The Long Climb
2199 Words
The physical therapy room smelled like menthol and sweat, and Leo had grown to hate both smells with a passion that bordered on obsession.
He lay on a padded table, his right arm strapped to a pulley system, while a cheerful woman named Cheryl counted his repetitions. “Fifteen more. Good. Keep going. You're doing great.”
Leo pulled the rope. His shoulder screamed. Not the sharp pain of the injury—that had faded. This was the dull, angry protest of muscles that had been dormant too long. The burn of rebuilding.
“Ten more.”
He pulled again. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His left hand gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” Cheryl unstrapped his arm and patted his good shoulder. “Range of motion is improving. Another week and you'll be ready for light resistance.”
“Another week?” Leo sat up, wincing. “State is in two weeks.”
“And you'll be ready. Not for a full match, maybe. But for limited play. If you keep working.”
Leo looked at his right arm. It looked normal. But it didn't feel normal. It felt like a stranger's limb, attached to his body but not fully his.
“What's the earliest I can spike?”
Cheryl's smile faded. “Leo, we've talked about this. You can't rush.”
“I'm not rushing. I'm asking.”
“Three weeks for a full swing. That's the earliest. And that's if everything goes perfectly.”
Three weeks. State was in two.
Leo stood up and grabbed his sling. “Thanks, Cheryl.”
“Leo—”
“I'll see you tomorrow.”
He walked out before she could say anything else.
---
The drive home was silent. His mother didn't ask how it went. She'd learned not to.
Instead, she said, “Marcus called.”
Leo's head turned. “What did he say?”
“He said to tell you that he's coming to practice tomorrow. And that you should be ready to work.”
“Work how? I can't spike.”
“He didn't say.” She glanced at him. “He also said to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
Leo stared out the window. “I'm not feeling sorry for myself.”
“You are. And it's okay. But it's time to stop.”
---
The gym was empty when Leo arrived the next morning.
He'd come early, before school, before practice, before anyone else. He stood at the service line, his right arm in its sling, and stared at the net.
He couldn't serve. He couldn't spike. He couldn't even pass.
But he could watch.
He pulled out his notebook and wrote:
State opponents:
– Eastside (tall, slow, predictable)
– North Catholic (fast, short, scrappy)
– South Bay (balanced, no weaknesses)
He'd been scouting for weeks. Watching film. Taking notes. Building a map of every team they might face.
It wasn't the same as playing. But it was something.
---
The team arrived at 7 AM.
Kevin was first, as usual. He saw Leo standing at the service line and walked over. “You're here early.”
“Couldn't sleep.”
“Shoulder?”
“Everything.”
Kevin sat on the floor and stretched his hamstrings. “We've been talking. The team, I mean.”
“About what?”
“About you. About state. About how we're going to win without you if we have to.” Kevin looked up. “But we'd rather win with you.”
Leo's throat tightened. “I'm trying.”
“I know. That's why we're not worried.”
---
Marcus Cole arrived at 7:30.
He walked into the gym like he owned it—which, Leo remembered, he kind of did. He'd funded half the renovations at Northwood Volleyball Club. Westbrook's gym was a downgrade.
“You're still in a sling,” Marcus said.
“Yes.”
“Take it off.”
Leo hesitated. Then he unstrapped the sling and let his right arm hang.
“Now show me your footwork.”
“My footwork?”
“You can't use your arm. So use your legs. Approach without swinging. Let me see your rhythm.”
Leo walked to the approach line. He took a breath. Then he ran his approach—three steps, jump, arm extended but loose.
He landed. His shoulder twinged but didn't scream.
“Your second step is too long,” Marcus said. “You're losing momentum. Shorten it.”
Leo did it again. Shorter second step. Faster transition. His jump felt lighter.
“Better. Again.”
Leo did it fifty times. His legs burned. His shoulder stayed quiet.
“Now do it with a ball,” Marcus said. “Toss it to yourself. Approach. Catch the ball at the peak of your jump with your left hand.”
“My left hand?”
“You're going to learn to hit left-handed.”
Leo stared at him. “What?”
“Your right shoulder is injured. You can't swing with it for at least three weeks. But you can swing with your left. It won't be as strong. But it will be something.”
Leo had never hit left-handed in his life. He'd never even considered it.
“I can't,” he said.
“You can't yet. There's a difference.” Marcus tossed him a ball. “Start.”
---
The first fifty left-handed approaches were a disaster.
Leo's left arm was useless. He couldn't time the toss. He couldn't coordinate his steps. He missed the ball entirely on twelve of the first twenty attempts.
“You're thinking too much,” Marcus said.
“I'm not thinking at all. My body doesn't know what to do.”
“Then teach it.”
Leo tossed the ball again. Approached. Jumped. His left hand met the ball—not a spike, just a touch—and guided it over the net.
“That's one,” Marcus said. “Now do it a thousand more times.”
---
By the end of practice, Leo had made contact with two hundred left-handed swings. They were weak. They were awkward. But they cleared the net.
The team had watched from the sidelines, running their own drills, but stealing glances. Kevin couldn't hide his grin. Jake raised an eyebrow. Tyler just stared.
“You're learning to hit left-handed?” Kevin asked.
“I'm trying.”
“That's insane.”
“That's necessary.”
Ethan walked over. “Set me.”
Leo blinked. “What?”
