the sidelines. She thought it would be best for her to keep playing in tournaments, and I encouraged her.