The Best Thing That Never Happened

My alarm went off as I took the first sip of my matcha latte. “Oh shoot, it’s about to start.” Standing in my kitchen, just like I do every day, I had forgotten today wasn’t a normal day. Today, I would pitch my book idea to real literary agents on Zoom. 

I signed up for an  amazing event run by the Women’s National Book Association called Pitch-O-Rama. It’s like speed dating for writers and literary agents on Zoom. We’d be put into “rooms” with three to four other writers and have two minutes each to deliver a pitch of our book idea to a revolving list of agents to see if we’d be a match for what they might be looking for. I had my idea: a collection of narratives revolving around comparison, authenticity, and softness as strength. I had my pitch: my book would be a one-stop-shop (or “one-look-book”, if you will) that readers can come to and find comfort, guidance, or company. Despite all my preparation, the second my alarm went off, my stomach dropped to the floor. Suddenly, I was terrified. Contrary to previous belief, no amount of matcha would fix that. 

I love writing, but if you watched the entirety of my process, you probably wouldn’t think so. I grit my teeth, stall to avoid getting started, or distract myself with all sorts of things. I go through a cold period in which I don’t write anything, then one day my soul escapes through my hands and onto the keyboard. Celebrating that creative win, I’m foolish enough to think perhaps something clicked; perhaps I’ve suddenly unlocked an unlimited flow of creativity and writing. The cold period descends again. 

If you are doing it from an honest place, writing is an extremely vulnerable thing to do. Writing is a love I’m afraid to get too close to. It demands access to the most vulnerable parts of you, not only to discuss them, but to rip them out of you, turn them into something tangible, and hold up the mirror for you, and possibly others, to see. Then, once that part of you is out into the world, there is no denying it. It becomes a reality that a piece of you came out with something like that. And the image it creates of you may not be the one you used to have in your head. So then the question becomes - are you ready to see that side of yourself? And even more, are you ready to share it? 

So here I am with an empty cup and sweat on my nose, in a virtual queue waiting to feign confidence as I pitch my book idea to people who live in a world I want to be a part of. 

“And remember, just have fun!” I listened to the team’s introductions, tips, and orientation to the process, wearing a smile big enough to fill my little Zoom square. Meanwhile, I was mentally trying to psych myself up. 

Come on, sis. This is a low-risk event. Two minutes, just talk for two minutes. And it’s not just about anything, it’s something you’re excited about! What’s the worst that could happen? 

The moment I asked myself that question, I heard a different voice in the back of my mind. “Oh boy, here we go.” 

Well, if we’re asking - they could laugh in my face, tell me I’m unoriginal, tell me I’ve been delusional this entire time, tell me it’s best that I quit writing even though it’s been calling to me for years, slap a label on me saying BAD WRITER NO ONE SHOULD WORK WITH HER so no one ever does, tell other agents or publishers never to work with me, and throw me into a depression at my most vulnerable moment as I try to put a piece of my art and soul out there.

“Ah, so- rejection.”

Yes, girl, REJECTION. Were you not listening? 

There it was. My problem. Not the voices in my head (not today, at least). It all came down to my fear of rejection.

“But, you know, you’ve faced rejection before.” 

… what are you talki-.. OHH, you son of a-

Much like the alarm I was in denial of setting, I had buried that memory in my mind. It was so long ago, I figured I’d moved on. But considering how strongly I’m responding to this two-minute possibility of rejection, maybe I haven’t.

“AH YEA. Get this girl a SHOVEL. We’re goin' diggin.”

The first memory I have of rejection happened where I believe most people’s would. High school. Only for me, it happened the very first day. Volleyball tryouts. 

I had been playing volleyball in grade school, from fifth through eighth grade. I adored it. It was the first experience I ever had working at something and watching myself improve. I also had a little more motivation than some on the team. My mom was the coach. That being said, I didn’t want anyone ever saying I was getting special treatment, so I put in the time and effort. During the off-season, I even took tennis lessons to improve my footwork. I got pretty good, but none of that mattered by the time I got to the big leagues of high school. 

My first day of high school went well, aside from my homeroom teacher mispronouncing my name so badly that I nearly didn’t respond in roll call. “Jahhbith? Jahhbith Pisquail?” It wasn’t the classes I had first day jitters about as much as it was the fact that it was also the first day of volleyball team tryouts. In grade school, getting on the team was simply a matter of writing my name on a piece of binder paper that was being passed around. That was it. This time wouldn’t be as simple. 

At tryouts, I had only ever seen most of the girls from the other side of the net as opponents, if ever. There were several who went to grade school with me, which was comforting.  Until I noticed how familiar some of my old teammates were with these new people. Even the coaches already knew their names as though they had all known each other for a long time. Either I was missing something, or I’m not as good at making friends as I thought I was. Tryouts would be a week long, so I shook it off and figured I would get my chance to meet people. 

By the end, I was proud of myself. I felt confident that I did my best. A couple of coaches even complimented the way I played. “OKAY FRESHMEN, CIRCLE UP!” One of the varsity players herded us together in that cool way only an upperclassman could. “Alright, ladies, you all did a great job today, and you should all be proud of yourselves. We’ll see you tomorrow. For now, could Jobeth and Andie please hang back? The coaches need to speak with you.” 

