MISTY
DIGGING DEEP IN VOLLEYBALL AND LIFE
MISTY MAY-TREANOR
WITH JILL LIEBER STEEG
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
May-Treanor, Misty.
Misty : digging deep in volleyball and life / Misty May-Treanor with Jill Lieber Steeg.
p. cm.
1. Volleyball players—United States—Biography. 2. Volleyball for
women—United States. I. Steeg, Jill Lieber. II. Title.
V1015.26.M39 2010
796.325092—dc22 2009052452
ISBN 978-1-4391-4854-9
ISBN 978-1-4391-5577-6 (ebook)
All insert photos are courtesy of the author unless marked otherwise.
To Mom, whom I miss dearly every day. I would give back both of my Olympic gold medals just to be able to tell you I love you one more time.
Misty May-Treanor
To Jim, the love of my life. You are my heart and soul, my rock, my shoulder, my dream.
Jill Lieber Steeg
CONTENTS
1: Dreams Do Come True
2: Dad
3: Muscle Beach
4: Growing Up
5: Girl for All Seasons
6: Alcoholism
7: High School
8: Mom
9: Long Beach State
10: U.S. National Team
11: First Olympics
12: Kerri Walsh
13: Toughest Year
14: Carrying On
15: Building Our Résumé
16: Falling in Love
17: First Olympic Gold Medal
18: Gold Medal Aftermath
19: What’s Next?
20: Starting Over
21: Second Olympic Gold Medal
22: Dancing with the Stars
23: Precious Gifts
Acknowledgments
1
DREAMS DO COME TRUE
All my life, I’ve dreamed in gold.
When I was a tyke, scampering through the sand, a jump serve away from my parents’ pizza stand at Muscle Beach in Santa Monica, California.
When I was eight years old, playing in my first beach volleyball tournament, at Will Rogers State Beach in Pacific Palisades, with Dad as my partner.
When I was the outside hitter for Newport Harbor High School, and we won two California Interscholastic Federation (CIF) state championships.
When I was the setter for Long Beach State, and we captured the 1998 Division I NCAA Women’s Volleyball Championship.
When I was twenty-seven and considered the best defensive beach volleyball player in the world, and my partner Kerri Walsh and I steamrolled through seven straight matches without losing a single game to win the 2004 Olympic gold medal in Athens, Greece.
And yes, even when I was strutting my stuff in fancy costumes, theatrical makeup, and ultra-high heels as a contestant on ABC’s Dancing with the Stars.
Yet, when I served the ball and Kerri blasted it by China’s Tian Jia and Wang Jie to give us our second Olympic gold medal, on August 21, 2008, in Beijing, China, the crowning moment wasn’t bathed in gold.
Instead, it was an absolute blur of colors, from the pastel pink, green, and blue plastic ponchos draped over the twelve-thousand-plus fans packed into Chaoyang Park for the monsoon-drenched gold medal match, to the fluorescent orange T-shirts and bright yellow baseball caps and beach umbrellas designating the two dozen or so family members and friends, who’d lovingly dubbed themselves “Misty’s Misfits” as they traipsed across the globe over the years cheering me on. And, of course, the red, white, and blue of hundreds of American flags.
As the ball hit the beach for match point, my knees buckled from all the emotion, and I slid down onto my butt in my sopping wet, white bikini. I clenched my fists and let out a scream. “WOOOOO!” Kerri grabbed me from behind, and we rolled around on the sand, squeezing each other so tightly I’m surprised we didn’t pass out due to a severe lack of oxygen. Kerri pulled me to my feet, and then I jumped onto her, wrapping my legs around her waist. I thrust my arms into the air and let out another scream. “We did it! Can you believe it? We did it!” I yelled.
We’d shared a once-in-a-lifetime experience over the past eight years, and we’d be forever joined. Sisters. Friends. Teammates. Business partners. Trailblazers. We composed ourselves, ran to the other side of the court, and shook hands with the Chinese team, and then we shook hands with the referees and volunteers.
