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Web Exclusives: More — A speech October
10, 2001: by Josh Fien-Helfman '02 at a gathering between the Class of '02 and their grandparent class, 1952. The event took place on September 14, 2001Good afternoon. First I'd like to extend my prayers and those of the Princeton community to all those affected by Tuesday's tragic terrorist attacks. May all those who are grieving be comforted, and may the memory of those who perished remind us all of the cherished ideals of freedom and democracy. I am honored to speak to you today on behalf of the Class of 2002, and the very talented athletes at Princeton University. First I wish to thank you for your continued interest in the student experience and life at this university. In the few minutes I have to talk, I'd like to share with you how my D.C. Public School experience shaped my determination, perseverance and Princeton experience, and I would like to recount a defining Princeton athletic moment forever emblazoned in my mind. My high school was roughly 60% black, 20% Hispanic, 10% white, and 10% international. Together, this diverse community celebrated many sports and academic achievements while at the same time mourning the violent deaths of more than half a dozen of our classmates, including two star student athletes. This challenging, and at times frustrating, high school experience fostered my thirst for higher education and my motivation to accomplish something worthwhile. I have tried to dream the impossible dream, but at Princeton, such a dream can become reality. When this flame blazes inside a determined individual, anything is possible. On August 6, 2000, my knees quaked and my heart quivered as the American flag was raised on high to the serenading of the National Anthem on foreign soil. The 2000 United States Lightweight Eight boat had just won the world championships. I was privileged to be not only the youngest competitor on the U.S. National Rowing Team, but also the youngest American coxswain ever to be crowned a world champion. The feelings I experienced that sunny summer afternoon in Croatia drove deep into my core, and I can hardly express the pride I felt for the Red, White, and Blue. Without my development at Princeton University and without the support of the university, I could not have been standing there that day, as a champion of the world. Though the world championship is one of many things I have been proud about during my career at Princeton, the most lasting impression for me occurred while donning the Orange and Black. This particular story begins during my senior year in high school, which was filled with athletic successes. Named the school's scholar athlete, I was fortunate to talk to two coaches at Princeton about competing in collegiate athletics, a dream for any high school athlete. After arriving at Princeton in September 1998, I made the tough decision of becoming a coxswain on the crew team over joining the wrestling team as a 125-pounder. I later discovered that the freshman rowing experience at Princeton rivals any athletic experience available in the world. Recruits and novices alike bond together in an attempt to win a national championship in late May. We look out for each other academically and socially. We support each other through tough times. We laugh together, we party together, and we do community service in Trenton together. And we win races together. The experience at the beginning of a crew race is surreal. You are out on the water, disconnected from the land that holds you grounded. There are teammates in your boat, behind you and in front of you, but no one by your side because of the hull's construction. As a coxswain, I back the boat into the starting blocks just prior to race-time. Usually, a rower will look over into the boat of enemies lined up along side of him. He picks out the rower in his respective seat, and in a look of respect and dignity, acknowledges his competitor's training, heart, and desire. But he thinks to himself, "that will not be enough for you on this day. I will own you for the next two thousand meters. Every stroke I take I will bring your body more pain. And I will drive you further behind me." At the end of a race, the two boats pull together, so close that the competitors can meet, shake hands, share thoughts and gossip, and then, in an act of submission, the losers hand the racing shirts off their backs to the winners. The feeling ignited when a shirt is handed over to you — and in those rare occasions when a Princeton rower loses his shirt — is unforgettable. My sophomore year I coxed Princeton's varsity lightweight eight to a second place finish at the national championship. We were down a full boat-length with 500 meters to go, and as I looked into the telltale eyes of my stroke man in front of me, as he struggled for breath and gazed at Yale's lead in horror, I made the decision that with racecourse running out, if we were going to win we would have to put it all on the line now. We began the sprint to the finish earlier than previously planned, and the rowers responded to my call with a unified, relentless surge of power and aggression. In what can only be described as a religious experience — a time in which one's soul rises out of his body and observes quietly from the sideline while one's mind enters a zone and one's impulses take over, forbidding the body to feel pain — we passed Harvard, then Columbia, and then caught Yale — bowball for bowball — with just a couple strokes to go. In the closest finish of all time, Yale pushed ahead on the final stroke, a result that was announced after minutes of photo-finish analysis. Our first reaction was to cry. My eyes sunk low into their sockets and my chin began to shake. We had trained with both incredible precision and reckless abandon for nine months to win this race. And we lost by a few hundredths of a second. But as my crew regained their strength and composure, stunned, shocked, sweaty, and teary-eyes faces eased, and soon there were smiles, pats on the back, and even laughter. We were far more successful than any of us could fathom at the instant we crossed the line. We had gone to the well and reached down into the very depths of human potential. We had hit a wall — as it's called — when an athlete's body can give no longer give the desired strength while in competition, and as a crew, we committed to push through it and put ourselves in a position to win the national title. This would not have been possible with any less than 110% effort from any one of the nine individuals in the boat. And for all of us, the fact that we executed such a miraculous comeback against some of the best crews the lightweight rowing league has seen in years, despite what such a comeback would demand, is what makes rowing at Princeton so special. When I look at my silver medal, I do not particularly see its color, nor do I wish it was gold. I see pain and the necessity to withstand it, the commitment to achieve and execute in the presence of one's teammates in the heat of a raging battle. I see the orange and black that I know, on June 3, 2000, was the color of the blood being pumped from my rower's hearts as they tore down the 2000 meter racecourse for their mothers, their fathers, their university, their teammates, and the rowers in front and behind them, who they refused to let down, no matter what the cost of physical toll. This is what makes Princeton athletics unique and a life long identity-shaping experience. Thank you. Josh Fien-Helfman can be reached at jfh@Princeton.edu
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