Ask me any other day of the week and I’d say I don’t care if my daughter’s middle school volleyball team wins or not — it’s how they play the game, right?

But on Saturday mornings, it’s a different story. It’s game day. Throwing off my mild-mannered nice mom persona, I turn into CompetoMom.

Where did CompetoMom come from? I’ve never been on a sports team, unless you count my own third-grade soccer season, where I daydreamed through most practices and one of my creative writing suggestions resulted in the unfortunate team name “Hustlers.”

My husband grew up on a ranch and I grew up behind a book. The closest I came to high school athletics was keeping score for the girls’ softball team — where the coach repeatedly had to school me on what constituted a hit and what did not. So when our daughters started playing volleyball in fifth grade, naturally I embraced this new sports world with open arms.

Actually, I was clueless.

Here’s the great thing about girls’ volleyball — you don’t have to be a superstar to play on the team. Size doesn’t matter so much. One of our best servers is one of our shorter players. Volleyball games go fast. We play indoors. The season is short. This is the perfect arrangement for this non-sports-loving mom.

The matches always start off fun enough. The girls wear coordinating hair ribbons and colorful knee socks. Ponytails flying, they bounce around, practicing their serves while checking out the other team out of the corners of their eyes.

We parents take our seats on the bleachers. At first, everyone’s relaxed, chatting back and forth. But one burst of that ear-splitting referee whistle and our eyes are drawn to the court like magnets.

I’m always amazed by the fact that the girls can hit that ball at all. In junior high P.E. I never got a ball over the net, which earned me a comfortable seat on the bench during sixth period. But the girls on my daughter’s team both hit and return the ball, usually with great style. At our last game, one leapt into the air toward a ball, flying on one leg with one arm extended like a mini Michael Jordan. They don’t fear falling or meeting that hard gym floor. Another raced with pure instinct from the back of the court to the front to return the ball. 

During those volleys that go back and forth for what seems like forever, I freeze in my seat. When the ball finally hits the floor, a collective “uhhhhhh” comes from the parents as we all exhale together.

CompetoMom manages to control herself during the game, on the outside at least. I don’t hassle the referee or coaches. I don’t stamp my feet when I am sure, oh so sure, that ball was in. No sirree. CompetoMom minds her manners. I cheer and clap appropriately.

But as the score starts to rise, I start to grit my teeth. I grip my coffee. I fidget. I chew my pen cap into a nub. I sit up, I slouch down. My rear end gets numb from sitting on the edge of the hardwood bleacher seats. I bite my fingernails. I check the score obsessively.

When my own daughter gets ready to serve, I inhale nervously and hold my breath. Come on kid, I think. You can do it.

I’m not the only one whose eyes are ping-ponging back and forth. As the match goes on, I see other parents leaning forward. They grip their knees nervously and bounce their feet up and down. I can only imagine what our coach must be going through. I think of those Irish soccer fans that go crazy and riot when their team plays. We don’t riot in middle school volleyball.

My voice gets hoarse and I get a little light-headed from cheering. I roll my head around to try and get rid of some of the tension. My palms are numb from clapping. This sports stuff is exhausting to watch!

Get a grip, CompetoMom. It’s only a game, it’s only a game, I chant. But during some points, I can’t bear to look. The suspense is agonizing. They’re trying so hard. And then it’s over.

That first weekend of games, our team lost both of its matches. It’s OK, I told my daughter. This is only the beginning. You have all season to hit your stride.

I’ll probably need all season, too.

Surrendering to Motherhood appears every other Monday, alternating with Michelle Choat’s Gal on the Go.