The Unlearning
2341 Words
The first time Leo tried to spike with his new form, the ball hit the floor three feet in front of the net.
Not because he missed. Because his body refused to cooperate. His hips rotated. His core engaged. His arm stayed loose. But his muscle memory—three years of bad habits—screamed no at the last second, and his shoulder tensed, and the ball died at his feet like a bird with a broken wing.
Ethan stared at the ball. Then at Leo. “That was terrible.”
“I know.”
“You just hit the floor.”
“I know.”
“On our side.”
“I KNOW.”
Leo grabbed another ball, walked back to the approach line, and tried again. This time, he overcorrected. His hips rotated too hard, his arm whipped too late, and the ball sailed over the end line into the bleachers.
Kevin, who was supposed to be digging, didn't even move. “That was also terrible.”
“You're not helping.”
“I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to motivate you through mockery.”
Leo glared at him. Kevin grinned.
Jake limped over. “You're thinking too much. Marcus said to unlearn. He didn't say to rebuild in a day.”
“We have three weeks until the tournament.”
“And you'll be ready. Not perfect. Ready.” Jake picked up the ball and tossed it back. “Stop trying to kill it. Just make contact. Let the form happen.”
Leo took a breath. He closed his eyes. He imagined Marcus's torso rotation—smooth, relaxed, powerful. Then he opened his eyes, approached, and swung.
The ball cleared the net. It wasn't fast. It wasn't sharp. But it landed in the court.
“There,” Ethan said. “That's one.”
Leo nodded. His shoulder didn't hurt. His core was burning. But he'd done it.
“Now do it a thousand more times,” Ethan said.
Leo picked up another ball.
---
The next Saturday, Leo showed up to Northwood Volleyball Club at 7:45 AM again.
Marcus was already there, sitting on the bleachers, drinking coffee from a thermos. He didn't say hello. He just pointed to the court.
“Show me what you've been practicing.”
Leo dropped his bag, grabbed a ball, and served. The rotation was better—his hips fired before his arm—but the ball still drifted wide.
“Better,” Marcus said. “But you're hesitating. Your brain is fighting your body.”
“I know.”
“Stop fighting. Let your body learn.” Marcus stood up and walked to the net. “We're going to do a different drill today. No spikes. No serves. Just footwork and rotation.”
“For how long?”
“Until you stop thinking.”
---
The drill was simple. Marcus stood at the net with a ball. Leo stood at the approach line. Marcus would toss the ball high, and Leo would approach, jump, and swing—not to hit the ball, but to catch it with his non-dominant hand at the peak of his jump.
“Catching forces your body to slow down,” Marcus explained. “You can't catch if you're muscling the swing. You have to be smooth.”
Leo tried. The first ten times, he grabbed at the ball like a drowning man. Missed. Missed. Missed.
“You're rushing,” Marcus said.
“I'm not.”
“You are. Your feet are ahead of your hips. Wait. Let the ball come to you.”
Leo waited. The ball floated down. He jumped—not his highest, but his smoothest—and caught it.
“Good. Again.”
They did it a hundred times. Two hundred. By the end, Leo's timing had shifted. He wasn't lunging at the ball anymore. He was flowing toward it.
“Now do the same thing,” Marcus said, “but hit it instead of catch it.”
Leo tossed the ball. He approached. He waited. The ball came down. He jumped, rotated, and swung.
The ball screamed over the net and hit the back wall.
Leo landed and stared at his hand. His shoulder was silent. His core was on fire.
“That's power,” Marcus said.
Leo nodded. He couldn't speak.
---
The team noticed the difference immediately.
Monday's practice. Leo walked into the gym and joined the hitting line. Ethan set. Leo approached. His approach was slower—deliberate—and for a split second, Ethan hesitated. He wasn't used to Leo's new rhythm.
Then Leo jumped.
The ball exploded off his hand, past Tyler's block, and hit the floor so hard it bounced into the bleachers.
The gym went silent.
“Whoa,” Kevin said.
“Again,” Ethan said.
Leo approached again. Same rhythm. Same explosion. Same result.
Tyler lowered his arms. “I couldn't even see it.”
“That's the point,” Leo said.
Jake, watching from the bench, shook his head. “Marcus Cole did that in one week?”
“He didn't do it. I did it. He just showed me how.”
Ethan set again. Leo approached again. This time, the block was there—three hands, ready. Leo saw the seam, adjusted mid-air, and swung cross-court. The ball landed untouched.
“You're different,” Ethan said.
“I'm the same. I just stopped fighting myself.”
---
That afternoon, Dana Meeks showed up again.
She sat in her usual spot, notepad out, watching. After practice, she walked down to the court.
“You're moving differently,” she said.
“Marcus Cole has been training me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Marcus Cole? The Marcus Cole?”
“The same.”
“He doesn't train high school players.”
“He trains me.”
Dana wrote something in her notepad. “That's a story.”
“It's not a story. It's practice.”
“Everything is a story, Leo.” She tucked her notepad away. “The tournament is in two and a half weeks. Are you ready?”
“We're ready.”
“You said that before Northridge.”
Leo's jaw tightened. “We're not the same team.”
“I know.” She smiled. “That's why I'm still here.”
---
The team's next practice match was against Jefferson High—a team they'd never played before.
Jefferson was fast. Not tall, not powerful, but fast. Their sets were quick. Their transitions were quicker. They ran a tempo that Westbrook hadn't seen before.
The first set was a blur. Jefferson's setter—a wiry kid with quick hands—ran a fast offense that left Westbrook's block gasping. Tyler was late. Jake was out of position. Kevin dug everything, but the balls came so fast he couldn't control them.
Jefferson won the first set 25–19.
“We're not ready for this,” Ryan said during the break.
