Ah, but there was an upside to my ruptured Achilles tendon: It got me to the front of the lines at Disneyland, my favorite place on earth. I took my goddaughter Mariah Clausen and her sister Sarah right before Christmas. Matt pushed me around in a wheelchair. I couldn’t walk long distances in my boot, but I sure could get onto all of the rides, and my ruptured Achilles tendon was my ticket to the front of the lines. Disneyland was a breeze. However, I’m here to report I did see a lot of people who were using wheelchairs but didn’t need them. What’s up with that? I wanted to make a citizen’s arrest of all those cheaters.
Throughout my career, I’ve received a lot of fan mail, and I’ve always tried to read and answer every letter. When I got home from Beijing, I received one from two women who were very angry I was going on Dancing with the Stars. They pointed out that I was a professional athlete, not a professional dancer, and they said I was going to be dancing with has-beens. Their letter bashed everything about the show. Above all else, I’ll never forget the last sentence, which predicted I was going to get hurt and never play volleyball again. And don’t think that letter didn’t pop into my head when I ruptured my Achilles.
After I got hurt, I was barraged with get-well cards, as well as all sorts of designs of crutches and wheelchairs. A lot of people wrote and said that they’d never watched the show before, that they’d only tuned in because of me, and now that I was no longer a contestant, they wouldn’t watch it anymore. I’m saving those cards and letters as ammunition, when I approach the producers of Dancing with the Stars in the future and ask, “May I please come back on the show?” And I got a lot of letters from people, too, who’d torn their Achilles tendons, and assured me that I’d be back, playing beach volleyball and dancing up a storm, no problem, in a year or so.
I’ve never feared that my Achilles tendon injury would be career ending, but even if it were to turn out that way, I’d be okay with it. There are so many other things I’d like to do in life, like coach, for example. I’d be fine with stepping away from competition. My goal is, and always has been, to win. Once I got it through my head I was talented enough to go to the Olympics, then my goal became, “Okay, I want to win a gold medal.” Well, that happened in Athens in 2004. If I’d gotten hit by a bus the next day, and I’d been told I couldn’t play again, I’d have said, “That’s okay. I’ve accomplished everything I wanted to do.” Even winning back-to-back gold medals was nice, but 2008 was just more icing on the cake.
After we’d won in Beijing, Dad says Kerri’s mom, Marge, tried to get him to commit to my playing with Kerri in the 2012 Olympics in London. She kept prodding Dad into saying “Three-peat,” but he told Marge that he just wanted to savor this moment for a while before he started thinking about the future. Dad also told her that he couldn’t speak for me. I know Kerri has said that she hopes to play in 2012, that she wants to win a third Olympic gold medal and that she doesn’t want to play with anybody but me. Her favorite line is this: “I’ve loved that girl since I was fourteen.” Would I like to continue? Yes. At the same speed as before? I don’t know about the traveling and whatnot. Am I driven to win a third Olympic gold medal? No. Could I be? Yes. But is the need there? Not really.
I’m sure I’d feel different if we hadn’t won in Athens and Beijing. I’m also sure I’d feel different if Mom were still around. Before she died, volleyball was my life. After her death, my life became about now. When people ask me, “Are you going to play in the 2012 Olympics?”—and believe me, not a day goes by when somebody doesn’t ask—I always tell them, “I’m just worried about today. Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow?” I’m not going to live or die depending on whether I make the 2012 Olympics. If it happens, it happens. Look at what I’ve already accomplished!
Truthfully, if I could give back my Olympic gold medals for the chance to spend a day with my Mom, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Her death taught me a valuable lesson: Life is short and precious. You’re not guaranteed tomorrow. Unfortunately, she had to die for me to learn that.
Over the years, I’ve made many sacrifices to win two Olympic gold medals and put together winning streaks that will never be broken, and now I want to experience life.
I want to kick back and enjoy.
I want to breathe.
I want to experience something as simple as summer.
