Doctor Frank Writes: Turns Out, Yes You Can Go Back

The Boys of '77 find the memories still linger.
Part 2 of 2. See Part One here.

Fisk, Stillings, Jesse, Mort, Stormin:

The grail at hand, once again.

Bing.

A text message lights a screen in Seattle.

"Hey Teasdale, it’s Magee. I'm in the pooper at Vancouver airport. Just ran into Walker. He sees me, cracks up. Just laughing and pointing. I mean I haven’t seen the guy for two years and he starts in on my outfit. Flip-flops, sweats, a week's growth on my face, baggy tee on an international flight, so what? Fuck him. You should see the plaid monkey suit he's got on. He's not gonna be laughing when he can't sleep on that flight. And I guarantee you, his ballsack in those pants... A ten hour flight, man. Ten hours..."

The things that matter when you turn 60. 'Cause, y'know, stuff's g
onna sag that didn't sag at 20...

Bing.

"Teasdale, it’s Walker. Check out this homeless man on my flight." George checks the photo, poor disheveled dude in the security line-- wait... Magee? Jesus.

Forty years ago Dik and Ernie had rules for travel. Coat and tie. Always, no exceptions. Have some Husky pride. But Teasdale won't chime in. Magee's got the right to be comfy and not give a shit. Dik is sixteen years gone, Ernie’s not even there, but that’s another story. And Magee’s right about one thing. Walker’s in for a long night.

Meanwhile, halfway around the world, the boys are rolling in. Mort, Lisa, Goog, Rosy, Fisk, Julia, Jesse. Stormin’ and Raoul, sharing a room. Calling the race plan is fucking little peckerhead Stillings, joined by his bride, fellow purple-jacketed Husky Hall of Famer Betsy.

As an aside, Doctor Frank wonders, if a male coxswain is a little peckerhead, what is a female coxswain? How might a mere scribe allow her the respect she deserves? Well, she’s a professional. And in this case, she’s also an Olympic gold medalist married to the little peckerhead. And she's balanced and tolerant and professional enough to know "little fucking peckerhead" is a term of respect to her man. She even, well, kinda smiles about it. With tolerance.

The boys are glad Betsy’s there.

Which reminds Doc, speaking of professionals, especially those groundbreakers of Husky Women's Crew who bravely battled adversity at the Connie in the 1970s, treading that ol'-boy beatdown with the aplomb of battlefield surgeons… speaking of our female heroes, what ever happened to Josh Patton? The first woman to cox a men's Class Day boat to victory deserves a damn statue in front of the boathouse. But that is another story for another day.

Walker and Magee clear customs, pause for a breakfast beer to melt away the jet lag, and hop two hours between trains and subways, to find Fisk waiting at Beaconsfield station. Fisk wears that same handsome grin they remembered from their freshman year together.

“Majik’s here.”

Da hell? Michael Majik Fountain, erstwhile Husky lightweight, Henley veteran, who served a four-year term as President, Black Student Athletic Union of Husky Crew chapter? The boys invited him to the event, but he never replied. Now he’s here, celebrating the moment with his team.

Walker is a happy camper. Walker recruited Majik to pull his first strokes at Green Lake Crew in 1973, and Walker is quick to accept credit for all the resulting karmic dominos in the lives of his teammates in particular and the rowing world in general.

Fisk paints the picture. “Yeah, he just showed up at the house. Figured he’d find a bed, I mean it’s a big place. We dragged a mattress out and put it on the stair landing. He’s pretty damn happy to see us. Glad you guys are here though. You gotta help keep him away from Stillings. Those two… Once a diva...”

Some things don’t change. Majik Fountain is one of a kind, a force of nature. Like, as uniqueness goes, the man is an outlier. And with Majik and Stillings in a room together, one won’t stop talking and doesn’t care who’s listening, while the other’s gotta have everyone’s attention or this damn boat’s going nowhere, well, let’s just... yeah... group dynamics is a beautiful thing.

Magee didn't sleep on the plane. He’s fading fast. But he can’t resist a run over to the race course. Welcome to town, how was your flight, we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. He sleeps in the car, snuggled up with Walker.

Terry Fisk knows exactly what he wants.
And it's not -- what the hell? -- free range noodles.

Everyone's hungry. And thirsty, like parched. A stop at a riverbank bar is a must. Beer in hand, Fisk finds the selection of Brit food has expanded in forty years, way beyond shepherd's pie and Spam. The sign says chicken or beef, but the girl behind the counter takes a look at Fisk, up and down, this way and that, smiles all sweet and lays out his choices.

