In October of 2008, my friend Chris Marquart called me into his office at work. When I got there, he handed me a Navy Blue bundle of clothing, and didn’t say a word. I unfolded it, and when I figured out what I was holding, my face went pale. I looked up at him, and he just smiled. I said, "Oh, why Dude, why? You know I can’t wear this. I can’t even LOOK at this." He smiled more and said, "I know you won’t."

Then Chris said what I was afraid to even consider. "Someday, you will."

I tried to make the team headed to US Nationals in June 2008, racing my first individual time trial in an OC1 just 4 days after taking one out, making it precisely 122 yards from the dock before flipping the thing ass over teakettle.

Needless to say, I didn’t make it (but I did stay right-side up through my time trial). Coach Bob McNamara wrote to me two days after that test, "You did pretty well for the first test, comparable to some Senior guys that won 3 medals in the last worlds in Sydney. I encourage you to stick with it, if you want to make the Open next year you will need a lot of miles between now and then."

When I got home that night I just took Chris’ "gift," and put it away.

On June 20, 2009, the last round of time trials for Team USA took place. That I had even been invited to the final round after three tests was a shock to me. I had placed near the edge of the Premiers, and ahead of most of the Seniors. I figured I’d be finished for the year; I had been in the middle of writing my, "Thanks for having me…" note when Coach McNamara sent an email that said, ‘The following men are expected to test this weekend…’ My name was one of the six he named. There was one seat open as a right-sided male.

I would make the 2009 Montreal Festival roster as a sub, which meant I was a domestique. I carried water and team jackets all weekend. I took pictures. I raced exactly twice, taking seats when Premiers would be resting up for Finals. I was handed a Gold medal when the Men’s Open boat won the "A" Major Final, because I had subbed in for one of the Premiers in a semi-final the day before. I had done nothing more than watch Gold-winning final from the shore, so the medal hardly seemed fitting.

"Experience. You’re gaining experience…" I would remind myself when it felt too hard to take. "It’s not supposed to be easy. Nothing worth doing ever is."

After the boxes were all empty and the pictures were taken, I turned and headed up the Kelly Drive running path, glad my eyes were hidden behind my sunglasses. I ran off into the blazing sun, relieved that after just a half mile or so, tears and sweat were one and the same.

My paddle went to Prague as a team spare.

I stayed home.

"2:28." Came the call. I turned my head more. What the F*CK. How did I get it so wrong? How could it feel so good, and be so G-D D@MN slow?! In the milliseconds after he’s said it, Bob watched the torture start to register on my face, as my eyes opened wide, wider, and then he cut the string he’d yanked me with, just like that.

"Nah, just kidding. 2-Flat." Bob McNamara. Coach of the US National Team, and legendary comedian. "Two Flat?" I begged…unable to believe what I’d heard.

"Two Flat. 2:00.12" He replied. "Shame about that last bit of steering. Probably cost you the sub-2." With McNamara, the coaching never stops. As I brought the boat back to the dock, I couldn’t stop smiling: I was on top of the leaderboard for the first time in my life.

And that feeling would remain, amazingly, intact. I would go on to record the fastest time of the day.

When the time trial was over, there was much handshaking, back-patting, and smiling. I just tried to keep it cool, even though what I wanted to do was run around and hug everyone. Mainly because I was aware this wasn’t that big a deal - this wasn’t for a seat on Team USA. I was not yet wearing Stars and Stripes.

But now, I could almost begin to believe it might happen.

"This year will be different from other years. There are going to be Time Trials held in San Diego, Portland, Houston, Tampa, Miami, Chicago, and the six here in Philly. If you’re thinking of earning a seat on this team, you’ve got your work cut out for you." Looking around the room at the wide eyes he’d just created, Coach McNamara paused to let his words sink in, before delivering the kill shot.

"This will be the most competitive Team USA I’ve ever coached. This will be the hardest team for you to make in the last decade. If you’re not training now, you should be."

Three days a week in the paddle pool turned into five days a week outdoors in April, when the water was just over 50, and the air at 5:45AM would rarely break 40. If you wanted to be there in August, it’s what you had to do. We dealt with hypothermia, high water, rain, snow, wind, and the occasional Spring flood, because the first time trial would be earlier than ever before.

As I paddled away from the docks on April 30, I thought about all of those workouts. The thing about the individual time trial that hits you the first is the loneliness on your way to the line, and how much you have to fight the urge to overthink everything. The first Time Trial would be a 1000 Meter, which meant it’d take nearly 6 minutes to easy paddle up to the start line. Six minutes to do nothing but think about what you have to do, while trying not to let a thousand thoughts and emotions overwhelm you on the way there. I knew I was physically as ready as I could be; I also knew from my years of racing that I had to find some way to unplug my mind, and let my body do what it had to do.

