The night before

I was getting sick. The night before the biggest race of my freshman season, I was getting sick.

We were in Ithaca, New York, to race Cornell and Princeton. Really, we were there to race Princeton. Cornell was not doing well that year and wasn't a factor. But the Yale and Princeton freshmen had shredded through the Ivy league to that point, winning by open water the two previous weeks. Yale was ranked 3rd, Princeton 1st. Tomorrow would bring the clash. And I was getting sick.

I could feel the drip start down the back of my throat. Perhaps allergies, as our hotel room was very dusty, or I was getting a cold. Like a dripping faucet, a constant cough started forcing itself out of my chest. I was keeping the rest of the stern 4 awake as well, but nobody was ready to sleep anyway.

The night before big races is tough. You're thinking, thinking, thinking, your mind racing already. Your hands start to tingle, wanting to grip the oar. Your heart rate accelerates, responding to the signals your mind transmits, imagining the race. So your heart starts getting ready, warming itself up twelve hours early.

I kept getting up, drinking water to hydrate myself and quiet my cough. Then I had to start getting up to offload that hydration.

Our coach had given us a talk before sending us to bed. Really, who throught up this tradition? Get the guys all pumped up, asking for their concentration, effort and will to face a great challenge, then "off to bed boys, sleep well for tomorrow." Sure. I'm ready to sleep.

And like an automaton, I just did the same for my guys. Sure, they'll sleep. Who am I kidding?

I suppose that I want them to think about what's needed tomorrow and focus. That's better than sitting up chatting about the girls' team or writing dirty limericks. They won't fall asleep anytime soon anyway, so at least be constructive, right?

I suppose that works. After all, we did talk quietly among ourselves all those years ago, and won the next day. My allergies died down when we returned to New Haven, with Princeton shirts on our backs, still smelling of the guys we had beaten.

More than anything, I hope the guys are able to write a similiar story ten years from now, with a similiar happy ending. I'm off to bed, perhaps to sleep.