Playing volleyball and coaching volleyball are two completely different things. I experienced that firsthand last month, to the point where I couldn’t stand it. At the same time, I was reminded of how inexperienced I still am—both as a coach and as a teacher.
I was assigned to Matsubara Girls’ High School this April. I was a student here six years ago. About half of the teachers from back then had transferred elsewhere, but the other half remained.
“Whoa! When I saw your name on the staff list, I wondered if it was you—Saeki... No, I mean, Saeki-sensei! Welcome back to Matsubara Girls’ High School.”
The first person to greet me was Tajima-sensei, who taught my P.E. classes all three years and was also my homeroom teacher in my second year.
…His hair had a lot more white in it than I remembered.
“Tajima-sensei, it’s been a while. I’m fresh out of college and still learning, so I hope you’ll guide me kindly.”
“Whoa! I can’t believe Saeki is using honorific language now. No wonder I feel old.”
Tajima-sensei burst out laughing. I thought it was rather rude, but remembering how I was six years ago just made me feel embarrassed instead. I’d really like to go back and knock some sense into my wild barbarian self from back then.
After that, we chatted about various things. What shocked me most was learning that Otani-sensei, the volleyball club advisor, had been transferred out just as I came in. So, the position was left vacant. Naturally, I volunteered.
The volleyball club had shrunk quite a bit. Back in my time, we had enough members to form full teams for each grade, with extras to spare. Now there were only three.
Before I had time to wonder what to do, five incredible first-years joined the club.
Even then, I quickly realized that I lacked the ability to guide them properly or build structured training plans. That became painfully clear to me.
The ones who covered that gap were the students themselves. Among the first-years, there was a girl named Yuuri who, although new to volleyball, had an impressive grasp of training theory—what kind of practice produces what results. According to her, she loves building training programs like that.
If it were just Yuuri’s knowledge, it might have stayed theoretical, but Asuka and Hina brought it down to a practical level. Somehow, they got their hands on training menus like the ones used by Japan’s national team and adapted them for their own use.
…Honestly, it felt like they didn’t even need me.
I wanted to arrange a practice match, but in the end, I couldn’t. As a rookie teacher, I had no connections to other schools. And with a club that had recently been on the verge of falling apart, it wouldn’t be surprising if others thought a practice match with us was a waste of time. I could make excuses, but the fact remains—I failed to arrange anything. Another shortcoming.
It was the same for our first match. In the second set, I deliberately left Yuuri out to try a different strategy, but I misused the lineup. Miho and Yuuri have completely different play styles. Expecting Miho to perform as a blocker like Yuuri was a mistake.
We won in the end, but while the first set was 25–3, the second set ended 25–20. I deeply hurt Miho’s self-esteem.
Since then, I’ve done my best in my own way, and I take pride in that—but can I really say I helped the team bring out 100% of their strength? That’s a tougher question.
I felt most inadequate as a coach during that match against Himesaki High.
Every time their libero rotated off the court for a middle blocker’s serve, every timeout, every substitution, every end of a set—Himesaki High adjusted their strategy to match ours.
Of course, that was under Coach Akai’s direction.
They were led by a veteran master with endless experience—but even so, if I had done a better job, could we have won that match? I never imagined that coaching could be this hard…
“Saeki-sensei, Hamahara-sensei is calling for you in the career counseling office.”
“Hamahara-sensei?”
It was mid-July, after final exams had ended. I recognized the name from six years ago, but we’d never spoken—not as a student, and not as a teacher. I was confused. What could this be about?
When I entered the office, I found Hamahara-sensei and Nitta-sensei there—with Eriko.
“Saeki-sensei, thank you for coming. The truth is, Itagaki-san says she wants to keep playing volleyball.”
…Ah, I see now. That’s what this is about. Hamahara-sensei is the senior class supervisor, and Nitta-sensei is Eriko’s homeroom teacher.
“Eriko, you still want to play volleyball, don’t you? And these teachers are trying to get you to give it up, right?”
I took the lead and said it directly.
“!! Yes! I just want to keep playing a little longer—until Spring Nationals! I’m not in the advanced course like Miho, and I won’t get another chance to play volleyball after this.”
“Itagaki-san, I mean this with all due respect—but even if you continue, it’s not like you’re guaranteed to make it to Spring Nationals. And even if you do, have you thought about what comes next?”