"Breast? Or Rump?"

How the man kept a straight face, the boys will never know. But after all he is Terry Fisk, and with that old Fisk light smoldering in his eye he deadpans right back:

"Well now. You just can't beat a nice rump."

Majik, Stillings, Beard Stillings, Fisk, Homeless Guy, Julia:
"Extra pizza? Don't throw that away, I'll take it."

The entourage works its way to the starting line. The boys turn to see Fisk twitching, panting, sweating. What, bad rump? No. He’s cranked his heart rate, eyes running over just watching some random matchup of schoolboy crews go off the starting line. He’s got the whole thing back in his head, the years of prep running up to that golden moment, the glitter on the water, the stiff formal referee's commands, the classic polished officials' launch, the boats lining up, Fisk is gasping for breath, and his damn heart is nearly exploding by the time they say 'Attention. Go.'

Doctor Frank gets it. Doc nearly lost his mind a month earlier, just watching live online video of the IRA finals. It just brings too much back. The heart in the throat, the lack of oxygen, the feeling you’re going as hard as you can go and it’s still not hard enough…

But Terry Fisk is on another level. He’s back at the scene, forty years later, remembering what he felt like sitting at this very place, there on that very starting line, blood on fire, ready, attention… and after six minutes those boys had won it all. But he still gets wound up, just watching another generation go through the routine.

“Did not see that coming,” Fisk croaks to Betsy. The Olympic champ just smiles and touches his elbow.

"I know."

The Boys of Beaconsfield circle the wagons at the house, exhausted from travel, spent with emotion.

Goog and Rosy diggin' the sunshine

Like prom couples twittering over where to eat, the crowd spends an hour figuring out dinner, and the choice is limited. It’s late. Basmati agrees to stay open past nine. It's a 13-guest payday.

It’s only a mile from the house, on the same damn street, but the fucking peckerhead who was so confident steering a sixty-foot shell at full speed with a ton of man-meat behind the oars, well, that same peckerhead is not so clear on how to get there.

“John, go out the driveway, turn right, go a mile, see the map, you’ve got SatNav in your rental car, just stay on the left, for God's sake.”

The boys ponder the wisdom of letting that peckerhead rent a car, and now he’s begging around the house for a copilot, even though he has his own spouse, a professional gold medal driver, riding shotgun already, and since when does a Grand Challenge Champion purple-jacket-wearing Husky Hall of Fame steersman need a navigator, but a teammate steps up and says sure OK I’ll do it.

At Basmati the same teammate grabs a shooter at the bar before joining his mates as the color returns to his face.

“I’m glad I wore dark pants. You can’t tell I pissed myself, right?”

The toasts are minimal, nobody stands, nobody cries, but they all raise their glasses to Henley, to each other, and to the joy of being together. And to Rosy who takes over ordering dinner. No questioning breast or rump boys, just leave it to me.

Majik, well, Majik must work out like a beast. Every single plate of fine Indian food that works its way to his end of the table comes back empty. There are no thoughts of “will you box up the leftovers?” Majik still looks like the same lean hunk of gristle whose Husky career ended with a Steward’s Cup victory on the Winston Racing Team.

Next morning comes early. Peckerhead runs everyone outta the kitchen and throws bacon and eggs on a dozen plates. The crew launches for the race course at 8AM, cuz y’know, you come seven thousand miles to watch racing and you better watch all the racing.

You know how you spend four years with your friends talking body parts and blowjobs – or as Coach Clothier once put it, about shits and beating off – then reunite forty years later to find you’re talking about the same things, except now your wives are sitting in the car with you? You know how that goes? Yes? No? OK. Imagine that, and you’ve imagined the half-hour commute between group home and Hallowed Henley for three days, morning and night. Enlightening, at least to the long-suffering ladies.

Stewards Enclosure rules are strict. No talking on your mobile phone. That plus:

Gentlemen are required to wear lounge suits, or jackets or blazers with flannels, together with a tie or cravat. Ladies are required to wear dresses or skirts with a hemline below the knee. Ladies will not be admitted wearing divided skirts, culottes or trousers of any kind. Whilst not a requirement, it is customary for ladies to wear hats.

Da hell is a lounge suit? Flannels? Um, jammies? Naa, screw it, the boys opt for jacket and tie.

Magee has shaved, showered, and donned full-on seersucker, the only man in the bunch who could pull it off in style.