After those few minutes of decorum, it was a full-on Beijing Olympics gold medal celebration. I began clapping to “Celebration,” by Kool & the Gang, which was blaring over the loudspeakers, and I turned to scope out the crowd, hoping to find my loved ones. Instantly, everything shifted into super slow motion. I saw a sea of colors but couldn’t make out people’s faces. It was a complete jumble, and it reminded me of the way a TV screen looks when the reception gets scrambled.
I began running around the stadium, searching for anybody I knew, jumping up off the sand, squealing with happiness, shaking hands and slapping high fives. Somebody handed me an American flag the size of a large beach towel. Someone else gave me a small American flag on a stick. Suddenly, I turned into a two-fisted, bikini-clad Lady Liberty, madly waving both of them as if it were the Fourth of July. Except, instead of a crown, my head was wrapped in a red sweatband. I noticed the Beach Girls, the beach volleyball dance team who’d entertained the crowds in their skimpy bikinis throughout the Games during breaks in the action, and I began gyrating my hips and shaking my booty, mimicking their sexy moves. “WOOOOO!” I screamed again.
My heart was pumping so hard I thought it was going to fly right out of my chest, and my adrenaline was surging so quickly my skin tingled from head to toe. At that time, I weighed between 150 and 155 pounds, but I remember thinking, “I feel so incredibly light.” Out of the blue, a thought shot through my brain, “Didn’t the Olympics start yesterday?” We’d been competing almost two weeks, but the time had flown by, and now our happy ending was unfolding just as I’d imagined. However, I admit I was somewhat dumbfounded it had actually turned out that way. In fact, part of me kept waiting for someone to shake me and say, “Wake up, Misty! It’s only a dream!”
Despite the iconic, first-name-only status we’d achieved in our sport over the past four years, it was truly unbelievable to me that we’d managed to become the first beach volleyball team
ever to win back-to-back Olympic gold medals. From the outside, it may have looked easy, but having lived, breathed, eaten, and slept volleyball since the day I was born, I knew what we’d pulled off in Beijing was no small feat.
When I finally was able to bring my eyes into focus, I started scanning the crowd, looking for Misty’s Misfits. My lovable crew had grown as the Olympics had ground on, with friends flying in from the United States for the semifinals and finals. Even President George W. Bush had jumped on the Misty and Kerri bandwagon, visiting us at practice the day before our opening match and bumping the ball with me on the beach. Why, he’d even slapped the large tattoo on my lower back for good luck, and it had affectionately become known throughout the U.S. Olympic contingent as “the Bush slap.” He’d tried calling us the night before our gold medal match, but we were already in bed.
Tickets to the beach volleyball events at the Beijing Olympics had been hard to come by. They’d gone on sale in early May and had sold out in thirty-six hours, so Dad and I were still trying to get tickets for family and friends after we got to China. As a result, Misty’s Misfits weren’t sitting together. They were spread out all over Chaoyang Park. When I finally caught my breath, the faces of those people who’d had an impact on my life became crystal clear throughout the stadium. None of them were random: I’d purposely invited them all to Beijing to share in what I suspected might be the final leg of my volleyball journey. One by one, I spotted each of them, ran over to their side of the stadium, shot them a smile, mouthed them a “thank you,” and blew them a kiss or engulfed them in a big, rain-and-sweat soaked hug.
I spotted Dad, who was standing courtside, wearing a shocking pink poncho. He was, and still is, the best volleyball coach I’ve ever had. He’s technically phenomenal, very demanding, and never without an opinion. I couldn’t have won two Olympic gold medals without him.
I spotted Kerri’s parents, Tim and Marge, and the rest of Team Walsh. In 2000, Tim and Marge, along with Dad and Mom, had come up with the idea to pair Kerri and me on the beach. Tim and Marge had the same core family values as Dad and Mom. They’d poured their hearts and souls into their children, doing everything in their power to help make our dream of Olympic gold come true.
