.73 of a Second

.73 of a second.

I've talked about it before. The almosts and half-way theres, the if onlys.

The hand the got out-touched on the wall, the goal you should have saved. If you'd just pushed a little harder--

maybe.

.73 of a second.

And then there's the nevers. When the delta between your abilities and dreams are so large, you don't even hold them close. Measuring up isn't a matter of inches, it's miles. Climbing onto the block, hands dangling over water, and the adrenaline is bottled in the idea that sometimes, you really don't have a chance.

There's the inadequacy, the fear. The pressure that mounts on the back of your neck every morning when you push off, wondering what's not connecting.  A legacy at Ithaca, where excellence and dominance are expected. A win isn't shocking and a loss is more than demoralizing. You can shrug your shoulders and roll your neck, the pressure won't go away.

.73 of a second.

No, this time, it was 5 seconds.

University of Rochester, at home. Second race. This time, no catastrophe, no equipment malfunctions. Let's win this.

5 seconds behind.

My legs and cheeks are burning, all I see are my palms.

9 seconds. Last weekend. Against Division-I Marist. Lose again. The race feels good. The time, 7:55, says otherwise.

Years, maybe decades? Apparently every year except once, Ithaca's women's novice crew has won states. Everyone is telling you that, every day. You want to punch something every time you hear it. I'm scared. I'm just scared, and I see this delta I've seen all my life, a crevice between expectations and ability. It's opening up wide again and I don't want back there.

That's why, when I came to college, I thought, "No more sports. Just me."

And without a team, I found a new crevice.

Crawling out of that crevice led me to a lecture hall in August. Coach Robinson had a video up on the projector. It had the first varsity's race against Cornell. And it had them winning. There was also a video of a men's varsity race. They tape all the finishes, Coach Robinson explains, just in case it's close.

The men's video--you watch it without breathing. Blink and you've missed it, but that's a win, ladies, that's a win. 


I scrounge through my bag for a pen and put my name on the list.

There are 7 boats in this race, it's madness.

Look to the right, there's Rochester.

5 seconds.

Next to them, Marist.

9.

Hamilton's on the left. Those girls are huge. All muscle, all poised confidence.

ATTENTION, ROW!

It's blinding, really. The start. I listen to it. That's how I follow. Some people watch oarlocks, some people watch shoulders, but put me in a race and I can't see anymore. Thunk, thunk, and shrieking pain are all I need.

We're in it, harder and faster than we've ever felt before. There are so many boats, you don't know what's happening. It's like a pack of wild horses is stampeding around you, and instead of curling up and throwing your hands over your face, you claw through the dust and start to run with them, hooves flying and all.

Fury, bows pulsing for the edge, coxswains yelling. Calm down, but keep the power, let's fly.

And we leave Rochester behind. Alexa hollers, "Take a 10 and say GOODBYE!"

But nothing's coming easy. The last 250 meters take us by surprise, and we're getting walked on. LAST TEN, LAST TEN, I WANT EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU HAVE! ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, COME ON SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, AND TEN!

The grunts behind you quiet. You hear oars rock and bodies collapsing. Row back, take out the boat. No one knows.

The announcement's here. It's under video review. No one knows.

Half hour later. They read up from seventh place. Some girls are holding hands, but I duck my head and close my eyes. In third place, Geneseo. In second place....

Marist.

Eruption.

And I'm a New York State Champion, by .73 of a second.