The Five Foot Giant by Giancarlos Zambrana Carlo

In a not-so-distant time when Wendy’s cups were yellow and Calle 13 had just dissed our governor, the world just seemed so much more colorful and beautiful. There I was, little ten-year-old me in October 2009, sitting on the couch, just having the time of my life, watching Adventure Time peacefully, ignorant of what was about to happen. Here comes my ever-so-beautiful mother into the fray. With her drying cloth in one hand and a freshly washed plate in the other, she stared at me. Seamlessly unbothered by her staring, she gestured for me to come to the kitchen really quick. She lured me in by talking about random family chisme, but then she sneaked in a question. She asked me if I wanted to try playing another sport.

Now, a little backstory on my sports history: until that moment, I had tried tennis, basketball, and lastly, soccer. Out of all of those, soccer was my favorite, but at the time I lacked the passion for it, so I quit eventually.

Coming back to that moment, I answered, "Sure, mama. ¿Qué deporte?" She eventually told me that an old coach she knew was holding some beginner’s classes for volleyball, ages 9–11, on Fridays and that she wanted my sister and me to go. My mother has always wanted both of us to be active and play a sport, mainly to get us to socialize and have fun learning new things, but I knew that she really just wanted to enjoy seeing us play, like my grandma did for her back in New York. So, after she told me this, I considered it, but seeing my mother so excited to see us play the sport she loved tipped the scales a bit more in her favor.

You might be asking yourself, "What about your sister? Did she want to learn?" Well, she had already learned the sport and was playing actively in little teams. She is diabetic, so this sport was her way of doing some exercise and keeping herself in shape while under the watchful eye of her coach and my entire bloodline in the stands. So, to answer the question, yes, she wanted to learn from my mom’s old coach and practically forced me into reluctantly agreeing.

Flash forward to that fated evening. I had just gotten off school and didn’t have much time to prepare or relax since the lessons were at 4. So, I just ate something mild (just in case I wanted to throw up) and put on my finest sports attire for the evening, which consisted of an old Cristiano Ronaldo jersey, some soccer shorts, and basketball shoes. I was ready, or so I believed, to become the next Picky Soto, standing tall at 4'10". It wasn’t until I stepped foot on the court that I realized what I’d gotten myself into. Before me was a court full of maybe 24–26 kids my age with kneepads, sleeves, and Mizuno shoes. They were prepared to play for their country, and I was doing a soccer player cosplay.

My sister reassured me that we’d be alright as we were divided into those who already knew how to play and those who didn’t, which meant I’d be separated from my sister.

Now, this wasn’t just to create division or conflict on the court, but to make sure to instruct us in the best possible way. As a kid, not even 11 yet, I couldn’t help feeling inferior. Then we began to stretch, and eventually, what I’d consider now to be a basic workout routine of some laps, jumping jacks, and some suicide runs. Afterwards, the rules of the game were explained to us. This first of many Fridays was one of conditioning and working out the body while introducing us to the game.

Before leaving, he huddled both our groups together to announce that after one month of practice, we’d be playing a match between the two groups. The experienced crowd cheered, but we weren’t looking so thrilled. Afterwards, I’d get home and hit the hay hard, unaware of what came next.

Second, third, and fourth practices go by, and I start getting a feel for the game. In the second practice, we were introduced to positions: corner, opposite, center, libero, and finally setter. Note that although there are positions, all players must be capable of playing all roles in a competitive scenario. After learning the roles, we were taught how to set, receive, and serve between ourselves.

Third practice came, and we began to serve and play actual practice matches between ourselves. He used to say we had to learn by play, and that we did. With the looming threat of the upcoming game between us and the experienced players, most of us wanted to learn more to defend ourselves. We had already assigned roles and were practicing call-outs like "mine," "yours," or "tipped."

Fourth practice came by, and everybody seemed motivated. Most of us watched videos of players and tips using the internet and/or family and friends who played the sport. We were passionate and ready to win. This fourth practice was mainly rotations and signals for the upcoming game. We weren’t looking like beginners anymore; we were doing quick sets, good serves, and decent receives. The fourth practice came and went; next week was the big game.

As we headed home from our last practice, I tried learning all I could from Mom. She answered all she could and gave me tips and tricks to use against my sister, who was already drooling on the ride home. I couldn’t help but doze off as well, seeing my mom smirk out of the corner of my eye before passing out.

