Small Giant

The State of Play

The state tournament gym was a cathedral.

Leo stood at the entrance, his right arm hanging loose at his side, and stared up at the ceiling. It had to be sixty feet high. The lights were so bright they felt like sunlight. The bleachers stretched up in tiers, already half-filled with fans from a dozen schools. Three courts, but only one mattered—the center court, with the championship banner hanging from the rafters.

He'd dreamed of this place. Watched it on television. Imagined himself walking onto the floor with his team. But the dream hadn't included a sling-free but still-weak right shoulder. It hadn't included learning to hit left-handed in two weeks. It hadn't included the quiet fear that he might be a liability instead of an asset.

“You're staring,” Kevin said beside him.

“I'm soaking it in.”

“Soak faster. We have to warm up.”

Leo tore his eyes away from the ceiling and followed his team onto the court.

---

The first match of the tournament was against Eastside—the tall, slow, predictable team Leo had scouted for weeks.

Their roster averaged six-three. Their middle blocker was six-five. Their opposite hitter had a seven-foot wingspan. They looked like a team of redwoods.

But Leo had watched their film. He knew their weaknesses.

“They're slow to transition,” he said during the pre-match huddle. “After they block, they take an extra step before getting back into position. If we run a quick offense, we can catch them out of system.”

“Can you run a quick offense?” Jake asked.

“I can tip quickly.”

Ethan nodded. “Then we go fast. Kevin, high passes. Everyone else, ready to swing on two.”

The referee called for captains. Jake walked to the net. Eastside's captain—their six-five middle blocker—looked down at him.

“You're short,” the middle said.

“You're slow,” Jake replied.

The middle blinked. Jake walked back to his team.

Leo almost laughed.

---

Eastside served first.

Their server was a six-three senior with a jump serve that had looked terrifying on film. In person, it looked worse. The ball screamed over the net, dipping at the last second. Kevin passed it clean—barely—and the ball floated to Ethan.

Ethan set quick to the outside. Jake approached, swung, and hit the ball directly into the six-five middle's hands.

Stuff. 1–0 Eastside.

“Shake it off,” Leo called from the back row. “Next point.”

Eastside served again. Same server. Same rocket. This time, Kevin passed it higher, giving Ethan more time. Ethan set Leo on a quick—a low, fast ball to the left side.

Leo approached. His right arm was useless for a hard swing, but his left was ready. He'd practiced this a thousand times. He jumped, twisted, and swung left-handed.

The ball floated. It wasn't fast. But it was unexpected. Eastside's block was set for a right-handed hitter. They were late. The ball dropped between two defenders.

1–1.

Leo landed and checked his shoulder. No pain. His left arm was tingling, but his right was quiet.

“Left-handed?” Kevin shouted from across the court.

“Left-handed.”

“You're insane.”

“You're welcome.”

---

The first set was a chess match.

Eastside had height and power. Westbrook had speed and unpredictability. Every point was a battle of adjustments.

Leo played mostly back row, passing and serving. His left-handed jump float was ugly—it wobbled, dipped, and skidded—but Eastside's passers couldn't read it. He served three aces in the first set alone.

Jake carried the offense. He scored from the outside, the middle, the back row. His knee was wrapped tight, but he moved like the old Jake Morrison—the junior national prospect who'd been feared across the region.

At 20–18 Westbrook, Eastside called timeout.

“They're going to target you,” Ethan said to Leo. “You're the weakest passer on the court.”

Leo knew it was true. His right arm was still weak. His passing platform was uneven. He'd been hiding in the back row, letting Kevin take the tough serves.

“Then I'll pass better,” Leo said.

“Can you?”

“I have to.”

---

The timeout ended. Eastside's server—a different player, a lefty with a float serve—aimed directly at Leo.

The ball drifted. Leo moved under it. His arms went out—right arm straight, left arm straight—and the ball hit his platform. It wobbled, but it went up.

Ethan set Jake. Jake swung. Kill.

21–18 Westbrook.

Leo breathed. His right arm had held.

Eastside served again. Same server. Same target. Leo passed again. Cleaner this time. The ball flew to Ethan.

Ethan set Leo on a quick. Leo approached. The block was there—two hands, but they were expecting a right-handed swing. Leo swung left-handed again, tipping the ball over the block. It landed in the corner.

22–18 Westbrook.

Eastside's coach called another timeout. His players were arguing. The six-five middle was shaking his head.

Leo walked to Ethan. “They don't know what to do with me.”

“Nobody does.”

“Good.”

---

Westbrook won the first set 25–20.

The second set was harder. Eastside adjusted. They stopped targeting Leo and started serving to Derek, who struggled under pressure. Three aces in a row. 6–3 Eastside.

Leo called a timeout.

“Derek, you're not alone,” he said. “Kevin, shift to cover. Jake, drop back on serve receive. We need to protect him.”

“I can handle it,” Derek said, his face pale.

“You don't have to handle it alone. That's what a team does.”

The timeout ended. Eastside served. Kevin shifted. The ball went to Derek, but Kevin was there. He passed it clean. Ethan set Jake. Kill.