First run would be at 7:00AM; I had gotten there at 6:45, signed up for one of the first slots, and gone out to run to try and get warm. The less time I had to stand around, the better. Now that I was finally in the boat on my way to the line, I knew in just a few minutes, it would all be behind me. Three years of learning, following, listening, suffering, getting left behind, moving up, moving down, wondering if I’d ever make it, wondering if all this time would be worth it, all finally coming together in my own event horizon, here and now.

My thoughts came in short, simple reminders.

"Breathe. Don’t give it the death grip."

"Strong first 3, then settle, breathe, pound it."

"Be patient until you hit the bridge…don’t worry if it feels too slow at first."

I turned around, and checked the seat anchor one more time. I patted the paper folded up inside my left thigh, and took a deep breath.

Katie had handed it to me the night before. "Daddy, I made this for you. It’s a rocket! It’ll make you go fast tomorrow." She’d drawn me on an OC1, with flames coming out of the back. "I know you’re going to make the USA Team!" She’d said. At least one of us was sure…I turned the boat around, and stared down the long, empty canal. I was glad there was a slight dog-leg, so I couldn’t see the entire course just yet. I gave it two strokes, and let it drift towards the start line.

"Sit ready…" McNamara stood up, and held his hand out to mark the start line, calling to the finish on his radio.

I took one last breath.

"Attention…."

Paddle up, locked, loaded…

"GO!"

I thought about the rocket.

I thought about how 2009 had felt.

I thought about that day in the parking lot.

I thought about trying to be the man Katie thinks I am.

"You’ve got this! YOU’VE GOT THIS!" I don’t know who said it, but I heard it, and even if it was a lie, I bought it.

"TIME!"

You should know that Angela is the drummer for the Senior team. She has command, presence, and does not suffer fools or out of order demands. She raised an eyebrow, finished writing down the time, and then looked down at me with a tilted gaze that told me the water I was swimming in was far too deep, but under the circumstances, she’d let it go. After giving me another second or two to not breathe, she spoke in measured, deadpan words.

"Three. Forty. Three."

3:43. Twenty-six seconds faster than my 2009 time.

As I heard the collective, "Whhoooooaaa!" from the dock, in my mind there was a sudden, shocking silence. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I would later realize it’s what’s left when all the doubts you had vanish without a sound. Last year wasn’t a fluke. The course wasn’t short. Nobody helped push me or tow me. That was the time, and it was very real.

Still, it didn’t compute. "But that’s impossible. The top-4 Premier selections in 2009 had gone under 3:50. I couldn’t have just done that…"

But I had. It was real. And of all the things I had mentally prepared for, this was NOT one of them.

I let go of my paddle.

I grabbed my head with both hands.

I folded in half like a broken beach chair, and started to sob into my lap, trying to hug Katie’s rocket.

"Daddy flew, baby doll…Daddy flew!"

Then I realized that I had 20 people watching me, and I couldn’t cry in front of them, so I tried to hold it in.

I screamed a sound made from a lifetime of near misses, chokes, cracking, butterflies, blown chances, and mental implosions, all being let loose from a heart that had given them too much merit, and carried them around for far too long.

And when that scream was over and spent, it hit me: Where the f*ck is my paddle?

When I saw Coach McNamara, he kept his words simple: "Nice piece. You still need a solid 500 to back it up in two weeks."

Just one more solid race stood between me, and my - MY uniform.

I never felt right. I dropped my head again, and this time when I looked up, I was going wide, wide right. There was a headwind pushing me wide, but I remembered Coach’s warning, "…about that last bit of steering." I let it go, staying on the power as the boat kept drifting right, right, right, resisting the urge to give it one final check with the rudder pedals.

Despite feeling it was a bad piece, this time when I crossed the line I made a point of looking AWAY from Angela. I averted my gaze out of respect, and bowed my head to try and settle the karmic debt. I turned the boat around, and brought it up. She looked at me, and whispered, "Two-Oh-Two."

F*CK. 2:02. No sub-2, and considering how much faster everyone was last weekend, I knew that was not going to do it. Once again I’d prepared for one set of emotions, and found myself flooded in a completely different direction. I’d just posted a time that had to come tumbling down, and I’d have no choice but to sit there all morning and watch.

Only a funny thing happened when my emotions tried to find their way back to Charlie Brownville: The time didn’t drop. For the next two hours, 2:03, 2:04, 2:02, 2:05…everyone was slower. The wind was stronger, the times were slower. Jim Morris, a 12-year veteran of the team and a fellow Senior, came up to me. We’d been 2 seconds apart after the 1000 (in my favor), but he’d just taken them back in the 500 with a 2:00. "Want to go see Bob?"

Do you know what sound a dream makes when it comes true? I wish I had the answer, but I haven’t the slightest frickin’ clue, because inside my head was a train wreck that would make Amtrak blush.

From the left came the train going, "Wait, we made the team?!"

