August 28, 2006 - Shell Shocked
Call it delusion, call it positivity. Either way, I really thought we would end our world championship run on the medal stand. That we did not—that we didn’t even row our best race of the weekend when it mattered most—is crushing.
For 600 meters, we had a strong race that could have ended us where we wanted to be. In the last 400, though, fatigue caught up, technique eroded, and we faded back to a fifth place finish. Still, we were less than 1.5 seconds from grabbing the silver. So frustrating.
Right now I feel a little lost. Rowing, the one thing that I have centered my life around for the past several months, is the last thing I want to talk about, but it’s the only thing on my mind. I seem to start a lot of conversations only to trail off or declare abruptly, “Oh well, it’s not worth talking about… Let’s change the subject.”
Things I looked forward to and enjoyed don’t seem as alluring right now as they did 48 hours ago. I don’t know how I will go back to Wake Forest and coach, I feel like I know less about the sport now than ever. I don’t know who I’ll call up to motivate me, because the second we crossed the finish line those who were my team mates became my competitors as we all strive to make the boat again next year with what seems like almost cold self-ambition. Really, I’m just floating, waiting to understand what just happened so that I can move on with life, even life outside of rowing.
The only feeling that I can relate to the one in my gut now is that which immediately follows the end of a long term relationship. I put my heart and soul into this sport and this event. I lived, ate, and breathed rowing. I prioritized my world around it. I thought my efforts would be consummated in victory, but I was deceived. Sport has no feelings. It doesn’t care if I give 100% or 10%; whether I win or lose. Now, alone and empty handed, I feel somewhat betrayed.
The worst feeling of all is the pity of friends and loved ones. I am not happy with fifth. I can never be happy with fifth, and the United States would not want a stroke who was. Every time I hear someone say, “Fifth in the world, that’s really awesome,” I feel like they’re really saying, “You weren’t actually strong enough to medal, so you should be happy with what you got.” Maybe that’s not what they mean, but it’s what I hear.
Make no mistake, we should have won a medal. We were well coached, well trained, and well prepared. No excuses, we failed ourselves and our country and we have to own up to that. This shouldn’t be a destroying admission. Rather, it should fuel us for the next two years so that we’ll never have to sit and drink this bitter cocktail of defeat again.
Ultimately, for me the past year has served to give me a refresher course in Rowing 101. Sometimes I start to believe that if I am strong enough, personally, that nothing else matters. All rowers know, though, that the sword on which we live and die is team work. Outside of the single scull, success is achieved only when an entire crew works harmoniously and efficiently to propel the boat down the course. Even if I could row a perfect race, it would be meaningless if those behind me did not do likewise.
Friday, my bobble in the last 50 meters caused us to lose to the Netherlands by 0.6 seconds. Sunday, technique issues around the boat caused us to fall out of medal contention with less than half our race remaining. That dreams can sink on oars that are not in our hands is one of the most difficult realities that rowers must confront. Yet, it is also one of the elements that makes this pursuit such a beautiful art.
And, after all, it is beautiful, too. The work, the pain, the celebration, the disappointment, the emotion, the camaraderie, the passion, and the chase: they all meld together into a symphony of fury that I know will draw me back in once I’ve had time to pause, to reflect, and to heal. In fact, I am already looking ahead to tomorrow’s work out, to next year’s selection camp, and to 2008 and the first appearance of rowing in the Paralympics.
Were I not resilient, I would not be a rower. Gold is still the goal, and that’s still where my eyes are focused.
For 600 meters, we had a strong race that could have ended us where we wanted to be. In the last 400, though, fatigue caught up, technique eroded, and we faded back to a fifth place finish. Still, we were less than 1.5 seconds from grabbing the silver. So frustrating.
Right now I feel a little lost. Rowing, the one thing that I have centered my life around for the past several months, is the last thing I want to talk about, but it’s the only thing on my mind. I seem to start a lot of conversations only to trail off or declare abruptly, “Oh well, it’s not worth talking about… Let’s change the subject.”
Things I looked forward to and enjoyed don’t seem as alluring right now as they did 48 hours ago. I don’t know how I will go back to Wake Forest and coach, I feel like I know less about the sport now than ever. I don’t know who I’ll call up to motivate me, because the second we crossed the finish line those who were my team mates became my competitors as we all strive to make the boat again next year with what seems like almost cold self-ambition. Really, I’m just floating, waiting to understand what just happened so that I can move on with life, even life outside of rowing.
The only feeling that I can relate to the one in my gut now is that which immediately follows the end of a long term relationship. I put my heart and soul into this sport and this event. I lived, ate, and breathed rowing. I prioritized my world around it. I thought my efforts would be consummated in victory, but I was deceived. Sport has no feelings. It doesn’t care if I give 100% or 10%; whether I win or lose. Now, alone and empty handed, I feel somewhat betrayed.
The worst feeling of all is the pity of friends and loved ones. I am not happy with fifth. I can never be happy with fifth, and the United States would not want a stroke who was. Every time I hear someone say, “Fifth in the world, that’s really awesome,” I feel like they’re really saying, “You weren’t actually strong enough to medal, so you should be happy with what you got.” Maybe that’s not what they mean, but it’s what I hear.
Make no mistake, we should have won a medal. We were well coached, well trained, and well prepared. No excuses, we failed ourselves and our country and we have to own up to that. This shouldn’t be a destroying admission. Rather, it should fuel us for the next two years so that we’ll never have to sit and drink this bitter cocktail of defeat again.
Ultimately, for me the past year has served to give me a refresher course in Rowing 101. Sometimes I start to believe that if I am strong enough, personally, that nothing else matters. All rowers know, though, that the sword on which we live and die is team work. Outside of the single scull, success is achieved only when an entire crew works harmoniously and efficiently to propel the boat down the course. Even if I could row a perfect race, it would be meaningless if those behind me did not do likewise.
Friday, my bobble in the last 50 meters caused us to lose to the Netherlands by 0.6 seconds. Sunday, technique issues around the boat caused us to fall out of medal contention with less than half our race remaining. That dreams can sink on oars that are not in our hands is one of the most difficult realities that rowers must confront. Yet, it is also one of the elements that makes this pursuit such a beautiful art.
And, after all, it is beautiful, too. The work, the pain, the celebration, the disappointment, the emotion, the camaraderie, the passion, and the chase: they all meld together into a symphony of fury that I know will draw me back in once I’ve had time to pause, to reflect, and to heal. In fact, I am already looking ahead to tomorrow’s work out, to next year’s selection camp, and to 2008 and the first appearance of rowing in the Paralympics.
Were I not resilient, I would not be a rower. Gold is still the goal, and that’s still where my eyes are focused.
posted by Jamie at 12:20 PM
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