I spotted Troy Tanner, our coach, who’d joined our team in 2007, after Kerri and I had reached a critical crossroads in our partnership and friendship. We’d struggled on the court, and rumors swirled about us playing with different partners. Troy had broken down our game and taken us back to the basics. He’d refined our skills, recharged our batteries, rekindled our relationship, and rebuilt us into a powerhouse.
I spotted Debbie Green, the Long Beach State assistant coach who’d taught me how to set and what it took to be a world-class athlete. A silver medalist on the 1984 U.S. Olympic indoor volleyball team, Debbie had believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. She’d flown in to surprise me for the semifinals, but she’d sent a present to me in Beijing before her arrival—a gold necklace with a volleyball icon and five Olympic rings that she’d worn at the ’84 Los Angeles Games. It had become my instant good luck charm.
I spotted Eileen Clancy McClintock, who’d met my parents at Muscle Beach when she was eleven and later became Dad’s longtime partner in Southern California tournaments. Together, they were the most successful mixed doubles team of all time. She’d lived through my parents’ long bouts with alcoholism and their subsequent battles for sobriety. She’d supported Mom during her two-year fight against cancer. My relationship with Eileen was deep, too, dating back to the days when I was a baby, crawling around on Muscle Beach. She’d become my “second mother” after Mom passed away.
I spotted Jim Steele and his partner Gail Gaydos, longtime family friends who’d lived in Long Beach and also had watched me grow up. I considered them my second set of parents. They’d celebrated holidays with our family, attended our birthday parties, weddings, funerals, Olympic send-offs and homecomings, you name it. Jim had shuttled me to and from the airport countless times, and he’d taken care of my house and my two beloved boxers, Gruden and Boogie, as I’d chased my Olympic dream around the world and my husband, Matt Treanor, had chased his major league baseball dream across the country.
I spotted some of Mom’s closest friends from the beach and two of her former volleyball teammates, Sandra Golden, who’d played on her Mavericks team that won the 2001 Huntsman World Senior Games Championship in St. George, Utah, and Sandy Malpee, who’d been responsible for the bright yellow beach umbrellas Misty’s Misfits were sitting under.
I spotted Sandra Beckman, who’d shot photos for my wedding to Matt in 2004. Seeing her reminded me of how happy I was that day—it felt exactly like how I was feeling now—and I was disappointed that Matt, a catcher for the Florida Marlins, couldn’t join me in Beijing. Because our professional athletic seasons overlapped, he’d seen me play in person only a handful of times over the past five years, but we’d zealously supported each other, both ascending to the top of our sports very quickly after we’d gotten together.
I spotted my family members, Matt’s brother Markell, my half brother Scott May, and my aunt Bonnie Wong, Dad’s sister from Seattle. I’d watched Aunt Bonnie, a middle school principal, raise her three kids as a single parent after her husband had died on a volleyball court. She’d accomplished everything she’d ever set out to do, including traveling the world, and she was someone I’d always looked up to.
I spotted Gordon and Billie Pi’ianaia, Dad’s lifelong friends from Honolulu, Hawaii. Adventurers, educators, and community leaders, they’d opened their arms to hundreds of people, including Dad, Mom, and me. We had become a vital part of their family, and they had become a vital part of ours. They’d taught me the Hawaiian word hanai, which means “to take in,” a sentiment my parents and I have always embraced.
I spotted Loren Woll, who’d worked at MGM’s film lab with Dad. He’d never had any children of his own, and he’d “adopted” me as a niece. So, I called him “Uncle Loren.” He’d do anything and everything for me, and his voice always stood out above the crowd at indoor volleyball tournaments, when he’d razz me with “Look at the butt on number five!”
I spotted my girlfriends Christine Phillips, my club volleyball teammate; Kristy Warino, owner of Tracy’s Bar and Grill, my favorite haunt in Long Beach; and Anya Tronson, a personal trainer who’d helped whip me into the best shape of my life for Beijing.
