[fullmetal]

cont'd

Go.

And within seconds John is warning Oxford. She's cutting the bend, because that's what your eyes tell you to do. If the race hadn't been stopped she wouldn't make such a basic error, but the restart is not what you train for, and like a novice on her first Tideway visit she's way off line.

Not that that's an excuse. There's only one correct course in the Boat Race, and that's where the umpire tells you to go. You don't have to go that way, the umpire's not there to steer for you, he's there to make it very, very clear if you're not in your water, and if you're not in your water then it's tough shit if you screw up. And wow, did she screw up.

Zoe, all you had to do was point your boat in the right direction. All you needed to do was steer the course and you'd probably have won. But you didn't. Your selfish aggression cost your crew the chance of winning. Not the guy in the water, don't blame him. Shit happens. No, you fucked this up because your pride told you you're some sort of wonder-woman. Well you're not, your job is to gain the maximum advantage for your crew, and if that brings you distinction good for you. But you seek glory at your peril, and you went looking for glory, fishing for the dubious pseudo-machismo of getting stuck in. Your payback was blowing seven months of hard work in a few seconds. Your hubris was your destruction, but a thousand times worse it brought destruction on your crewmates. They put you in the position of ultimate trust, and your repayment to them, your return for them dragging your arse from Putney to Mortlake, was to humiliate them.

You're not the first to steer badly. You're not the first to imagine you're bigger than the boat, that you can gain some vainglorious honour, some permanent place among the roster of Boat Race greats by scrapping around at the raw edges of your crew. And you have, in your own way gained something of what your sought. Because from now on, those who wish to steer for the universities will forever look to you as the example of how to never, ever behave.

So anyway, we're a bit stunned for a few seconds. Zoe's gesticulating wildly, and then Oxford sprint in desperation but to no avail. Later I spoke to the Cambridge guys and not one was aware that Oxford had lost a blade - why would they? We knew though, and it was a subdued procession that made it's way to the finish line. We were right there alongside Oxford underneath Chiswick Bridge while Zoe appealed andy John essentially told them you have lost. The stroke man smacks his oar on the water in frustration.

And we stand up and applaud them, because that seems the appropriate thing to do. They never stopped trying even when they had no chance, and there is no greater test than that.

The bowman was slumped back in his seat, lying on the wave break. It wasn't out of the ordinary. Zoe called them up to row, and he didn't move, and so the two man turns round, and suddenly it's apparent that the bow man is more than just pooped. He's not conscious. The two man starts shouting in his face, splashing water, but nothing, then the guy's head rolls to one side and this stream of white stuff, not vomit but frothy bile comes out of his mouth followed by his tongue, lolling in the way no conscious person even does. It looks to me like I'm watching someone die.

Another boat comes alongside and friendly arms reach down and lift him from the boat, his flaccid body held beneath knees and neck as he's hauled up, and here on Holy Day for an instant Alex Woods looks like nothing more than the central figure in a modern day Pieta.

All of which put a bit of a downer on the atmosphere on the bank.

At the dinner I sat with the 1962 crew, back for their 50 year reunion. There were seven of them there, including Boyce Budd who won gold at the 64 games. "You must think me very old" told me one of them cheerfully. "I know that because I remember at Henley meeting the Harvard boys of 1914 for their 50 year reunion and thinking them pretty ancient too. They were all there, all nine of them! The Leander crew of 1914, whom they'd defeated, came too." He looked a little wistful for a second. "There were just three of them of course." Before his race in 64 there'd been a big CND demonstration, although no-one had jumped in the river. The Oxford boat had pretty much swamped at Hammersmith, but Cambridge on Surrey took on far less water and won comfortably. Later on in the evening James Crowden told us that at his first Boat Race dinner he'd sat with the elderly Wilfred Chapman, whose first race was one hundred and ten years ago, in 1902. In Wilfred's second race in 1903 Cambridge squared on "are you ready", but the starting pistol didn't go off, and Chapman's crew were 3/4 up length up on Oxford by the time the stake-boat men released them, and they won easily.

There is no monopoly on fairness, and I could tell you some equal horror-stories to even things up. But such is the nature of the race, a race invented in an era when sport meant cockpits and bare-knuckles and the idea that you could contrive fairness anathema to those Georgian gentlemen. It's not meant to be fair, it's meant simply to test, and the test is simply this: did you give your all.

Alistair later admitted that the judgment passed on Zoe was written in the heat of the moment.  Zoe, incidentally, was one of the coxswains used in The Social Network's rowing scene(s).

