Had I Known… Lesson 2

The Russian Winter, Karpol, and the Car I Didn’t Crash

I was 21. Fresh out of college, armed with dreams and naive confidence. I had just landed my first professional contract in Russia, playing for one of the most legendary clubs in the world -Uralochka. Not just any Uralochka team, but Karpol’s Uralochka.

Yes, that Karpol. The one who yells like thunder and watches you with eyes that could pierce through titanium. The man with a stopwatch in one hand and a storm in the other. Coaching royalty. And there I was, his new starting opposite.

The season before, I had joined the team mid-year. Too late to play, but still just in time to freeze my butt off in the Russian winter and soak in the madness from the bench. But this was my time. My real shot. I was starting. I was ready.

We qualified for the CEV Cup Final Four, held in Baku, Azerbaijan. It was a big deal. The team was loaded. I felt good; maybe too good. I walked into that semifinal match like I owned the place. Confident. Or was it arrogant? Did I underestimate the opponent? Probably.

The actual game? It was a disaster! Whatever I touched turned to dust. Into the block. Out. Antenna. Repeat.

I remember thinking, “Surely, he's going to sub me now.” But Karpol didn’t. Not after the first set. Not after the second. Not even after I started to lose faith in gravity and the basic dimensions of the court. He let me play. All the way to the 5th set. All. The. Way. And we lost.

But here comes the twist: That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part came in the team meeting afterward. The room was heavy. No one said a word. And then Karpol, in his deep, matter-of-fact voice, delivered a statement that would echo in my brain for the next 15 years:

"Because of your mistakes, Masha won’t be buying a new car."

I was stunned. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. My brain was too busy replaying every bad set, every error, every missed opportunity. And I believed him. Fully. 100% . As if I alone carried the burden of a team sport on my 21-year-old shoulders. As if the fate of a teammate’s future ride rested on my right arm.

Looking back now, I want to hug that version of me and whisper: “Girl… it’s not all on you.”

Volleyball is a team sport. There are 14 players on a roster and six substitutions each set. Especially with a coach like Karpol, who could spot a weak rotation in his sleep and had a bench deep enough to rival the Mariana Trench. If I truly was that bad, I would’ve been pulled. But I wasn’t.

So why wasn’t I? Maybe it was a test. Maybe he wanted me to sit in the fire and feel it. Or maybe, like many coaching legends, he simply had his own way of shaping players. Sometimes with tough love. Sometimes with brutal honesty. And sometimes with guilt-trips about hypothetical cars.

It took me 15 years to break that belief - that if I didn’t play well, the team would lose; that every loss was somehow my fault.

Had I known how irrational, how egotistical that thought truly was, maybe I would’ve processed the loss differently. Maybe I would’ve grown faster. Maybe I would’ve forgiven myself sooner.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

And that’s why this is Lesson 2.