As I spotted face after face, and thought about what each had meant to me over the years, it was as if the credits to the movie of my life were rolling by on a screen. The night before, I’d started replaying my journey through volleyball and life, scrolling through the contacts list on my cell phone, then calling or texting “Thank you!” to everybody who’d played an important role, telling each I couldn’t have made it this far without his or her love and support. I’d gotten in touch with everybody, except for my two dogs.
Then, it was time to thank Mom, my heart, my soul, my compass, and my angel coach. I’d felt her influencing my matches, particularly those in Athens and Beijing. The past six years, Dad and I, as well as some of her best friends, had spread her ashes in all of her favorite spots on earth, and so far, we’d taken her to Honolulu, Hawaii; Utah’s Zion National Park; and Athens, Greece. Earlier in the Olympics, she went along on a sightseeing trip with Misty’s Misfits (and me) to the Great Wall of China.
In 2004, at the Athens Olympics, I’d sprinkled her ashes from one of her antinausea prescription pill bottles onto the court after the semifinals and finals. It was not a religious experience. In fact, it never occurred to me to say any special prayers. It was all about Mom being a major part of our celebration, about throwing her into the air as if we were raising a glass of champagne to toast her for all the life lessons she’d taught me. It was all about making sure she joined in on our Olympic gold medal fun.
I’d always had a great time with the ritual. “She’s knocking on the lid of the container,” I’d kid as I pulled her ash
es out of my duffel bag. “She’s saying, ‘Let me outta here! It’s time to celebrate!’”
I’d always joked with Dad about the exact makeup of her ashes. “I don’t know which part of her I sprinkled onto the court, maybe her little finger, maybe her big toe,” I’d tease after throwing them onto the sand.
In 2008, at the Beijing Olympics, because of the torrential downpour that had inundated our gold medal match, the volunteers had built a wooden platform to surround the medals podium and keep the dignitaries bestowing the medals from having to maneuver on the soggy sand. I was so excited, so wound up, and so in the moment that I just tossed Mom into the air, not paying any attention to the direction in which I was throwing her ashes from a film canister. Lo and behold, they ended up strewn across the wooden platform.
Oops.
It cracked me up, and I knew Mom would’ve gotten a big chuckle out of it, too. These days, I say that Mom embarked on her own journey that day, dreaming of gold wherever that darned wooden platform has gone since then.
I’ve never been one to cry, but I’d started getting choked up a few hours before the gold medal match, on the bus ride to the venue. Deep down, I knew what we were about to do. I understood the enormity of the moment. I also knew that I was going to step away from the sport afterward; for how long, I wasn’t sure. I’d told myself to save the tears for later, and then, as luck would have it, after Kerri and I’d won the gold medal, I was so excited that I couldn’t cry.
Filled with joy, I ran over to Dad and handed him the empty film canister that held Mom’s ashes. “Mom and I love you very much,” he whispered in my ear. “We’re so proud of you.”
And with that, I dissolved into tears in his arms.
2
DAD
My father was born on November 7, 1941, in Honolulu, Hawaii, and raised in a two-bedroom house on Pualani Way, one of the last two dirt streets at the end of Waikiki Beach. His father, Robert, Sr., was an electrician for the Navy, and his mother, Mele, was a medical file clerk at Tripler Army Medical Center. While it might sound like an insignificant fraction, Dad is quite proud of the fact that he is “three-eighths Hawaiian.” His father was “half” Hawaiian, his mother “one-quarter.” Growing up, Dad often jokes, he was “too white to be Hawaiian and too Hawaiian to be white.” When he moved to Northern California in 1959, his friends at El Camino High School in Sacramento questioned his heritage, saying, “Butch, you don’t look Hawaiian.” Dad always replied, “You’re right. I’m from Oklahoma.” This was typical of his quirky sense of humor, which I’ve inherited.
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