Like a Stranger in a Crowd...

June, 2017

Somebody had to put it together. This reunion thing. Someone had to do it. It’s been forty years.

 The scene of the crime.

They shine in our memories, those nine boys, up there on a podium drenched in the late afternoon brilliance of an English countryside in 1977. They’re up there, breaking musty British propriety in their Husky racing shirts because there just was no time for stuffy coats and ties, all grins with their trophy, surprise and joy and triumph and exhaustion etched in their smiles. In those old photos we can even feel the power in their grips as they shake hands with the officials, the officials who can’t believe these young American bucks crossed an ocean to take victory in a race they weren’t expected to win.

Jackman, Sawyer, Parker, Miller, Umlauf, Fisk, Franklin, Hess. Stillings at cox.

Well rowed, gents. Next time bring a coat and tie.

These boys came from nowhere -- "we weren't really that good," Mort said -- to take the Henley Grand Challenge in 1977. It was a Grand Theft really, stealing the hardware from a heavily favored Leander Club to write their names in Husky history. 

On that same day, four of their teammates – an unlikely supporting cast of Husky spare oars – rowed off with the Visitors' Cup for straight fours. 

Two silver cups, etched for posterity with the names of thirteen Husky men who gave everything they had for each other that day. In terms of international glory, on a vast stage steeped in 140 years of crusty British tradition, it was, quite simply, one of the greatest days in Husky rowing history. 

Quinney, Miller, Schonberg, Millar. Properly dressed.

So they'll be back at the scene of the crime this summer, these boys, returning to Henley forty years later, slugging beers at age sixtysomething, feted by their vanquished foes right there at Leander Club on the bank of the Thames in full view of the finish line.

To be accurate, some of the boys will be there. Old men really, these boys. Mort, Jesse, Stormin, Fisk, and that little fucking peckerhead Stillings, oh fuck please don't anyone give the guy a microphone. Ron Jackman can’t make it. Neither can Zoomer or Le Grand Oiseau. And nobody even knows where Ross Parker went. 

From that Visitors Cup four, Quinney won’t be there. Nor Kraze, or Millar. Doctor Frank sees those guys around now and then. They won’t make this trip, but they're still badasses, all three of them. Old too. Just like the rest of us. But the fourth boy in that boat won’t make this trip either, because he never got old.

Skip Miller is frozen in time. He's young, forever young, that goofy grin plastered to his face, eyes shining and ready to take on the world ‘cuz, well hell, why not? We never got to see Skip grow old like the rest of us, come around to silly reunions that really mean nothing but mean, well, everything. Skip never got to drink forty years of beer like the rest of us, send us Christmas cards, meet our children. Skip never got to cry with us when parents died or celebrate our weddings with us.

Petersburg, AK. Yes he was. Al Erickson photo.

Skip drowned at 23, two years after he came home with that medal. And you can bet the boys, the ones who loved him and who were proud to be his teammates, the lucky boys who grew to be old men, will drink to Skip on the Thames. 

Doctor Frank remembers that day in 1976 when the Boys of 36 came to the Connie for their 40th reunion. Those boys lined up right there on the dock for a toast, with their boat and their flags and their coach and their team manager and their legendary fighting spirit, missing just one man who went out too young, the rest of the fellas looking mean but... well... old. Doc ponders, I mean, you know we were all thinking it then, but nobody said it in our awe and speechless admiration. Those guys are damn old. It’s been forty years now for these Boys of 77. You know we're wondering. Do we look that old today? Will Mort and Jesse, Stormin’ and Fisk, and that little peckerhead Stillings, still look feisty but maybe, just maybe, a little haggard, at this reunion? 

Gods and heroes. The Boys of '36.

But the wheels start turning, and by April it’s all set. Mort and Fisk organize the whole thing. They reserve a massive old house in Beaconsfield, half an hour from the race course. Hess takes orders for Stewards badges and Leander meals. 