“Set me. With your left hand. You're going to be a hitter, but you might need to set too. If you're going to learn a new skill, learn two.”
Leo wanted to argue. But Ethan was already in position.
Leo tossed the ball. He jumped—left-handed set, like he'd seen Ethan do a thousand times. The ball wobbled. It was low, off-target, spinning sideways.
Ethan adjusted. He swung. The ball hit the net.
“Terrible set,” Ethan said.
“I know.”
“Do it again.”
Leo did it again. And again. And again.
By the end, his left shoulder was burning, his legs were shaking, and he'd made exactly three good sets out of fifty.
But he'd made three.
---
That night, Leo iced both shoulders.
His right one—the injured one—was quiet. His left one—the new one—was screaming.
His mother walked into his room with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. “You're overdoing it.”
“Marcus said to push.”
“Marcus isn't your mother.” She set the glass on his nightstand. “You have two weeks until state. If you burn out your left shoulder, what then?”
Leo didn't have an answer.
“Rest,” she said. “Tomorrow is another day.”
She left. Leo stared at the ceiling.
He thought about his team. About Kevin's digs. About Jake's spikes. About Tyler's blocks. About Ethan's sets.
They'd won regionals without him. Could they win state without him too?
He didn't want to find out.
---
The next week was a blur of physical therapy, left-handed drills, and film study.
Leo's right shoulder improved. The range of motion came back. The pain faded to a dull memory. But Dr. Reyes was firm: no spiking for at least another ten days.
Ten days. State was in seven.
“I'm not going to clear you for full play,” she said at his follow-up appointment. “But I will clear you for limited participation. Serving. Passing. Soft tipping. No hard swings.”
“That's enough,” Leo said.
“It's not enough to win a state championship.”
“It's enough to help my team.”
Dr. Reyes studied him. Then she signed the clearance form. “Don't make me regret this.”
---
Leo walked into practice that afternoon without his sling.
The team saw him. They stopped drilling. Kevin's jaw dropped. Jake smiled. Tyler pushed up his glasses.
“You're cleared?” Ethan asked.
“Limited. No hard swings. But I can pass. I can serve. I can tip.”
“Can you set?” Ethan asked.
Leo looked at him. “With my left hand? Yes.”
Ethan nodded. “Then you're playing.”
---
The first practice with Leo back on the court—even limited—was electric.
He lined up in the back row, his usual position when his shoulder was healthy. Kevin was libero, so Leo played right-side defense. He passed three serves in a row—clean, flat, fast.
Ethan set. Jake swung. Kill.
“You're back,” Kevin said.
“I'm back.”
The drill continued. Leo served—a jump float, left-handed, awkward but effective. He tipped over the block. He rolled shots to the corners. He did everything except swing hard.
And the team responded. They played faster. Sharper. More confident.
Leo watched them and felt something he hadn't felt in weeks.
Hope.
---
After practice, Ethan pulled Leo aside.
“You're not going to be able to hit hard at state.”
“I know.”
“So we need to adjust our offense. You'll be a decoy. Draw the block. Tip. Roll. Wipe out. Jake will be our primary scorer.”
Leo nodded. “I've been thinking the same thing.”
“Good.” Ethan paused. “I also think you should serve first. Your left-handed float is weird. They won't expect it.”
“Weird is good?”
“Weird is unpredictable. Unpredictable is hard to pass.”
Leo smiled. “You're a genius.”
“I'm a setter. Same thing.”
---
The team's final practice before state was emotional.
They ran through every drill. Every rotation. Every scenario. Coach Harris stood at the end of the court, watching, not saying much. But his presence was enough.
At the end of practice, Leo gathered the team in a circle.
“We started this season with six players and a ghost gym,” he said. “No coach. No fans. No respect. Now we're going to state.”
He looked at each of them.
“Kevin, you were a track guy who didn't know how to dig. Now you're the best libero in the region.”
Kevin wiped his eyes.
“Jake, you were a broken ace who couldn't trust his knee. Now you're our captain and our best scorer.”
Jake nodded, his jaw tight.
“Tyler, you flinched at serves. Now you're a wall.”
Tyler pushed up his goggles.
“Ryan, Derek, Samir—you filled every gap. You never complained. You just worked.”
They stood a little taller.
“And Ethan.” Leo turned to him. “You were a robot who didn't trust anyone. Now you're the heart of this team.”
Ethan's face was unreadable. But his voice, when he spoke, was rough. “We're not done.”
“No,” Leo said. “We're not.”
He put his left hand in the center of the circle. His right hand—still healing, still weak—joined it.
“One team,” Leo said.
“One fight,” Kevin added.
“One match at a time,” Jake said.
“One state championship,” Ethan finished.
They broke the circle and walked off the court.
---
That night, Leo sat in his room, his shoulder iced, his notebook open.
He wrote with his right hand—slow, still stiff, but moving.
State. Tomorrow.
What I can do:
- Pass
- Serve (left-handed float)
- Tip
- Roll
- Wipe out
- Be a decoy
What I can't do:
- Swing hard
- Block effectively
- Play more than two rotations
What my team can do:
- Win
He closed the notebook and looked at the Marcus Cole poster.
One more climb, he thought. One more match.
He turned off the light and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, they'd walk into the state tournament. Not as favorites. Not as underdogs. As a team that refused to quit.
Leo smiled in the dark.
Let's go.
- Writer
