When we come to this lovely institution of higher learning, no matter if we shuffled straight out of boarding school or have never spent more than a few nights away from home, we all look for someone to replace the comfort and sense of calm our parents instill in us. Your parents may drive you up the wall, but I have never come across anyone who was not thrilled at the thought of having a home-cooked dinner with a family member they love after months of nothing but Leo’s. For the past three years, my sense of calm has always come from my coach, Glenn Putyrae.
In June, my crew team had finished a productive spring season and was heading into the fall with more hope than we’d ever had before. The memories of sleepless nights in Lauinger study rooms fumbling through everything from Human Biology to Intro to Justice and Peace had passed. I had finally found classes that I enjoyed and didn’t drag my GPA through the gutter. My ducks, so to speak, were finally in a row. So you can imagine my surprise when, at the peak of my summer relaxation, I opened my inbox and saw an email from Coach Putryae, my coach of three years, with a startling subject line: “Farewell.”
My college athletic career has been, for better or worse, centered around this man. Though not without his flaws, he was the person that took note of my successes and supported me when I was at my most useless moment as an athlete. In the spring of my freshman year, after a surprisingly successful fall, I began to feel shooting pains down my shoulder. I went to get it looked at, thinking it was something minor. As it turned out I had undiagnosed scoliosis right in the middle of my shoulder blades, and it was pulling on my right shoulder muscles. The injury would eventually take me off of the rowing machine permanently, the equivalent of a cyclist not being able to use an indoor bike, or a football player prevented from doing strength training.
I have since spent every erg test—team rowing machine sessions—cheering, yelling, and obnoxiously coaching all those who wanted it. It is only through my teammates and their appreciation and support for what little I can do on those days that I have made it as a senior rower. A critical piece of finding my niche on the team has been the understanding and respect that my coach has given me over the past three years, as he continuously believed that I could be as strong and effective as I was before the injury.
So when he decided that he was leaving to coach at Gonzaga University, it came as a shock to all of us. The summer was spent in limbo for the whole team, waiting to see who the school would pick to replace him. I was desperately trying to avoid this sort of thing for my senior year, but college rarely goes as planned. There are far too many variables, temptations, and choices for any kind of steady path. But I guess that is what everyone loves about college—we have our whole lives ahead of us for grand plans and neat and tidy living.
“Control the controllables,” was Coach’s mantra, but it never resonated much until he left us. His leaving was out of our control, we could fret all we wanted but it would not bring him back. What my team decides to do with this coaching change is all in our attitudes, in our work ethic, and our respect and commitment to each other to get better. I find that this has held true all across the board, be it challenges of a personal, academic, or athletic nature.
I walked into my first rowing meeting of this year nervous, skeptical, and honestly concerned over the fact that the woman now in charge of 20 hours of my week for my very last year as a college athlete knew absolutely nothing about me. But as the energized, friendly women introduced herself and ran through the team requirements—and as soon as she told us to not dress like we were in Flashdance and explained that one of her most important rules was no assholes—I knew it we would be just fine. In fact, maybe we’ll be even better than last year.