From the right came the train going, "Wait, we have to test AGAIN?"

BOOM.

And I stood there between them like a guy who’s cable had just gone out, staring into space, signal lost, no carrier. Luckily, Jim was still very much on this planet. He asked, "So is that public knowledge? Can we tell people?"

Turning his gaze up the canal to the next boat headed to the line, Bob just shrugged and said, "It’s known."

And that’s when Jim looked at me, and smiled.

And I looked at Jim, and all the circuits in my head plugged themselves back in.

I was going to wear the uniform.

I was going to wear the uniform.

I was going to WEAR THE UNIFORM!

So I looked at Jim and said, "I’m going to WEAR THE UNIFORM!"

I knew exactly where I had to look. In my dresser, in the Bottom of the Top, Middle drawer, folded tightly, was the shirt. I hadn’t looked at it since the day I’d placed it there, three years earlier. As I opened the drawer and picked it up, the words that had scared me so much on that October afternoon looked so different now. From the Sydney team in 2007, it was a Team USA shirt with bright, white lettering across the back:

USA DRAGON BOAT TEAM

"Someday, you will."

Someday was finally now.

I put it on. I wore it the rest of the day.

I wore it to bed.

Of course, this isn’t the end of the story. What followed for the next month was a continued roller-coaster of emotion and passion, lactate and pain. Jim Morris introduced the world to the "Grand Mal on the Canal," via Facebook. He made up fight posters for the two of us, and we got to play it up, big-time. When else do you get to play the part of Frazier or Ali, for real? It was fantastic.

When May 28th came, Jim and I both did our second 500 Meter pieces against the out-of-town Premier candidates. As the two "Old Guys," the Senior Men racing the Premiers, Jim and I did exactly what we had to do. I finally got my sub-2:00, clocking a 1:58. Jim recorded a solid 2:01, leaving all of the out-of-town, younger guys were looking up the leaderboard at us. My time was the second-fastest overall.

In a bit of Déjà vu from 2009, I hadn’t really ever thought I would make Premier, but now I had to: It seemed possible. I’d already gone so far on this ride, there was no backing off here.

Once again, I had another massive, mental Amtrak moment.

On the left was the train that said, "We could make Premier?"

On the right was the train that said, "We have to test AGAIN?"

BOOM.

Cable out. No Carrier.

However, as the times started to roll in, I began to second-guess my plan. Down, down, down I went as the numbers came in - 1:57, 1:56, 1:58, 1:55. Nobody was holding anything back. I hoped they’d overdone it, and that I’d be able to crush the 1000 and seal the deal. When I started the 1000, I followed the same race plan I’d used all year; strong start, settle, and pound, pound, pound. I asked Katie to make me a new rocket, and on her suggestion, this one was in a plastic baggie ("Don’t flip the boat this time, DAD…").

The waiting began. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for me to know what the truth would be.

The next day was Father’s Day. During practice, Coach announced the final Premier selections, including Jim Morris with a 1:57/3:38. It was no surprise when I didn’t hear my name. It was over.

It was a bit of 2009 all over again; I took it really, really hard, but thankfully, that didn’t last long. All it took was some fireworks with Lynda and Katie, a stack of pancakes here and there, and a few days to let the emotions drain, it was all good. Maybe it would have been easier to have made the Senior lineup and stopped, but if there’s anything I learned from 2009, it’s that without the occasional heartbreak, how else would you know how joy felt when it happens to find you?

The Grand Mal on the Canal had been an incredible ride, and Jim and I had pushed each other higher and harder than either of us had ever thought possible. Now that we were once again moving in the same direction, taking on all comers at the Worlds suddenly seemed a whole lot more inviting: At least we’d be racing on the same side.

"Someday, you will." I didn’t dare believe it. I’m glad one of us did.

Last Tuesday, Lynda called me from home. "There’s a FedEx box here for you from Boathouse Sports? I just thought you’d want to know it was here, in case you felt like coming home to open it…looks like some kind of clothing, or something. What time do you think you’re coming home?"

I found a reason to leave early.

I tried on everything, twice, taking a good, long, lingering look at the print on the back of each racing piece. After one thousand days of training, one thousand miles, one thousand worries, the occasional 1000 Meters, and one thousand doubts, I couldn’t stare at them long enough. I wore them to the last double practices this past weekend to make sure everything worked in race trim. I went for another run between the practices, but this time, I wore the kit.

I didn’t need to wear my sunglasses.

After the weekend was over I folded all of the gear, and placed it in the Top, Middle drawer. This time, I didn’t bother putting them on the bottom.

For three years that drawer held a shirt that represented a fear of something I might not ever be. As I closed the drawer, it felt really good to see something much more hopeful in there for the first time in a long, long, long time.

USA
2011 NATIONAL TEAM

Hurricane Bob
* Earned, Never Bought. *