But one look at the “fucking hideous” – as a highly educated Husky put it – club jackets parading the grounds, and these boys know they're overdressed. You just can’t make this shit up, and even pictures won’t explain. But Doc can try…

Really. What the total fuck.

The boys have this memory, one tantalizing 1970s day in the Enclosure, all business, unaware of the massive party on the banks of the Thames. Now they're eager for a frosty mug and no race to plan.

Magee, Walker, Fisk, Stormin:

Back for the party after forty years

Raoul on final approach:

“My badge? Do you fuckers even know who I am?”

Abigail Ernst rows by, racing with The Ohio State University. Stormin runs off to the boat tents to congratulate her. Only those two will ever know if he said her old man was thermonuclear.

In a grand Brit tradition when the tables are filled, there’s always room for more. A guy called Scottish John says "gather 'roond" when sees the UW logos and realizes he’s in the company of greatness. You know it's a party when you're with Scottish John. He speaks of of local clubs and rowing traditions and two hundred years of history. Before Scottish John can bring up sheep, the boys have to move along.

There's an appointment at Leander Club.

The Pimms is flowing but the smart boys know that shit will knock you over and stomp your gut if you don’t pay attention. It’s a glorious glass of black magic brewed by the evil wizards down in Kent, seriously, the dude was a farmer from Kent, 200 years ago, Kent England, not Kent freaking meth-head Washington.

Stormin, Rung, Mort, Dawson, Jesse, Walker, Naden, Fisk, Magee:
Raising the flag at Leander

More Huskies pack the tent. Mikey and his son Eric, Charlie and his wife Ann. A current Husky rowing for Leander, Jacob Dawson, and his parents. Callahan’s International Recruiting Coordinator, Matt Rung, wait, seriously, they do that shit now? Yep, he’s cruising the back roads to clubs and regattas all over Europe searching for the next great Husky.

Coach Coytus shows, unchanged in 40 years, that same quiet pride on his face. Dwight Phillips, Husky Hall of Famer, Class of '71. Two tables aren’t enough.

Mikey's boy chats up the two lovely ladies at the next table, and promptly disappears with them. Eric clearly has his priorities right. It’s a Husky tradition. Papa Mikey hollers don’t forget dinner tonight, I mean Hess is paying and what not. Jesse says no problem, that's more beer for the rest of us.

Mort’s promise of “Friday dinner is my treat” attracts thirty-some to the top floor of Leander, peering out raindroppy windows as the skies get dark.

Mikey's boy rolls in, ready for a free meal and ruddy faced about whatever the afternoon held with his lady friends. And Magee's daughter Kate shows up by cab about halfway through chow.

Everyone's here.

Mort surveys the crowd. Just five of 1977’s thirteen Husky heroes sit among three dozen friends and admirers. He wants to give a toast, and it goes about this far:

“Guys, this is amazing. I just wish Dik… I mean...”

That’s it. Mort chokes up, can't do it and hands the floor to Frank Coyle.

Frank stands and salutes those crews, toasts Dik, Stan Pocock, Harry Swetnam who aren’t with us anymore. Someone says Skip's name, and he says yes and Skip, thank you. Here’s to Skip. Says he knows Dik would be just as proud today as he was in 1977.

Coach Coytus, shedding not a tear, is as poised today as he was in 1977. And the boys are grateful.

Another guy bangs on a plate and gets up, a little wobbly, not too sure of himself in the moment. Says he and Stormin drew straws and he picked the short one so he has to give the toast. The boys can see he’s already shaking. Says he and Stormin believe there are rare people among us who are catalysts in our lives, and Dik was one but we already toasted him, and Coach Coyle is one so hey Coach, and the guy is talking fast now like he’s gonna run out of breath, and Hess is a catalyst too, and thank you Mort for putting this whole event together.

Cheers and raised glasses all around. But the guy doesn't sit down. He remembers the Boys of 36, their 40^th reunion on the dock in front of the Connie. He remembers thinking man those guys are damn old. Now here we are, forty years later, and we're just as old now, all of us, and now the guy’s having a hard time getting it out. But he says there's one guy, just one guy, just one... and he croaks for a breath, says there's one guy who never got to grow old with us. Skip Miller. Here's to Skip, we miss you, we love you.

And he sits down like the chair has a giant ShopVac in it, reels in another deep breath, wipes his eyes.

Couple other guys might have cried too, who knows.

