The Boys in the Boat

Recovered memories of a has-been athlete

I saw “The Boys in the Boat” on Friday night. Very good. Kinda maudlin and cringy at moments. A little PTSD for me. And a lot of memories.

As hard as it may be to believe, and somewhat painful for me to recall, I was once a world-class athlete. Sure, it was in rowing, so few actual skills were involved. In my day, anyone of a certain size and shape who was willing to endure some serious pain could be shaped into a pretty good oarsman. And if you were lucky and had good teammates and good coaching, as I was, you could become nationally or even internationally competitive. I rowed at Harvard in the 70’s for Harry Parker, perhaps the best program and pretty definitely the best coach of the era.

The movie had some insight into rowing, the strategy, the feeling of swing and of oneness with the boat, of a coach of few words (though vastly more than Harry) — of the feeling of insideness that the rowers experience versus what the world sees. Pretty well done.

But here are some of the crazy thoughts and memories that occurred to this oarsman while watching. The names of my fellow oarsmen have been left vague to protect the innocent and guilty alike.

The opening scene is supposed to be modern rowers using carbon Concept 2 oars. But even though it is supposed to be the 2000’s, the oars are symmetrical tulip blades, not the hatchet blades that came to dominate in the 90s. That feels like an aesthetic decision by the filmmaker and set me up for a true-ish story that was an idealized view of the sport, which it indeed was.

George Pocock plays a rather significant role. His love and care for his boats extends to the men in them, which I found to be a true and worthy note in an otherwise pretty fanciful tale.

The romance between the main oar and the UW woman that in real life ultimately became his wife was sweet, but all I could think of was Wags, a couple years ahead of us, telling us that we needed to have a “babe on the dock” — like that was the most important part. Well, OK, it was a pretty important part, for me at least.

The strategy of the Washington crew appears to have been to hold back and conserve energy in the first half and blow by competitors in the second, a strategy I have employed myself, at least the first part of it. Whether this was factual or mainly for dramatic effect, I’m not sure. When my son Andrew objected to the word “strategy” and asked, don’t you just pull hard? I found myself telling the story of Harry coaching Cashin, the most legendary of the legends in our boathouse, in the world ergometer championships against a crazy, musclebound 6'7" East German or some such who blasted out to a couple lengths lead (the erg scores being projected as a virtual boat race for the spectators). Cashin, we are told, was cruising along at a 32, staying in contact, repeatedly looking over at Harry to check if he should kick into higher gear. Harry shook him off several times until finally, with 700 meters to go, simply nodded and Cashin blasted by Mr. Universe to win by a half length. A classic. Also told by Wags, so probably false.

The description of the line up in the Washington crew included an anachronistic reference to the “engine room.” I’m pretty sure that description did not gain currency till the 70’s. Furthermore, they said it consisted of seats 4, 5 and 6, when everyone knows the 3 seat is also part of the engine room. I was also upset that no special mention was made of the critical role of the bow pair. Looking at you, White.

The main protagonist was a handsome but reserved 7-man from humble circumstances. A man of few words. Need I say more, Mr. Howes?

In the scene where Ulbrickson gives a wacky cox a second chance to try to pull the crew together, the coach calls him into his office and says “shut the door,” a phrase that sent chills through me, thinking of the office in Newell at the top of the stairs. Of course, I’m thinking of my conversation with Harry sophomore year where I screwed up my courage to ask him if he was going to seat race me against Ollie. Harry rolled his eyes and leaned back. “No,” he said. I went on at length about how I had earned a shot and that leaving the seat uncontested was a bad idea. “That may be true,” Harry said. That was probably the longest conversation I ever had with Harry. 5 words total.

Except of course the “let’s not take all day to get above a 30” incident. And one where he told me that I had won the stroke seat convincingly from Gordie — clearly an admonition to not fuck it up. And one final conversation on a plane back from somewhere asking me about plans after graduation in which I lamely told him I would “follow my nose.” His inscription in my Red Top book felt like a direct admonition in response to my uncertainty — to aim higher. Wise advice. Ignored, as usual.

Ulbrickson’s speech before the final race in Berlin again was another PTSD trigger. All those moments before races, heart in your throat, when you wished you could believe Harry’s confidence and when you turn around to look at your crew and think: “I hope these guys feel better about this than I do.” Or that winter day in the tanks when Harry talked for the first and last time about his doubts — about the season, about us, and about himself. Wish I had been paying more attention, for sure.

Oh God. The sign stealing incident in San Diego with Brysgornia. The flagpole incident at Red Top when I abandoned my post. The dark December night when Buzz was thrown from his 3 seat into water I swear had ice floating in it. He wisely stayed under while the oars flew over his head, but we all just knew he was dead. He wasn’t. Henley. Shealy’s Patton speech. Cashin kindly pulling me aside my freshman fall and suggesting that I not waste energy by feathering on the erg. So many things. All the things, in fact.

Harry, at his retirement speech in New York, insisted that it was not him that was deserving of credit for the 300 assembled, and many other, boys turned into men under his watch. It was the sport. “It was the rowing,” he said.

I suppose it was. As Ulbrickson says, do it for the boat, for each other, for yourselves. Such a vivid example of finding strength in each other — personal fortitude, maybe, but not only.

I tell the story, also mostly fabricated, about sitting next to a pole vaulter on the way to some international competition and asking him how many vaults of the 10 thousand or so in his career were perfect.

He knew the answer immediately. “Two. Maybe three. No, two.”

I recall a retrospective on the back page of Sports illustrated, perhaps on the occasion of Mohammad Ali’s retirement, recalling the loss of his “ability to “float” across the canvas, landing multiple jabs with divine precision and quickness.” An ancient theme of the athlete dying young:

To an Athlete Dying Young By A. E. Housman

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.

“Now you will not swell the rout…” Ouch. In the event, all athletes, or at least most athletes, die young, in a sense, setting down the gloves or cleats for more mundane, less black and white pursuits — resigning themselves to the darker greys of actual life.

Those that don’t — that actually do die or somehow keep their youthful enthusiasms alive into old age deserve both our celebration and our pity.