Wives and girlfriends are invited, maybe to keep the boys in line, maybe to keep the stories straight, the stories they've heard so many times when these boys hoist a beer together. The entourage swells as entourages do, with second eights, lightweights, spare oars, managers, and a coach. Coach Frank Coyle, volunteer lightweight mentor who later served at the top of the USRowing food chain, will join the boys. 

The boys wonder if his nickname will come up in a toast. Can you raise a Pimms and say "to Coach Coitus!" in the Stewards' Enclosure?

Walker immediately questions Mort regarding housing, "is Kehoe invited? Or is he just showing up outta nowhere to take my seat like he did forty years ago?"

Walker can be a little bitch sometimes. But Mort, always the diplomat, suggests Walker stay home and see a shrink about forty years of butt-hurt emotional baggage. Walker relents. But no, Kehoe isn’t coming.

Also not coming are the dozens of teammates who pushed these boys to be their best at practice every day but didn’t make the team. Guys with names like Tulla. Penis. Lickity. Bowlin. Erdly. The Guy Called Hubbard. And Chris “I’m bi, I learned French in high school” Dern. Guys who screamed encouragement at the boys in the weight room, chased them on long runs and bike rides, matched them stroke for stroke on the erg, and let them know they better be strong, they better be fast, because there was always someone there to take a seat away.

That memory still stings for those boys, those second-and third-boaters. You bust your ass all year, right up to the last practice before the team leaves for Henley. You hear the announcement of the final boatings for the trip. And your name isn't there. Your tongue blade, the one with your name on it, the one that was never automatic in the first boat, the one that had you sliding into the JV, third boat, maybe the varsity for a practice or two, the tongue blade with your name in fading blue all-caps Magic Marker®… your tongue blade goes in the shit can. Maybe next year. 

Maybe never.

Maybe it didn’t hurt so bad if you were a sophomore, or even a Junior. Maybe it didn't hurt so bad then as it does now, forty years after. Maybe you were more pissed than hurt. Determined to do better next year. You’d come back stronger the next season and make the trip. But maybe next year there was no trip. Maybe you missed your only shot, and didn't even know it when your only chance passed you by. 

Moonlight Graham said it was “like being this close to your dreams, then watching them brush past you, like a stranger in a crowd.” Watch the movie, hear him say it, and you can feel it happen to him. Like a stranger in a crowd, he said. So maybe you didn't realize what was happening, or maybe what wasn't happening, until it was too late.

So maybe it hurts a little worse with each passing year, that memory of a stranger in a crowd.

And if that’s you, these boys will raise a glass on the Thames for you too. And to your dreams that brushed right by. Because, even for these strong, tough boys who reached that amazing dream, the ones who touched it, held it, felt it that day on the Thames, after 40 years of living it's brushed by them too. It’s only held together by memories, and brotherhood, and looking each other in the eye with a drink in hand. Always ready for a toast.

So the boys are making plans. And the anticipation in the emails is almost as good as the trip itself. 

We get to to visualize Raoul snuggling up and spooning with Stormin’ because the 12-person house only has six double beds. Five guys with spouses. Plus those two.

Walker plans a surreptitious visit to a boat tent with Magee to practice “Good Lovin' Gone Bad” with the oar guitar. The Spare Pair is still obligated to provide entertainment.

To which Magee claims Ernie made him a spare for that 1978 trip because Magee argued with Davidson, and where is Davidson, did he even get invited to this thing or what, anyway Ernie pulled Magee out of the 2nd eight and put Barker in there, because Barker by God would never argue with Davidson. Like arguing with Davidson mattered.

Walker says this sounds legit. Walker remembers seeing “McGee” in the race program. Which isn’t how you spell Magee but it also sure as hell isn’t how you spell Barker, bottom line being Magee and Walker ended up as spares. Spares who got used as needed by the coaches and thrown out. Like a feminine hygiene product. Hence the spares' nickname. Tampon Twins. 

All this may be true, but who gives a shit. After forty years, it doesn't matter. What matters is that unlike every man who pulled an oar for Washington and didn't ever make a trip, Walker and Magee at least got to be there. They were there for the team, they were there for their brothers. 