It’s time—the day of the big game. You would think this was a national-level game, by the way I’m hyping it up, but it was just the coach, family, and some enthusiasts coming to watch. Nonetheless, I was as ready as I could be. I got one of my sister’s sleeves, my lucky Cristiano Ronaldo jersey, and some kneepads my mom bought for me. I was finally ready to play.

All of my teammates were here; they seemed fired up as well—until we saw the experienced team warming up. Their form was immaculate; they had crisp sets and receives, but most fearsome of all, they had a giant who was spiking at 11 years old. He was tall, maybe about 5’5” at 11, with what seemed to be an endless supply of nitrous in his legs. We shook it off and went to warm up after they had finished. We looked good, but I couldn’t help noticing that most of us seemed uneasy after seeing their warm-up.

For those of you reading this who haven’t seen an official volleyball match or skirmish before, I’ll give you a little summary of the basics. It’s a 6v6 game, with 3 players in front and 3 in the back. Now, it doesn’t mean you can’t move or switch positions, but before the whistle blows, you always must start with 3 in front and 3 in back.

Like previously mentioned, there are positions on the court depending on specialty. These are: setter, middle blocker, outside hitter, opposite hitter, libero, and a serving specialist. You can only hit the ball three times, not including the initial touch from the other team’s third hit. Each set is 25 points, with typically three sets in a match. Two sets are 25 points each, while a third set would be 15. The first team to win two sets takes the match.

Being a skirmish or practice match, we didn’t really apply the most complex rules, but we had followed this fundamental rule guideline. In our practice match, our team wore blue mesh jerseys, and their team wore red mesh jerseys on top of our exercise clothes to distinguish teams.

The game starts, and I’m riding the bench, backing up our main setter. We’re up serving, and it passes the net. They pick it up effortlessly and set up their giant on the opposite corner, who spikes through his blocker like he wasn’t even there. 1–0, the Red Team took the lead.

Now, looking back on this, I’d say he wasn’t that good, but for the 10-year-old version of myself, it was like seeing a volleyball phenom. I was in awe. I had seen 480p videos on YouTube of people spiking the ball, little montages, etc., but I had never seen something like that in person.

Their turn to serve comes up, and it passes the net. We struggled to pick up the ball, and as expected, we failed to pass the net. To summarize that first set, it was like seeing toddlers learning how to walk race against full-grown men. The set ended 25-4, all our points coming from their service errors, and then I was subbed in to start the second set. As soon as I entered the court, I felt the pressure they were under. The morale of my team was nonexistent, and being beginners, they were reasonably tired. Two other teammates and I were subbed in for the second set. The whistle blows; it’s their serve. Now, seeing from the sidelines, I had all sorts of comments and criticisms about rotations and movement, etc. It wasn’t until this man—I mean, child—jump served the ball straight to the line for an easy point that I realized what I had gotten myself into. 1-0, with the Red Team in the lead. We huddled and reassured ourselves that it was light work, but inside my noggin, I was shook. That point was an ace; whenever that happens, the server (Goliath in this case) gets the chance to serve again. The second serve comes in, and we manage to receive it pretty well. I then set up my middle blocker for a little tap that barely managed to pass.

We organized ourselves in an attempt to block the vision of their giant, who at this point seemed to be the only one actively scoring. My two tallest teammates met at the line with their hands up in hopes of reading the attacker’s approach. They received, and their setter (my sister) jumped with her hands in a setting motion. We had predicted her opposite hitter (Mr. Giant) to hit an angle spike, so we blocked his cross, with myself covering the line. Instead of going for a direct pass to her teammates, my sister did a dump and scored. She winked at me as the score turned. 2-0, Red Team still in the lead. I can’t lie, her little smirk while embarrassing my team made me proud as her brother, but it was still annoying. Annoyed, I suggested the coach sub in some other fresh legs in an effort to try and change things up a bit.