“Itagaki, you need to think carefully. We’re not saying you have to force yourself into some elite university. But these next six months will have a big impact on your life. It’s not just the students in the advanced class who need to focus on exams. This is your future we’re talking about.”
“Exactly because it’s my future—I want to do something now that I can only do now.”
This high school has a slightly unusual class system. In the first year, all students take the same general subjects. This much is no different from other schools. However, upon entering the second year, students are separated into humanities or sciences. Again, nothing out of the ordinary so far. But, among the top 40 students by grades in the first year, those who wish to may advance into the “Tokushin” class—short for “Special Advancement Class.”
The curriculum covers both humanities and science subjects at levels equal to or above the specialized classes. Although the number of periods per subject is the same as in the humanities/science classes, each class moves at a faster pace, and students simply study more subjects overall. Midterm and final exams also include more subjects, but for those aiming to enter national universities, having a well-rounded academic background is an advantage.
Some students choose Matsujo specifically for this class. In fact, most of the students who go on to well-known universities are from the Tokushin class.
In the volleyball club, Miho is a member of this Tokushin class.
What I should say is...
“Eriko. I would be very happy if you stayed in the volleyball club. The first-years would be thrilled too.”
“!! Then—!”
“But Eriko. Don’t get the order wrong. Have you talked it over with your parents? You can’t continue with club activities without your guardian’s consent. In that situation, I can’t allow you to participate in club either.”
“!!”
“So, how is it?”
“…My mother told me to quit club.”
“Then—”
“But Sensei, when you were in high school, you stayed in the club until winter, didn’t you? So why can’t I?”
“I convinced my parents. They understood and agreed. Eriko, I want you to listen carefully. The summer of your third year in high school isn’t something to take lightly. And, this is a bit embarrassing to say, but... back then, the four of us third-years who stayed until November all spent the following year as ronin students.”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t you think it was odd? I’ve said from the beginning, ‘this is my first year teaching,’ but I graduated six years ago. Of course, I don’t regret continuing volleyball back then. If I had to do it again, I’d still choose to keep playing. But that was after careful thought and with my parents’ consent. Have you seriously considered how much it costs to spend a year as a ronin? If you attend a prep school, it can cost close to a million yen per year. Who’s going to pay for that?”
“…”
“Eriko. I’ll say it again. I’d be happy if you stayed in the volleyball club. But don’t get the order wrong. Talk to your parents first. Hamahara-sensei, Nitta-sensei—don’t you agree that Eriko should begin by speaking with her parents?”
“Itagaki-san. Just as Saeki-sensei said, please discuss it thoroughly with your parents first.”
“Itagaki. If you’re truly serious about this, I won’t deny that path. But think it through carefully one more time, alright?”
After that, Eriko reluctantly left the career counseling office.
Before Eriko went home, I gave her a letter summarizing just how much of a pillar she is to the team.
I hoped, at the very least, it would help her persuade her parents.
…However, Eriko’s parents did not wish for her to continue with club activities.
They’re not wrong. Even if Eriko stays, it’s not guaranteed she’ll make it to Spring Nationals, and even if she does, and through some string of miracles ends up winning, it still wouldn’t open a career path in volleyball. I hate to say it, but with Eriko’s level of athletic ability, a volleyball recommendation is not realistic.
In that case, it's better to focus on studies and prepare for entrance exams.
They’re not wrong. They’re not wrong, but… was that really the best way?
If only I had more influence—maybe I could’ve given Eriko a way to continue volleyball. Being a coach, being a teacher—it’s truly difficult.
As I was moping in the staff room, the phone rang.
“Saeki-sensei, you have a call. The caller is―――”
This single phone call would usher in a summer that would greatly change both the volleyball club and my mindset as a coach.
====
Author's Note:
Regarding the Tokushin class in the story—it’s not realistic in the real world.
Let’s say the humanities students study Classical Japanese I and Math II three hours per week,
and the science students study Physics and Math three hours per week.
In contrast, the Tokushin class studies Classical Japanese, Math II, and Physics for just two hours each per week,
but the content is taught at or above the level of the respective specialized classes.
It’s an entirely unreasonable setup, so please consider it a fictional system for the sake of the story.
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