When your everything isn’t enough, stand tall

Seven-hundredths of a second.

That’s less than the amount of time it takes the human brain to recognize emotion in facial expressions. It’s less than the time it takes to blink.

An interval as small as 0.07 seconds is usually trivial and difficult to conceptualize. But a couple weekends ago, for my teammates and I on the UF Crew team, it meant the difference between winning and losing; success and failure.

The race was close from the start.

It was just after 8 a.m. at the Florida Intercollegiate Rowing Association Championships in Sarasota, Florida, and we were racing in one of the day’s premier events: the collegiate men’s varsity eight boat. Eight schools entered this category, but it was a two-horse race. For 2000 meters, we traded punches with Stetson University. Back and forth, we vied for first. They got off to a quick start. We settled into our rhythm early, and by the race’s halfway point, we had drawn even. By the three-quarter mark, our bow had crept into the lead.

But during the final sprint toward the finish line in the last 250 meters, Stetson came back. We crossed the finish line together, 22 seconds ahead of the next fastest boat. The result was too close to call. Exhausted, all we could do was wait for the video review.

Initially, the officials were going to call the race a dead heat. They had to review the photo finish five times before coming to a conclusive decision. While paddling back to the dock, we found out what it was.

First place: Stetson University, 6:17.40.

Second place: UF, 6:17.47.

No amount of fatigue or physical pain that we experienced during the race could come close to the stinging realization of defeat we felt in those moments. Our goal was to win the gold medal. We failed. Something we’d worked hard for since we began training in August was crushed by the slimmest of margins.

This loss hurt more than any other I’ve experienced playing any sport at any level. It wasn’t just because we had to settle for silver and watch another team celebrate with the gold medals and trophy we so badly wanted.

Of the nine crew members in our boat — coxswain included — six of us are seniors.

There’s no, “That’s alright, we’ll get them next year.” No second chance. This was it.

In the days since, I’ve replayed the race in my head hundreds of times, each time dissecting another part. I’ve constantly wondered: What could we have done differently?

Seven-hundredths of a second is such a small margin, we certainly could find ways to have improved by just a little bit. But in truth, the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized the answer to that question is: nothing.

We raced hard. We gave ourselves a chance. We were right there. On that day, it just didn’t happen for us.

This has all made me think about one of life’s most sobering lessons: Sometimes, no matter how much we care or how much effort we devote or how hard we fight, our best simply won’t be good enough. We can do everything right and still end up on the wrong side of the result. That’s the most difficult part to stomach. It could involve anything, like studying hard for an important exam and not getting the grade we want, or working tirelessly and not landing that dream internship or job.

We can’t always have control over every situation, but we can always influence our own response to it. True character reveals itself in difficult times. If you gave everything you could, stand tall even in the face of defeat.

Brian Lee is a UF English senior. His column appears on Thursdays.