6–4.

Westbrook clawed back. Point by point. 10–10. 15–15. 20–20.

At 22–21 Westbrook, Leo served. His left-handed float drifted, dipped, and caught the tape. The ball teetered on the net for a heart-stopping second. Then it fell on Eastside's side.

Ace. 23–21.

The Westbrook bench exploded. Leo couldn't believe it. He'd just served an ace in the state tournament. With his left hand.

Eastside called their final timeout. When they came back, they were desperate. Their swings were wild. Their passes were sloppy.

Westbrook won the second set 25–22.

Match over. First round: Westbrook.

Leo walked off the court, his right arm hanging, his left arm buzzing, his heart pounding.

One down. Two to go.

---

The semifinal was against North Catholic—the fast, short, scrappy team that Leo had circled as a potential trap.

They weren't tall. They weren't powerful. But they were everywhere. Their libero was a human vacuum cleaner. Their setter was a magician. Their hitters didn't kill—they placed.

“This is a bad matchup for us,” Jake said during the break.

“Why?”

“Because they're us. Fast. Scrappy. Unpredictable. They're going to make us play their game.”

Leo looked at the court. North Catholic was warming up, small and quick, moving like a school of fish.

“Then we play our game better than they play theirs.”

---

The first set against North Catholic was a blur.

Rallies lasted forever. Every ball was dug. Every set was perfect. Every hit was placed, not crushed.

Leo played back row again, passing and serving. His left-handed float was less effective against North Catholic's libero—the kid read it perfectly every time.

At 15–15, Leo called a timeout.

“We're playing their game,” he said. “Slow. Long rallies. They're wearing us down.”

“What do you suggest?” Ethan asked.

“We speed up. Quick sets. Back-row attacks. Don't give them time to dig.”

“My sets are fast enough.”

“Then hit faster.”

Jake stepped forward. “I can hit faster.”

“Then do it.”

---

The second half of the first set was a different match.

Ethan started setting quicker—so quick that the hitters barely had time to approach. Jake adapted. Samir adapted. Even Tyler, who never hit, took a swing from the middle and scored.

Westbrook won the first set 25–22.

The second set was a war.

North Catholic refused to die. Every time Westbrook pulled ahead, they clawed back. Their setter was a genius—left-handed, tricky, with a jump spin that made his sets look like they were going one place before they went another.

Leo's shoulder started to ache. He'd been passing too much. His right arm wasn't ready for this workload.

At 18–18, he called a sub. Ryan went in for him.

Leo sat on the bench, holding his shoulder, watching his team play without him.

They didn't collapse. Kevin dug everything. Jake scored. Tyler blocked. Ethan set.

Westbrook won the second set 25–23.

Match over. Semifinal: Westbrook.

Leo stood up, his shoulder throbbing, and walked onto the court to join his team.

“One more,” he said. “One more match for the state championship.”

---

The championship match was against South Bay—the balanced team with no weaknesses.

Leo had watched their film a dozen times. They had a tall setter, a fast libero, three hitters who could score from anywhere, and a bench deeper than Westbrook's entire roster.

“They're undefeated,” Kevin said, staring across the gym at South Bay's warm-up. “Twenty-four and zero.”

“Everyone loses eventually,” Leo said.

“Do they? Have they?”

“Today they will.”

---

The warm-up was tense.

South Bay moved with the confidence of a team that had never been challenged. Their drills were crisp. Their passes were perfect. Their sets were on the money.

Westbrook's warm-up was sloppy by comparison. Leo's left-handed swings were awkward. Jake's knee was stiff. Kevin was bouncing too much.

“We're nervous,” Ethan said.

“We're human,” Leo replied. “That's okay. Nerves mean we care.”

---

The referee called for captains. Jake walked to the net. South Bay's captain—their tall setter—shook his hand with a practiced smile.

“Good luck,” the setter said.

“We don't need luck,” Jake replied.

The setter's smile flickered.

---

South Bay served first.

Their server was a left-handed opposite with a jump serve that curved like a banana. The ball started wide, then bent back toward the line. Kevin read it, moved, passed. The ball flew to Ethan.

Ethan set Jake. The block was there—three hands, a wall. Jake tried to swing through them. The ball rebounded. South Bay's libero dug. Their setter ran a quick middle. The ball hit the floor before Westbrook's block could move.

1–0 South Bay.

Leo's stomach tightened. They were fast. Really fast.

---

The first set was a lesson in humility.

South Bay was better than any team Westbrook had faced. Their passing was flawless. Their sets were surgical. Their hitters made no errors.

Westbrook scrambled. Kevin dove for everything, but the balls were placed just out of reach. Jake swung hard, but South Bay's block was always there. Tyler tried to read, but their setter was unpredictable.

South Bay won the first set 25–16.

Leo sat on the bench, his shoulder aching, his mind racing.

“We can't beat them playing our game,” he said.

“Then we play a different game,” Ethan replied.

---

The second set, Westbrook changed everything.

Ethan stopped setting predictable patterns. He started setting to whoever was open—back row, middle, opposite, even Leo's left-handed tip.