“We're not ready for this yet,” Leo corrected. “But we will be by the end of the match.”
The second set, Westbrook adjusted. Ethan slowed his own sets—not slower, but higher—giving his hitters time to read the block. Leo's new form paid off. He scored four kills in a row, each one sharper than the last.
Westbrook won the second set 25–22.
The third set was a war. Back and forth. Lead changes. Diving saves. At 14–14, Leo's shoulder twinged—just a whisper—and he shook it off.
At 18–18, Kevin made a play that changed everything. Jefferson's setter tried a quick dump over the net. Kevin read it, moved before the setter's hand touched the ball, and stuffed it back into Jefferson's court.
The gym erupted. Even Jefferson's coach nodded.
Westbrook won the third set 25–23.
Match over. Westbrook took the practice match 2–1.
Leo sat on the bench, breathing hard, his shoulder warm but quiet. Jake sat next to him.
“We just beat a team that plays faster than us,” Jake said.
“We adapted.”
“We survived.”
“Same thing.”
---
After the match, Leo called Marcus.
“We won,” Leo said.
“Against who?”
“Jefferson. They're fast.”
“Did you use the new form?”
“Yes.”
“Did your shoulder hurt?”
“No.”
“Then you won twice.” Marcus paused. “Next Saturday, we work on blocking. You're a spiker, but every spiker has to block. Especially short ones.”
“Short ones have to block?”
“Short ones have to block smarter. I'll show you.”
Marcus hung up. Leo stared at his phone.
Blocking. He'd never been good at blocking. His height made him a target. But Marcus had been five-six too. If he'd figured it out, Leo could too.
---
The next practice, Leo announced: “I'm learning to block.”
Tyler laughed. “You? Block?”
“Me. Block.”
“You're a foot shorter than me.”
“Marcus Cole blocked all-state hitters. If he can do it, I can do it.”
Ethan nodded. “Show us.”
Leo walked to the net. Kevin tossed a ball to Ethan, who set it high. Leo jumped—not his highest, but his smartest—and put his hands where he thought the hitter would swing.
The ball hit his palms and dropped.
“That's a stuff,” Kevin said.
“That's luck,” Leo said.
“Do it again.”
Leo did it again. This time, the ball went through his hands. But he'd been close.
“You're reading the setter,” Ethan observed.
“That's what Marcus said. Watch the setter's hands, not the hitter.”
Jake nodded slowly. “That's actually smart.”
“I have smart moments.”
“Rarely.”
Leo grinned and went back to the net.
---
Saturday came. Leo arrived at Northwood at 7:45 AM. Marcus was already there, setting up a blocking dummy—a padded pole with arms.
“You're going to block this a hundred times,” Marcus said. “Then you're going to block me.”
“You're going to hit on me?”
“I'm going to hit around you. Your job is to make me hit into you.”
Marcus tossed the ball to himself and swung. Leo jumped, hands up, but Marcus's spike went past his ear.
“You're jumping too early,” Marcus said. “Wait for the hitter's arm.”
“I'm waiting.”
“You're not. You're guessing. Watch.”
Marcus did it again. This time, Leo waited—a full heartbeat—and jumped. His hands met the ball.
“Better. Again.”
They did it fifty times. By the end, Leo's timing had shifted. He wasn't guessing anymore. He was reading.
“Now block me for real,” Marcus said.
He served to himself, approached, and swung. Leo read his shoulders, jumped, and got a hand on the ball. It slowed. Marcus dug it, set it to himself, and swung again.
Leo blocked again.
Back and forth. A rally between a legend and a kid. The ball never hit the floor on Leo's side.
“You're not going to stuff me,” Marcus said between swings. “But you're slowing me down. That's enough.”
Leo landed, breathing hard. “Enough for what?”
“Enough to win.”
---
The next week was the hardest of the season.
Leo trained with Marcus on Saturdays and brought everything back to Westbrook. He taught the team the timing drill. He showed them how to read setters' hands. He demonstrated the hip rotation until his core ached.
But not everyone could learn at the same speed.
Tyler struggled with the reading drill. His timing was still off. Kevin picked it up immediately—his track instincts translated—but he kept overrunning the ball. Jake's knee flared up again, and he missed two practices. Ryan and Derek plateaued.
And Ethan—Ethan was perfect, as always, but Leo noticed something. The robot was tired. Not physically. Mentally. The weight of setting for a team that was still learning, still making mistakes, still losing points they should have won.
“You okay?” Leo asked after practice.
“I'm fine.”
“You've said that three times this week.”
Ethan was quiet. Then: “I've been thinking about Eastlake. About the match. About how I felt after.”
“How did you feel?”
“Empty. Like I'd been waiting for that win for three years, and when it came, it didn't change anything.”
Leo sat next to him on the bleachers. “What did you want to change?”
“I don't know. Everything. Nothing.” Ethan stared at the banner. “I thought beating them would make me feel like I belonged somewhere. Instead, I just felt like I'd finished something I should have finished years ago.”
“You belong here,” Leo said.
Ethan looked at him. “Do I?”
“Yes. You're the best setter in the conference. You're the reason we're winning. You belong here.”
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood up. “Thanks.”
“That's all you're going to say?”
“That's all I have.”
Ethan walked out of the gym. Leo watched him go, then pulled out his notebook.
Ethan is struggling. Not with volleyball. With meaning. Need to check on him.
He closed the notebook and looked at the banner.
2009 Regional Champions.
One week until the tournament. One week to pull the team together.
Leo stood up and walked to the service line. He tossed the ball, approached with his new rhythm, and served. The ball hit the back wall. He served again. And again.
His shoulder stayed quiet. His core burned. His mind was clear.
One week.
- Writer