My family never took summer vacations. Dad never took us anywhere, unless it involved volleyball. For him, it was always about volleyball, but there are other things that I wanted to do. Like my half brother Brack says, “We all love Dad, but it would be nice if we could just say, ‘Hey, let’s go to France and eat some croissants.’”
It’s time for me to eat some croissants.
What are some of the other things I’d like to do? Spend more time with my husband. Start a family. Hang out in Hawaii. See some national parks. Go camping. Ride my bike to the beach. Get my master’s degree. Become a coach. Put on volleyball clinics with Dad. Do the jive with Maks on Dancing with the Stars.
Of course, there are also many things I’d like to do for others. Matt and I have created the May-Treanor O’hana Foundation in an effort to support the causes closest to our hearts. O’hana is Hawaiian for family. We’d like to give away financial grants—or better yet, give away ourselves—to support the two areas dearest to us: children and animals. We are passionate about giving all children the chance to be successful in sports and in school. We also are interested in protecting those who cannot protect themselves, animals and the environment.
I’d also like to spend time giving back to volleyball, indoors and beach, helping kids learn the sport and the values I did. I’d like everybody to have the same emotional support I had.
I feel a responsibility to share myself, and my sport, the way so many of Misty’s Misfits have done for me over the years, and continue to do.
Most important, though, my biggest goal for the future is motherhood. I’ll tell you right now, becoming a mother would rank as my greatest accomplishment of all.
23
PRECIOUS GIFTS
There’s a lot of responsibility that goes along with being an Olympic gold medalist.
Several months after winning my first, when I was finally able to reflect on what I’d accomplished in Athens, I had a major awakening. It became very clear to me, from the cities I’d visited, the tournaments I’d played in, and the people I’d come in contact with, that there was a power in an Olympic gold medal.
It was strong.
It was special.
It was genuine.
It was magical.
Once I came to this realization, my perspective as an Olympic gold medalist forever changed. No longer did it signify winning. No longer did it belong only to me. The Olympic gold medal became much more valuable, and it took on a deeper meaning when I shared it with others. I discovered that when I gave it to other people, especially those facing difficult challenges in life, it motivated and inspired them. It gave them joy and hope. In the process, I realized it made me feel better than the day I stood on the medals podium in Athens and Beijing.
I realized that, with the help of Olympic gold medals, I could change lives.
From that moment on, I embarked on a new journey through volleyball and life, traveling an important and intimate road that continues to make me a better human being.
The Olympic gold medals have connected me to many wonderful people. Like the kids who’ve attended the Special Olympics luncheons I’ve hosted at the Cincinnati AVP tour stop. Like the teenager who was battling a life-threatening illness and spent the day with me in Southern California, thanks to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Like the athletes on the 2008 U.S. Paralympic Sitting Volleyball Team, who taught me how to play the game the way they do—crab crawling on the floor, scooting around with your hands—then kicked my butt. And, oh, my butt hurt so much.
Like Steve Lewis, whose daughter Robin was my Ichiban teammate. Years later, he developed liver cancer, and his family and friends o
rganized an event to help inspire him to keep fighting. I brought along the Olympic gold medal I’d won in Athens. When I slipped the medal around his neck, he just beamed. It brought tears to our eyes.
My two Olympic gold medals have taught me we are all tied together on this planet, that each of our lives somehow affects others. They’ve taught me we constantly are touching others and constantly are being touched by others. They’ve taught me we don’t live singular, isolated lives. If I can influence one person, then I’ve done my job. If I can be a mentor, a confidante, or a shoulder to lean on, then I’ll feel complete. I don’t want to be known only as Misty May, the two-time Olympic gold medalist volleyball player. No, I’d rather people feel they can call me their friend.
One of the best things about professional beach volleyball is that fans can come up to us any time they want. If I’m just coming off the court after a match and somebody wants an autograph, I can give it to them, or I can say, “I’m going to be doing a signing over at the booth, if you want to meet me there in ten minutes.” Heck, I’ve even snapped myself with fans with my own cell phone camera, then emailed them the photos. You’ll never find me hiding out in the players’ tent. I’ll be sitting in the stands, in the middle of all the fun. I like interacting, having a good time, meeting new people.