Leo served first. His left-handed float caught South Bay's libero off guard—the ball died on the line. Ace.

1–0 Westbrook.

South Bay's coach called a quick timeout. His players were confused. They'd scouted Westbrook's regular offense. This wasn't it.

“Keep them off balance,” Leo said during the timeout. “No patterns. No habits. Every point, something new.”

---

The second set was chaos.

Westbrook played like a team with nothing to lose. Kevin served an ace. Jake scored from the back row. Tyler stuffed their best hitter. Samir tipped over the block. Ryan passed a perfect ball.

And Leo—Leo did what he could. He passed. He served. He tipped. He drew the block.

At 20–18 Westbrook, South Bay called another timeout. Their coach was screaming. Their players were arguing.

Leo's team huddled.

“They're rattled,” Jake said. “Keep pushing.”

“One more point,” Leo said. “One more point and we take this set.”

---

South Bay served. Kevin passed. Ethan set Leo on a quick.

Leo approached. The block rose—two hands, but they were expecting a tip. Leo swung left-handed—not hard, but fast—and the ball caught the blocker's fingertips. It spun, wobbled, and dropped on South Bay's side.

21–18 Westbrook.

The bench exploded. Leo landed and grabbed his right shoulder. It was screaming. But he didn't care.

South Bay never recovered. Westbrook won the second set 25–21.

One set each. One set for the state championship.

---

The third set—the tiebreaker—was played to 15.

Win by two.

Leo sat on the bench for the first five points. His shoulder needed rest. Ryan played in his place.

South Bay scored first. Then Westbrook. 1–1. 2–2. 3–3.

At 5–5, Leo subbed back in. His shoulder was numb from the ice. He couldn't feel it anymore. That was either very good or very bad.

“You okay?” Ethan asked.

“I'm fine.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm playing.”

---

South Bay served. Kevin passed. Ethan set Jake. Kill. 6–5 Westbrook.

South Bay answered. 6–6.

Leo served. Left-handed float. The ball caught the net, teetered, and fell on South Bay's side. Ace. 7–6.

South Bay called timeout.

“They're going to target you again,” Ethan said.

“Let them. I'll pass.”

---

The timeout ended. South Bay served to Leo. He passed clean—his best pass of the match. Ethan set Jake. Kill. 8–6.

South Bay answered. 8–7.

Then 9–7. 9–8. 10–8. 10–9.

At 12–10 Westbrook, Leo's shoulder went quiet. Not numb. Quiet. The pain had stopped. He didn't know if that meant it was healing or if he'd simply broken through.

He didn't care.

South Bay served. Kevin passed. Ethan set Leo on a quick.

Leo approached. The block was there—three hands, a wall. He didn't have the power to hit through them. He didn't have the angle to tip around them.

So he did the only thing left.

He hit the ball off the blocker's hands—a wipeout—and watched it spin out of bounds.

13–10 Westbrook.

South Bay's coach called their final timeout. Their players were exhausted. Their setter was arguing with the libero. Their undefeated season was slipping away.

Leo's team huddled.

“One point,” he said. “One point and we're state champions.”

“Two points,” Ethan corrected. “We need two. Win by two.”

“Then we get two.”

---

South Bay served into the net. 14–10 Westbrook. Match point.

Leo's heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

South Bay served again. Kevin passed. Ethan set.

Jake approached. The block rose. Jake waited—a full heartbeat—then swung line.

The ball hit the floor.

15–10 Westbrook.

State champions.

---

The gym exploded.

Kevin fell to his knees. Jake dropped to the floor, clutching his knee, tears streaming down his face. Tyler stood at the net with his arms up, still blocking no one, sobbing. Ryan and Derek hugged each other. Samir ran to the bench and grabbed the state championship banner.

Leo stood in the middle of the court, his right arm hanging limp, his left arm raised in the air, and screamed.

He screamed until his voice gave out.

Ethan walked over. “We did it.”

“You did it. I just tipped.”

“You passed. You served. You drew the block. You led.” Ethan put a hand on Leo's good shoulder. “We did it together.”

Leo looked at his team. At the banner. At the crowd.

They'd started with six players and a ghost gym. No coach. No fans. No respect.

Now they were state champions.

---

The awards ceremony was a blur.

A trophy. A banner. A photo that would hang next to the regional championship and the tournament championship and the 2009 banner.

Leo stood on the podium, holding the trophy with his left hand, his right arm hanging. His shoulder was screaming again. His legs were jelly. His heart was full.

Marcus Cole was in the crowd. He wasn't smiling. He was nodding.

Dana Meeks was writing furiously.

Coach Harris stood at the edge of the podium, arms crossed, a tear running down his tired face.

Kevin was crying. Jake was laughing. Tyler was adjusting his goggles. Ethan stood beside Leo, silent, still.

“State champions,” Leo said.

“State champions,” Ethan repeated.

Leo looked up at the banner. At the lights. At the ceiling of the cathedral.

We made it, he thought. We actually made it.

He pulled out his notebook with his left hand—the pages were worn, smudged, barely holding together—and wrote one line:

We are the best. And we're just getting started.