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We know
they know

THE THING about last year's Hawaii volleyball team is that those Rainbow Wahine didn't even know what they didn't know.

But the thing about this year's Wahine just might be that now they know.

You know?

Last year was wonderful.

Last year's season was one long, goofy ear-to-ear grin. Last year these ladies played with a joyful freedom like we hadn't seen in a long, long time.

Last year, watching Wahine volleyball gave you a soaring, floating feeling in your chest. It rose into your throat and made you look to the sky and beam.

It was impossible. It was amazing.

They didn't even know what they didn't know.

They didn't know they weren't supposed to win all those 5-game matches.

They didn't know it was a "rebuilding" year. They didn't know that you're supposed to feel pressure when the chips are down and you haven't lost since ... ever.

They didn't know they weren't supposed to be having this much fun.

They didn't know that doing what they were doing was supposed to be much, much harder than this.

They didn't know how good they really were.

Now, they know.

I know. I know.

That's supposed to be a good thing.

As Queen Latifah rapped in "House Party 2 (The Pajama Jam!)," knowledge is power.

But you have to wonder if this might be one of those rare instances in the history of sports in which experience might be not such a good thing.

We've seen Rainbow Wahine teams that were terminators, that took care of business, that pounded home wins and got to Aloha Ball before you could blink.

They crossed off opponents, one after another, bang, bang, BOOM.

Those teams knew what was at stake. It was business. It was excellence. But sometimes you wondered if the journey lacked joy.

Those teams lived by the motto "Final four or bust."

Last year, the Rainbow Wahine kept talking about how much fun they had, how much they loved playing together, how everything felt so very "different from last year."

Well, here we go. This year is definitely going to feel different than last year.

Last season ignorance was blissful.

They kept saying how different it was from the year before. In part because they weren't dealing with the dominant personalities of the Lily-Kim Era.

They kept saying that the chemistry was like nothing they'd felt on a team before.

But they were innocent.

There were no expectations hanging over them.

There was no sense that anything short of the final four was a failed season.

They played for every match, every game, every point. The journey was the joy.

And they did incredible things.

They took us on a ride, a ride like we hadn't seen in a long, long time. This was different; beyond winning, beyond simple excellence. This was sweeter. You could feel it in your chest.

They made you look to the ceiling and smile.

They didn't play like it was business, something on the way to the goal. They didn't play like killers, crossing off another hit.

They played like young girls who just wanted to keep playing. Who couldn't bear to stop.

They played with the giddiness of kids. Every dig was a triumph. Every save, every slam.

They were young and free.

They played like they didn't even know what they didn't know.

And now, well, they're old vets. They're savvy. They're experienced. That's usually a good thing, in sports.

But now there are no surprises.

Now they no longer have ignorance's bliss.

Now there are expectations they have to match. Now they're the ones who are favored.

Now it's final four or bust.

Now they are charged with recapturing magic.

Now all they have to do is recreate a season's worth of spontaneous joy.

Now all they have to do is play like kids, even after having done a year's worth of growing up.

Bob Seger sang it: "Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then."

Now they know.

Now they know everything.

Let's hope they haven't learned too much.