The emails go on. Leander will offer a limited number of seats to a Saturday lunch, Hess says. Erg tests may be required. Magee retorts fuck that, after an erg test I'll end up looking like this guy...

Not sure exactly what we got here. I'm not that kinda doctor.

Magee’s teammates wonder where Dave got a picture of a post-gender-surgery patient, adjusting to new genitalia.

Raoul reminds everyone of the contributions of Bob Ernst to the legend of Husky Rowing, wishing he could be on the trip. Stormin replies with a reference to Bob’s thermonuclear influence, which inspires Magee to come back with this...

"Hey Miller. As I read your thoughtful and expressive missive, a picture emerged of you in my mind. I can’t help it. It’s one of you naked in the freshman showers. God I can see it now! Just like it was yesterday. Your body glistening with the fresh shower-water. The tightness of your skin. Your muscles taut - - just off the water from another exhausting work out. Soaping down your private-parts. Me dropping the soap and asking you to pick it up. Jesus! Talk about THERMO-NUCLEAR…"

Fucking little peckerhead Stillings chimes in on the emails. I mean the guy will not stop talking when he has the mic, but given time to process what he's typing, he actually comes up with some sensible thoughts. And it inspires us all...

"Along the way I would like to share some feelings with you all. I was lucky when Ross Parker spelled it out for me some time during our racing experiences together. ‘John we have to want to win because we're fast not because they're slow.’ Wow. I extrapolated for myself, if you want to win you can't worry about who you have to beat.

Back to Sir Stephen. I am not as impressed as so many are. Maybe bitter (I like to think not), but still stung I offer this. They may have beaten us in 1984, but the UK sent their top rowers pot hunting against our supposed third level crew and we still damn near beat them.

In the Grand we were the best our program could offer. We took on everyone else's fastest and prevailed. We were there at the vanguard. We got body punched into submission a few times, but that was what we had then as Huskies and we prevailed. I didn't win five Olympic gold medals, but I know that we had more guts in Henley than they showed in the Olympics and I have never had a prouder moment in my life than when when we put it all together.

I'd race with you guys any time.

It was the time of my life.

Yours truly,

John"

Sir Stephen is Steve Redgrave. Steve has more rowing medals than God, and is apparently still some shit in England, and maybe there's been some trash talk going around about Washington getting lucky that one time, and maybe he's popping off like hey, just for comparison, lookit all this bling on my wall. Well screw that. Get a life, fucker, I mean who the hell rows in five Olympics? Don't you have to get on with getting some real shit done at some point? I mean even after three trips, Mary Whipple knew it was time to stop and move the hell on. Jesus. 

1978: Mikey, Bird, Goog, Kraze, Martin, Fisk, Miller, Hess, Stillings attempt to defend the crown; Fisk and Miller lookin' strong; Ernie goes prerace Zen with Davidson and Clapp; Mort and Dik inspire the troops.

Raoul asks around for a polyester sport coat. Gotta dress nice for the Stewards or they won’t let you in. Raoul says polyester is classy and suave, never needs ironing. He thinks he can bust one out of storage in the Graves Building. They kept all Mike Lude’s piss-yellow jackets and sansabelt polyester pants when he retired. 

Mikey: Boys, you might think twice about bringing M80s this time. Light one in a subway tunnel now, and you might not be coming home. Even with a couple attorneys on this trip.

Magee: Goog, you bringing the cattle prod?

Raoul: Magee, did you see the restrictions on attire? Your dress needs to be below the knee. 

Stillings: Yeah Dave, and be sure your bag and hat match your dress, belt, and shoes. And bring extra. For God's sake don't embarrass us by wearing the same dress twice.

Magee: Um, I've been waxing...

On it goes. The boys are packed. They’re heading for Henley. And that story is next.

UW destroys the competition for the 1977 Visitors Cup.

Huskies make history and steal the 1977 Grand Challenge Cup from the British National team.