He meant to say a catalyst is someone without whom we could not be the men we are today, without whom we could not have achieved the things we did, and without whom we sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here together in this place forty years later, and that man is Mort Hess. But he got most of that part right.

And he meant to say thirty-five men, yes thirty-five of us, repped our school on the Thames in 77-78. Thirty-four have grown old together, sharing weddings, children’s birthdays, parents’ funerals, forty years of victories and tragedies together. But Skip didn’t get all that. He got robbed, and his teammates got robbed when we lost him. But Skip’s still here with us tonight. That’s what he meant to say but didn’t get out.

But he got most of that too, and he doesn’t dwell on it for long. Magee senses the downer and picks his moment.

“I just want to talk about the only regret I have, the only negative thing Washington Rowing ever did for me. Husky Crew left a giant hole in my heart.” The strangers in the crowd are aghast. Who could regret anything about Washington Rowing? But Magee’s teammates know Magee is Magee, and something good is cooking. “There’s still that one thing lingering. Still that one thing I wish for. It’s the unrequited love I’ve had, all these years, for Stormin’ Miller.” Magee drops to a knee. “Mark? Will you marry me?”

Of course the lamb was amazing. Now get these peas outta here.

That little fucking peckerhead Stillings, the one we swore would never get a microphone, rises from his seat, not for a toast, but for a speech, and the room's so small and sweaty with three dozen Americans eating lamb shanks and mashed potatoes and peas, goddamn peas, everything’s got goddamn peas on it, so Stillings doesn't need a mic, so nobody can pull the fucking plug, and on he goes.

But nobody bitches. John Stillings stands to talk about Skip Miller.

For another shining moment, Skip is right there with the boys in that stifling room on the top floor at Leander while Johnny tells his stories. John loaned Skip his car for Skip’s first date with Carol. John never knew what to expect when he went anywhere with Skip. It always took way too long, Skip was always way too kind to random strangers, just chatting up anyone he ran into, giving himself, being a friend, losing track of time. John was there when Skip took rookie initiation a little too far and sat on the block of ice for so long he got frostbite and couldn’t row.

Young Matt Rung, Husky International Recruiting Coordinator, a man who’s seen everything, looks up as the guy next to him leans over and whispers.

“Dude got frostbite on his balls.”

Young Matt Rung nearly spews his beer across the table.

Someone emails Carol, tells her about the toast, it makes her cry, she says she still thinks of him and misses him and she’s grateful for everyone’s friendship after so many years. He's never far away, she says. She hears Stillings was telling stories about Skip, replies that Skip was always 45 minutes late for everything, every date, every time. Except that one time he was fifteen minutes early because he got the time wrong by an hour... Skip always wanted to talk to someone. Skip had time to be kind to everyone, be a friend to everyone, because Skip gave a shit.

The peckerhead wraps it up, dinner adjourns, tears are dried, and three dozen Huskies make their way out the door.

Husky legends Jesse Franklin and Le Grande Raoul, waiting for a cab, witness the carnage along the Thames as the riverbank revelers pair off and head home. Strong young men assist their ladies who've had a few too many, except for the one couple where the boy's too weak to get his sobbing lass up off the ground, and fer fook sake yer right inna middle o' the street so the security guys come to assist and ask what's wrong.

"Me fookin' shoes!" she shrieks. "I've lost me fookin' shoes! Me mum's gonna kill me!"

Raoul swears later, he looked out the cab window a block down the road and saw the same young lass, still shoeless, sharing a table and a few more pints with her mates.

"Look at those two over there. By the fence." Fisk, searching the lot for his rental car, sees movement in the shadows.

"Oh that poor girl," says Julia.

Fisk squints for a better look. "She's OK. He's just holding her hair out of the way. She's on her knees, blowing... chunks. Yeah. She's puking."

Back at the house, amid more discussion of body function and sexual gratification, Stillings reports he has found a zip line on a morning walk, you guys gotta see it. Everyone ignores him and listens to whatever story Majik's telling. This pisses the little peckerhead off.

Next morning, nobody else is up but Stillings and Walker set off to see the zip line. Walker protests, John, it's twenty feet long, just a toy for little kids. Stillings convinces Walker he's a pussy if he doesn't at least try it, same old fucking peckerhead strategy from 40 years ago. It is quite obviously a children's toy, judging by how close the little peckerhead's ass comes to the ramp on the demo run. This is no shit, it's on video.