Our game plan was simple: shut off their angles and hope we pick up his line spike. Same as before, but this time we had two of our players marking my sister and their other winger. When you mark someone, it means you focus on them only. As far as our offense was concerned, we were honestly waiting for a miracle. Our service was good; it tipped over the top of the net to their side, and my sister scrambled to pick it up. Perfect! The main setter was out of play. Their libero took the second touch, and the ball went to their giant in the opposite lane. He saw my blockers as they timed their jump perfectly to cover the cross, and with my libero in wait, his only resort was to hit the line. Our libero picked it up, and I ran up to make a quick set to my middle blocker, who was in position. They tried to block, but my middle blocker managed to get a good hit that was tipped by the other team's outside hitter. The ball sprung and went toward the stands. My sister tried getting it, but it was of no use. Blue Team point, 2-1. We practically screamed and ran to each other—our first point and my first successful set.

I realize now that this was my start; it was the moment my spark was formed. My passion for the game was forged by a miracle. After celebrating like we had won the lottery, we organized ourselves and prepared for their serve. My sister was up. She was visibly happy for me, but I could see that vein in the top of her head—she was pissed. She threw the ball up and served it straight to me. I tried picking it up, but it hit my chest and dropped to the floor. It hurt. The other team and their bench screamed "Peluche!" while my sister went to check if I was okay. I had to ride the bench for a bit after that; being a scrawny 10-year-old brat, I couldn’t take a hit properly yet. My ego was more hurt than my flesh, but Coach subbed me out.

In the time I was out of the game, Red Team went up 20-5, with our four additional points being from their service errors. My mother saw my eyes longing to step onto the court again and asked the coach if she could sub me in. Coach argued a bit, but with my mother’s charm, she managed to convince her to put me back in. My sister had an apologetic look on her face, but I just ignored her. I wanted to win—no time to lick my wounds. Our team’s serve—my serve—the whistle sung, and I managed to send it toward their opposite hitter. In my time out, I had noticed he wasn’t good at receiving the ball, so I aimed for him. He fumbled, and the score was 20-6. Blue Team scores. We shared a high-five and continued. I was up again, and I managed to hit the same serve again; this time our little Goliath picked it up, but not well. The ball went to the back, and my sister ran to catch it to try and send it back to the front. She succeeded, and they tried to pass it without spiking. My middle blocker was there to block the ball, and it was our point again.

Blue Team 20-7—the crowd of moms cheered profusely. We did our typical celebration and huddled back up again. I sent it again to his side of the court; the other team predicted this, and their libero picked it up effortlessly. My sister was lying in wait while my opposite hitter marked her. She set the ball to her middle blocker, who was in the back, and he hit it straight to me. Instead of fumbling like last time, I managed to pick it up. My team’s libero caught the second touch and passed it to our middle blocker, who hit it as hard as he could. The ball passed the net. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a rally on our hands. We relentlessly passed the ball from side to side without failure, using all the weapons in our arsenal, waiting for one team to make a mistake.

Our coach went from hardly watching to intensely watching, screaming at both teams indiscriminately. She probably felt the intensity both teams had. As we picked up the ball, the other team expected me to pass, but we had other plans. To break the loop, I had my middle set me up for a hit. While I could barely feel my legs, I managed to gather my strength and jump. As I jumped, their middle blocker and Goliath met me in the sky. I just swung my arm, coincidentally hitting the ball straight off their middle blocker’s fingers and sending it to the stands—the rally was over. Blue Team point, 20-8.

I couldn’t believe it. As I landed, I looked at my hand, tingling from hitting the ball, red hot as if you could fry an egg on it. Sadly, the rally had taken its toll on us; we could barely stand up, shaking relentlessly. Both teams argued about playing more, but our bodies wouldn’t let us. So, both teams had their whole starting lineup subbed out. As predicted, the Red Team won 25-8.

Their subs were too much for our substitutes and easily dominated the match. We had lost. There were criers and mothers comforting their kids, while I just looked at my hand in a trance. I hated to lose at anything, but I felt nothing this time. Our mom rushed toward both of us and hugged us, even though we were all sweaty. She congratulated us both for playing such a good game and treated us to some Happy Meals before heading home. After bathing, we headed up to our rooms, waiting for her to tuck us in. Mom tucked my sister in and came into my room.

I looked at her and gave her a good-night kiss, and as she was leaving, I signaled for her to come back. Mom, smiling, came back as if she knew what I was going to say. "You were right; I guess it does run in the veins," I said. She stroked my hair and replied, "I’m so proud of you, dear. Now get a good night’s sleep; we have a lot to do tomorrow." As she left, I caught her proud and loving smirk before dozing off.

---