[fullmetal]

cont'd

Go.

And within seconds John is warning Oxford. She's cutting the bend, because that's what your eyes tell you to do. If the race hadn't been stopped she wouldn't make such a basic error, but the restart is not what you train for, and like a novice on her first Tideway visit she's way off line.

Not that that's an excuse. There's only one correct course in the Boat Race, and that's where the umpire tells you to go. You don't have to go that way, the umpire's not there to steer for you, he's there to make it very, very clear if you're not in your water, and if you're not in your water then it's tough shit if you screw up. And wow, did she screw up.

Zoe, all you had to do was point your boat in the right direction. All you needed to do was steer the course and you'd probably have won. But you didn't. Your selfish aggression cost your crew the chance of winning. Not the guy in the water, don't blame him. Shit happens. No, you fucked this up because your pride told you you're some sort of wonder-woman. Well you're not, your job is to gain the maximum advantage for your crew, and if that brings you distinction good for you. But you seek glory at your peril, and you went looking for glory, fishing for the dubious pseudo-machismo of getting stuck in. Your payback was blowing seven months of hard work in a few seconds. Your hubris was your destruction, but a thousand times worse it brought destruction on your crewmates. They put you in the position of ultimate trust, and your repayment to them, your return for them dragging your arse from Putney to Mortlake, was to humiliate them.

You're not the first to steer badly. You're not the first to imagine you're bigger than the boat, that you can gain some vainglorious honour, some permanent place among the roster of Boat Race greats by scrapping around at the raw edges of your crew. And you have, in your own way gained something of what your sought. Because from now on, those who wish to steer for the universities will forever look to you as the example of how to never, ever behave.

So anyway, we're a bit stunned for a few seconds. Zoe's gesticulating wildly, and then Oxford sprint in desperation but to no avail. Later I spoke to the Cambridge guys and not one was aware that Oxford had lost a blade - why would they? We knew though, and it was a subdued procession that made it's way to the finish line. We were right there alongside Oxford underneath Chiswick Bridge while Zoe appealed andy John essentially told them you have lost. The stroke man smacks his oar on the water in frustration.

And we stand up and applaud them, because that seems the appropriate thing to do. They never stopped trying even when they had no chance, and there is no greater test than that.

The bowman was slumped back in his seat, lying on the wave break. It wasn't out of the ordinary. Zoe called them up to row, and he didn't move, and so the two man turns round, and suddenly it's apparent that the bow man is more than just pooped. He's not conscious. The two man starts shouting in his face, splashing water, but nothing, then the guy's head rolls to one side and this stream of white stuff, not vomit but frothy bile comes out of his mouth followed by his tongue, lolling in the way no conscious person even does. It looks to me like I'm watching someone die.

Another boat comes alongside and friendly arms reach down and lift him from the boat, his flaccid body held beneath knees and neck as he's hauled up, and here on Holy Day for an instant Alex Woods looks like nothing more than the central figure in a modern day Pieta.

All of which put a bit of a downer on the atmosphere on the bank.

At the dinner I sat with the 1962 crew, back for their 50 year reunion. There were seven of them there, including Boyce Budd who won gold at the 64 games. "You must think me very old" told me one of them cheerfully. "I know that because I remember at Henley meeting the Harvard boys of 1914 for their 50 year reunion and thinking them pretty ancient too. They were all there, all nine of them! The Leander crew of 1914, whom they'd defeated, came too." He looked a little wistful for a second. "There were just three of them of course." Before his race in 64 there'd been a big CND demonstration, although no-one had jumped in the river. The Oxford boat had pretty much swamped at Hammersmith, but Cambridge on Surrey took on far less water and won comfortably. Later on in the evening James Crowden told us that at his first Boat Race dinner he'd sat with the elderly Wilfred Chapman, whose first race was one hundred and ten years ago, in 1902. In Wilfred's second race in 1903 Cambridge squared on "are you ready", but the starting pistol didn't go off, and Chapman's crew were 3/4 up length up on Oxford by the time the stake-boat men released them, and they won easily.

There is no monopoly on fairness, and I could tell you some equal horror-stories to even things up. But such is the nature of the race, a race invented in an era when sport meant cockpits and bare-knuckles and the idea that you could contrive fairness anathema to those Georgian gentlemen. It's not meant to be fair, it's meant simply to test, and the test is simply this: did you give your all.

Alistair later admitted that the judgment passed on Zoe was written in the heat of the moment.  Zoe, incidentally, was one of the coxswains used in The Social Network's rowing scene(s).