Astonished neighbor circling the Beaconsfield Green watches the whole thing as Walker climbs aboard. Walker's no pussy. Walker's ass does not hit the ramp. Walker's ass does hit the rock under the toy at about 25 mph. This is also on video. Walker manages to laugh it off, cuz he's no pussy.

Astonished neighbor passes with his wee dog right about that time, launches sarcastic blather, [insert stiff tea-sipping proper pissed-off Brit attitude here] “I suppose you're going to pay for it when you break it, no I expect not, you're too big, it's for the little ones, get down from there,” off around the park still shouting.

Astonished neighbor is sadly not on video.

The morning is already hot. The boys know where to go.

Scottish John is nowhere to be found in the Henley beer garden. P'r'aps it was too much Pimms. Or he was overwhelmed and went home with his wife, knowing it would never get better than drinking with the Boys of '77.

Missing Majik, Goog, Raoul. The Boys find a way to celebrate anyway:
"Put the camera down, there's still more wine!"

Julia, Lisa, Kate, Betsy, Ann:
"Where's Rosy?"

The boys are pacing themselves. They don't want to miss the Grand Final.

Magee knows this may be his last chance. He hears Moonlight Graham's lament, "...I thought, there'll be other days, but I didn't know, that was the only day..." and Magee seizes the moment. He proposes one more time to Stormin. And in the midst of thousands of properly attired Brits, Magee stands and shouts "He said… YES!" The table erupts in cheers, dazzled neighbors join in celebrating, and all of Henley gives a well-deserved fifteen seconds of fame to the newly engaged couple. Dave kneels for a photo op, sticks his tongue in Stormin's ear. Stormin immediately sweats through his shirt.

"I still can't believe it myself!"

Fisk and Stormin return from another walk to the finish line in the 80-degree heat. They were stuck on the towpath behind a guy in a black three-piece, twice as wide as Fisk, sweating on his huge bald head like Gary Payton after a double overtime. Stormin's version: "The good news is Suge Knight was slow but he cut a hell of a path through the crowd." Fisk: "Who the hell is Suge Knight? Man, I gotta get out more."

That's him. Last seen clearing the Henley towpath for two Husky legends

Then it's time. A year of planning, all the traveling, toasts, memories, and this is what the Boys came for. They gather on the riverbank, near the finish line. Germany versus Leander, Grand Challenge Final.

The afternoon light on the river brings it back. That glimmer, the millions of points of sunshine in the rippling breeze. The crunch of the oars, the swing in the strokes, the calls of the little fucking German peckerhead as his crew crushes the Brits.

And in a mere moment they're on the podium in their German coats and ties, grinning, fist pumping, shaking hands, posing for pictures.

The Boys wait in the shadows. Humble Huskies, letting the new champs have their own moment, shining in the golden light.

Passing a Grand torch to a new generation, the Boys ask to pose with the Germans. Unsure at first who these old men are, the champions agree. Then it dawns on them. Awe creeps into their eyes. Awe knowing that, forty years ago, these great men raised this same cup aloft at this same place, in that same glimmering afternoon sun.

That German hand on Jesse's shoulder:
Connecting champions forty years apart.

More Huskies gather, surrounding the Boys. One old man steps through the entourage to meet 2012-2016 Husky Olympian Megan Kalmoe, has to tell her how her comments on Ernie's firing were the most reasonable words he's seen about it. He's embarrassed to bother her. He says he's honored to meet her. Says, if she's a Husky, he's damn proud to be a Husky too.

And it's over. Officials whisk the Grand cup away, boxed for engraving. The Boys stare at each other. They don't want it to end.

There's one more pub. The Little Angel is a block away. Come on. Just one more.

Majik Fountain thanks two British guys for giving up their table. Majik Fountain introduces himself. Says he lives in Seattle, which he doesn't, and states that he is the curator of the African American Rowing Hall of Fame, which he isn't. Brits' eyes get huge and they don't know what to say. Majik Fountain laughs, just fuckin' with ya, and the one dude says, well shit that's too bad, I was abou' 'a make a donation. Duly noted, says Majik Fountain. The fundraising schemes are already turning in his head.

And they're done. They split up. Some stoic, some all dewey-eyed. Back next year. Back in ten years. Get-together at Mort's. We'll go skiing next winter. Some of the boys hadn't met Lisa until this week. A couple days with her and they all love her.

Whatever it takes to make that splitting up easy.

Some head home, some stay in Europe for more adventure. Magee sends a picture of his meal aboard the Eurostar to Paris.

"Enough with the fookin' peas already!"