I’ll always remember a trip I took to Honolulu, Hawaii, a few months after Beijing. I met the commander of the Pacific Fleet, and I gave an impromptu motivational speech to the entire group. I noticed all these military guys getting all bug-eyed about my new Olympic gold medal. So I said, “Do you want to hold it?” They all started posing with it and taking pictures like a bunch of little kids. It made me giggle. Then, I asked, “Do you want to put it on?” And they said, “Oh, yeah!” When they put it around their necks, they all said the same thing: “This is heavy!”
Let me introduce you to some of the special people I’ve met, thanks to the power of Olympic gold medals.
In August 2005, Amber Peters, a talented twelve-year-old volleyball player from Loveland, Ohio, was involved in a horrific car accident and suffered a major brain injury. She was placed in a medically induced coma for three weeks. Doctors told her parents she might not make it. While she was fighting for her life, somebody emailed me and shared Amber’s story. On September 14, I logged on to Amber’s Care Page on the Internet, and I wrote her a message of hope and support.
After that, I’d check in on Amber through her Care Page, and I’d leave her more messages in hopes of cheering her on. Then, one day, the Internet just wasn’t enough for me. I thought, “Why don’t I go visit her?” In February 2006, I flew in from Florida to visit Amber for a day, and the Peters family picked me up at the Cincinnati airport. I went to their house, and Amber showed me her room, where she’d put up an autographed poster I’d sent her, along with some of my wristbands and headbands. Her parents had hung it to help motivate her, because she’d had to relearn to walk, talk, eat, everything.
Since that visit, my relationship with Amber and her family has grown immeasurably. We exchange Christmas cards and presents (they like to buy me toys for my dogs Gruden and Boogie). When the AVP tour stops in Cincinnati and Louisville. I include them in all the AVP functions, supply them with VIP tickets and passes, the whole nine yards. They always spend the weekend with me and Dad. One year, I asked Amber to come to the pre-AVP dinner, and I introduced her to the other pro beach players and snapped her picture with them. As I was about to take a picture of her with Holly, Holly looked at me and said, in all seriousness, “Wow, Amber, your mom really looks a lot like Misty May.” Then Holly did a double take and realized it was indeed me.
In summer 2007, I met another talented teenage volleyball player, Jenna Pilipovich, at the AVP tournament in Cincinnati. Jenna had been diagnosed with bone cancer in December 2006. She’d had a tumor in her right lower leg, and in March 2007, she’d undergone a thirteen-hour surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, to save her limb. She’d endured ten months of chemotherapy. Her father, George, had gotten in touch with Dan Levy, my agent. I wrote her an email. I told her I’d heard what she was going through, that I just wanted to write to tell her to hang in there, and that one day I’d love to meet her.
Jenna and I traded emails back and forth, and we texted and phoned each other, and now we’ve got a nice friendship going. She calls me her big sister. Jenna and I, along with her family, have spent time together at the AVP events in Cincinnati and Louisville.
In late August 2008, shortly after we’d lost in the finals of the Cincinnati AVP event to E.Y. and Nicole, stopping our record-setting victory streak at 112 matches, Jenna and I did an interview about our friendship with a local television station. Jenna felt bad about agreeing to the story, as if she were imposing on me after the loss. I assured her I wasn’t fazed by the end of the streak, and I told the TV reporter, “It’s a tough loss, but look at what Jenna’s done. This is not a big deal. What Jenna’s done is so much bigger.” I kept trying to impress upon Jenna and the TV reporter, “Hey, let’s look at the big picture. It’s just volleyball. It’s just a sport. Jenna has battled cancer. She’s a survivor. Let’s not forget that there are so many bigger things in life.”
