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OLYMPIC QUEST Scott Ostler, Chronicle Staff Writer The first five years of Kerri Walsh's life, she
barely spoke. Her brother Marte, 11 months older, did Kerri's talking
for her, like a lawyer. Through high school, Kerri was exceedingly shy,
even in small groups. She would lead your team to the championship in
just about any sport, but don't expect her to be a vocal leader, or to
inspire teammates with an outward calm. When Walsh was a high school sophomore at
Archbishop Mitty in San Jose, her volleyball team played in a tournament
against a Southern California team led by Misty May, who was a year
older than Kerri and had a huge rep. "It was magical watching
her," Walsh said, "She could do anything." Walsh wanted May's autograph but was too shy to
ask, so she sent her teammates to ask May to sign a towel. She signed
and tried to give the towel to Walsh, but she fled in
embarrassment. May was puzzled. Now, years later, she has Walsh
figured out. "Kerri's a little crazy in the head," May
said. Crazy good. May and Walsh are partners in crime
now. They are the world's best two-woman beach volleyball team, stars of
TV commercials, heavy favorites for the gold medal at Athens. Before losing in the semifinals at the recent
Manhattan Beach Open, May and Walsh had won 15 consecutive tournaments
on the Association of Volleyball Professionals (AVP) circuit, and 90
consecutive matches. Along the way, the 6-foot-2 Walsh has overcome most
of her shyness. Wearing the tiniest of sponsor-logo'd bikinis, she leaps
and dives before huge crowds, live and on TV. She and May are the darlings of pre-Olympics media
hype. TV and magazine camera crews follow them as if their lives were a
movie-in-filming, a female version of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance
Kid. Most of Walsh's shyness was rubbed away at
Stanford. She is a charming and expressive interviewee now, and lets out
her emotions when she plays. "I'm the cheerleader on the court," Walsh
said, "and Misty is very stoic, very driven, doesn't talk
much." This is their fourth season together. In a sport
where partnerships are like Hollywood marriages, Walsh and May are the
poster children for non- dysfunctionality. Neither offers profound thoughts on why they mesh
so well. Maybe the lack of deep analysis is a key element to their
success. They like each other; they kill for each other. End of
story. Even though many experts consider Walsh to be the
best sand player in the world, she still sees herself as a junior
partner, looks upon May as a mentor. Not to go all Freudian or anything,
but that kind of relationship has worked well for Walsh, going back to
her childhood. Walsh's brother always brought Kerri along when he
played sports, so she learned to compete with boys a grade older. She
played baseball through age 12, the only girl in the league, an
all-star, a frail and nervous kid who was strangely calm in the
clutch. "I thought I'd become the first woman in the
major leagues," Walsh said. That was a longshot, but it was obvious early on
that she was an exceptional athlete, with A-plus sports genes. The Walshes play ball. Kerri's dad, Tim, pitched in
the A's organization, made it to Triple-A. Tim's father, Red, was also a
minor-leaguer; he pitched for the Seals. Kerri's mom, Margie, was a two-time volleyball MVP
at Santa Clara. Margie's sister, Maureen Formico, is the all-time
leading basketball scorer at Pepperdine, where her number is retired.
Margie's father was one of Santa Clara's all-time great athletes, in
football and track. Kerri's two younger sisters are both volleyball
whizzes -- Kelli at Santa Clara, K.C. at Mitty, committed to Loyola
Marymount. Marte plays basketball at Cal Poly. Kerri's parents always coached their kids' teams,
but they never pushed. That would have been like pushing boulders
downhill. "I had an ideal childhood in many ways,"
Kerri said. "I grew up in Scotts Valley, we had a lot of land, and
our lives revolved around school and sports. I couldn't avoid playing
sports, but I wouldn't have wanted to. It's taken me too far and it's
been too good to me, and I've never resented it. My parents always gave
me that choice (to play or not), but they would tell me, 'If you want to
be great, this is what you have to do.' " No problem. Give Walsh a basketball drill and she'd
wear out the ball. Give her a volleyball footwork drill and she'd wear
out the sidewalk. Walsh gets her fire from mom. "She's little,
5-7, but so strong mentally and physically. I wish I could have seen her
play volleyball. I watch her play softball, and she is so intense and
works so hard and wants to win so bad." Walsh gets her grace from dad. "He's 6-8 and
he has the longest legs in the world, he's just fun to watch when he
plays, because there's so much of him and it's beautiful the way he
moves." Walsh was always tallish, which she enjoyed. When
she was about nine, a doctor did some calculating, told Kerri she would
grow to about 5-8 and told Marte he'd be about 5-10. They both left the
doctor's office bawling, heartbroken, their lives ruined. "My dad
just told us to drink our milk and sleep with your legs straight so our
bones could grow," Kerri said. "It worked, Dad!" Walsh was a four-year volleyball All-American at
Stanford, considered one of the all-time great collegiate players. She
was on the 2000 U.S. indoor Olympic team, which placed fourth at Sydney.
Walsh played with a painful ankle injury, and the experience was
disappointing. She was fried and didn't relish playing pro volleyball in
Europe. Looking for a new outlet, Walsh turned to beach
volleyball, which she had never played. May was on the beach circuit and
looking for a new partner. May, whose parents, Butch and Barbara, were
both beach volleyball stars, was also coming off a medal-less Olympics,
she and partner Holly McPeak tying for fifth. May's version of the early days of the new
partnership is that it went well from the start, though it took some
work to get in perfect sync. Walsh's version is, of course, much
darker. "I looked like an idiot at first, I really
did," Walsh said, wincing at the memory. "I was literally
embarrassed to practice in front of other people. I was kind of
intimidated by the beach. Weird, huh? It was just a different
world. "I was kind of looking over my shoulder,
figuring Misty was going to pick up someone else, and that would be
understandable. So I'm not sure if she thought about it, I assume she
did, but she decided to stick with me, and I'm very fortunate. "About two months in, it was looking bleak for
me. My mother was, 'Kerri, you could get a 9-to-5 job, that's an
option.' I was really struggling. I figured I'd give myself a chance,
and it kind of clicked at the end of our first year
together." Tim Walsh says, "Kerri has always been a
worry-wart. I knew she'd kick butt. She's so quick and agile for her
size, so light on her feet. Big players usually can't set or play
defense as well as smaller players, but she's blessed with phenomenal
hands." Now Walsh doesn't have to hit up mom and dad for
money to buy practice balls. Sponsors line up to put their logos on her
bikini. Her boyfriend, Casey Jennings, plays on the AVP circuit. A gold
medal looms. She can get Misty May's autograph any time she wants to.
Life is good.
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