It was day one of tryouts, and I was cut. I didn’t make the team. “Not because you’re not good enough. You’re a good athlete. But we didn’t see you at any of the open gyms over the summer. A lot of the other girls came to each one. Since they showed such commitment, we do prefer to give them a spot. Do you have any questions?” 

So I did miss something. I didn’t even know about the open gym sessions. Thoughts were flooding my freshman head and feelings were pummeling my freshmeat heart. My reflex was to hide everything I was feeling. I didn’t want them to know how heartbroken I was. So, I responded with a meaningless shot in the dark. “That’s ok, thanks. Is it too late to try out for tennis?” They seemed almost relieved. “Not at all! I’ll even contact the coach to let him know you’ll be there tomorrow!” I’m sure I basically solidified their theory that I wasn’t committed to volleyball, but that wasn’t the case. I just didn’t know what else to do. All I could think about was how I was going to break this news to my mom. 

This was the biggest disappointment I had faced in my life up to that point. My parents were both supportive, but I was heartbroken. I cried until I was exhausted.  It got to the point where I didn’t even care about being eliminated on the first day. I just wanted the emotions to stop. I caught a breath and used it to send up a prayer. “Okay. If this is what you had planned for me, fine. I trust you. Just help me stop crying. And please make this sadness worthwhile.” In that moment, the storm ceased. I stopped crying. Now, all that was left was to find my tennis racquet and remain hopeful for the last part of my prayer. 

Even though they left my lips as a facade, I followed through on my words. The next day, I went to tennis tryouts. I lined up for the drills while reorienting myself to my racquet for the first time in years. All I had to do was hit the ball over the net and into the court. I did it. Then I had to serve the ball into the right box. Got it. Return an (easy) serve. Sure. Nothing was graceful. But I got it done. Over and in. Way over and in. I lobbed most of the balls, but I was consistent.

At one point, the coach pulled me out of drills to rally with the assistant coach. He was a younger guy, very chill and casual in his demeanor. The polar opposite of what I felt from the volleyball staff. “Sup’. Jobeth, right?” I was surprised he knew my name. I must have looked confused. “Oh dude, is that not it?” “No, yeah, that’s me.” “Cool! Alright, JB, let’s see whatchu got.” I thought this could either be a great sign or I was being set up for humiliation. High risk, high reward. I took my place at baseline.

At the end of the day, we all circled up. Day-old dread crept into my stomach. The coaches thanked us for coming. They asked that a couple of us stay behind to chat. “Could Courtney and JB stay for a sec, please?” This was the worst kind of deja vu.

“AYYY YOOO JAY BEEEE! GET OVER HERE!” The assistant coach called me over. This time, my panel of judges consisted of the assistant coach, the head coach, and the team captain - the highest ranking player on the team and a senior. “Where did you play tennis before?” the head coach kicked things off. I told them the truth. That I technically didn’t. That I only used this sport to get better at my favorite one. That this was my backup. I thought I had dug my own grave with that, but the head coach smiled.  “Hey, whatever brought you to us. I’ll take it. I saw you out there! We’ve got work to do, but you’re a natural. That’s why I asked Mark to rally with you a little bit.” He gestured to the assistant coach. “You rock, JB.” Coach Mark held out a fist to bump. 

“Is that what you like to go by? JB?” The team captain said warmly, in a way that made me wonder if she was asking because we would be seeing more of one another. I shrugged, “Actually, no one’s ever called me that before. But I like it!” 

“Well,” Coach Mark was suddenly getting louder, “You better get used to it!” 

“We want you on our team.” The head coach said with a supportive smile that told me he knew I needed this win. “So be sure to come to all the days of tryouts, but treat them like practice. Because you’re already in. See you tomorrow, JB!” 

I shook their hands and walked away in shock. I made the team. So this is what this feels like. I ended up being the only freshman on the team that year. 

Telling my parents the good news was the equal opposite of the day before. I was ecstatic. Even though it wasn’t the original plan, I couldn’t have been happier. I felt like I had found my people. My mom called being rejected from the volleyball team a “blessing in disguise”. 

Little did we know how much of a blessing it would turn out to be. 

I loved tennis so much that the coaches let me participate year-round. Blessing. I became the student manager of the boys’ team in the spring and taught the kids’ camp over the summer. Blessing. I met the most amazing people, and the head coach became a family friend. Blessing. I also played every Saturday or Sunday morning with my dad, who used to play back in the day. He actually became one of the coaches, so I’m proud to say both of my parents have been my coach at one point in my life. Blessing. I would even play some tennis in college for a small scholarship. Blessing.

But the biggest blessing came in the spring of sophomore year. A handful of new players joined the boys’ team, which I was managing. Including one boy in particular. He had never really played before, but was pretty good. Also, he was kind of cute. A year later, he took me to Homecoming. Five years after that, we would graduate from college together. Five years later, we would get married and buy a home. Four years after that, we’d have the most adorable baby boy. Blessings. 

All because I was rejected from the volleyball team. 

So here I am, sweating out of fear of rejection over a screen. As the Zoom rooms load up, I can hear my husband playing with our son in the living room, and gratitude fills my heart. If I hadn’t been rejected at volleyball tryouts that day, I never would have met my husband. We wouldn’t have built the life we now have together. I wouldn’t have my son. 

In meeting with these literary agents, my worst fear was rejection. But now, as I hear my son gently giggling on the other side of the door,  I remember something. It’s been sixteen years since that heartbreaking rejection– and the best thing that ever happened to me.