Like the moment that occurred three weeks later. After two years of surgeries, chemotherapy, wheelchairs, and crutches, Jenna stepped back onto the volleyball court at Mount Notre Dame High School’s “Ace Out Cancer” game on September 18. Although she had yet to be cleared to run or jump, Coach Joe Burke put her in to serve a point against Ursuline Academy. The gym erupted. What she said afterward still gives me strength: “Stepping onto the court again was like shoving it back in cancer’s face, saying, ‘Look, I beat you. I’m done with you. I’ve got my life to live now.’ Cancer’s put life in a whole new perspective for me, and I now know I can do anything.”
The first time I met Jenna, I brought along my Olympic gold medal. I hung it around her neck. I told her about having just put it around the necks of several Special Olympians, a group I’ve devoted time to at the Cincinnati AVP stop. I told her that one of the Special Olympics kids happened to make a black mark on the medal with a Sharpie pen and that some of the adults were freaking out about it. It was not a big deal to me. I told Jenna, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” I explained that the more people it touched, and the more people who touched it, why, the more likely it was to get a little beaten up. It was, and always will be, perfect to me. That black mark, and any other scratches or dents, only adds to its power.
In August 2006, I met Nicholas Rydzynski, who was just four at the time, but he made quite a big impression on me. He was born with cerebral palsy, and he couldn’t move very well, so he lived vicariously through others by watching sports on TV. When he was three and a half, his parents, Kirk and Christy, had discovered a tumor on his adrenal gland. He had stage-four neuroblastoma, and according to the doctors, only about a 30 percent chance of survival. When he was hospitalized for five or six weeks at a time while receiving treatment, he’d lie in his hospital bed and watch AVP events.
Six weeks before he died, Kirk and Christy stopped treatments because the cancer was spreading everywhere. Instead of sitting home and crying about the fact that their son was going to die, they decided to give Nicholas something they called his “Best Days Ever Tour.” Every day, Kirk and Christy would take off in the morning, or in the afternoon, and they’d do things as a family. They went to a NASCAR race. They went back to Buffalo, where Nicholas was born. They went to the beach. They did the things they would’ve wanted Nicholas to do, if he could’ve lived another five or ten years. In those six weeks, they packed in as much excitement as his little body could handle. The Rydzynskis were determined to send Nicholas out with a big bang.
One day, during his “Best Days Ever Tour,” Nicholas and his parents were at Huntington Beach, watching the volleyball players. Christy noticed four women on the beach, and when there was a break in the action, she walked up and said, “If you come over and just give m
y son a high five, he’s going to think you’re the girls from TV. He’s going to think you’re Misty May and Kerri Walsh.” Ironically, the group of women included Stacy Bonomi, one of Mom’s former teammates and closest friends. Stacy and her buddies were flattered anybody, even a four-year-old, would mistake them for pros. After they’d high-fived Nicholas, Stacy told Christy she knew me.
“I’d like to have Misty call you, since Nicholas is such a huge fan,” Stacy said.
Thirty minutes after leaving the beach, the Rydzynskis’ phone was ringing.
“I hear you bumped into a friend of mine and that you have a little boy who thought I was at the beach today,” I said to Christy.
I was touched that Nicholas was enamored of me. Christy suggested they all come up to Huntington Beach to watch me practice a few weeks later. When they arrived, I had a special goodie bag for Nicholas—an autographed volleyball, some Misty May posters, a bunch of wristbands and headbands. I pulled my Olympic gold medal out of my workout bag and hung it around his neck. The look on his face was priceless. Then he gave me the best gift of all—a big kiss on the cheek.
In mid-August, I invited Nicholas and his family to the AVP Manhattan Beach tournament. Dad and I made sure the Rydzynskis had tickets, VIP passes to the sponsors tent, and up-front parking. We all had a blast that weekend. I just loved hanging out with Nick.
Three weeks later, on September 11, Nicholas died. I called the Rydzynskis to offer my condolences and to tell them what an honor it was to have met their son. I told them he really touched my life. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t talk, but he was very, very smart. He never got upset about anything ever, he just tried his hardest. He was just a wonderful, inspirational little boy.
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