My take: Erickson taught rowing on river of life

I enrolled at the University of Washington in 1964 after spending the previous year fighting for my life and leg. I lived, but lost my leg.

With almost no money to attend college, and absolutely no chance to participate in college basketball or track, I enrolled at the UW anyway.

In my first trip on a dormitory elevator, I noticed a "turn out for crew" notice. At the bottom of the note a rejoinder was added, "and if you are too short or non-athletic, apply as a manager."

I thought about it and well, I qualified on two counts.

I interviewed, made the team as the third manager, and within a week became enthralled with UW crew, the chance to be around gritty guys, and of course the abrasive freshman crew coach, Dick Erickson.

Then late one night, I did a wild thing. I snuck down to shell storage, grabbed a novice oar and climbed aboard Old Nero, the training barge.

In absolute dark, I rowed and rowed, imagining myself in the varsity boat. After 10 minutes of pulling, I heard a noise and saw the amber tip of a lit cigarette. Yep, it was Dick.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

Totally startled, I told him a lie of convenience, that I was "testing the oar."

"You're a liar," he snapped back. "You want to turn out for crew, don't you? I have seen you licking your chops during crew turnout most every day. You want a chance to row for Washington?"

I was speechless that he had not only caught me in the act, but accurately guessed my hidden desire. Since no amputee had ever made the UW crew as a rower, I was embarrassed to tell the truth.

With no pause, he then said something that changed my life: "If you want to turn out, go for it — because it doesn't matter if you make the final cut for the team."

"So you think I can make the team?" I asked.

"No," he said. "I think you'll get cut."

Now I was really confused. "So I can't tell if you are encouraging me to turn out or not. Which is it?"

In typical fashion, he got nose to nose with me and said somewhat condescendingly: "Jimmy, turn out. If you get cut, nobody cares. The boys on the team don't care because they already like you and will still like you as manager regardless of the outcome. And the coaches, well, we don't care because it's not our job to care if rookies make the team. And if nobody cares, why should you care if you try out and get cut? But at least get your sorry ass in shape during the next six months so you have a chance to make the final cut."

From that day forward, I quit thinking of myself as a short amputee whom the coaches might cut. I started to think that what I believe on the inside matters more than what others believe about me on the outside. I was going to get in great shape during the next six months, try out, and make the final cut for the Husky crew. I did. And it changed my life in hundreds of good ways.

With each successive day of toiling on the water, often in the last or second-to-last boat, I started to understand the important difference between winning and being successful — and to realize that any person can control success, and that success is far more endearing than just winning. I started to study for the first time, started thinking less about first impressions and early judgments by others, and more about my internal goals. I found myself able to worry less about stumbles in life, and appreciate more the importance of getting up from a stumble.

I never was a star rower at the UW but I did make it in the varsity boat some during my senior year. Like most of the boys on our team, I was a good shock trooper for the guys who were our stars. I was very successful, just didn't win a lot.

I missed just one turnout in my four seasons of rowing. And most important, I never stopped dreaming that I could be good enough to make the varsity boat.

You see, it didn't matter if I actually made the first team, only that I passionately pursued it. This is what Dick Erickson taught hundreds of men and women who climbed in a shell, in part to step away from their own past beliefs about their personal shortcomings.

I never got away from Dick or his thinking. I went on to receive a joint PhD, teach for 20 years in the Graduate School of Business, continued to scull competitively (and finally won some races with a partner named Craig Tall!).

My wife, Juli, and I started a community rowing program in Dick's honor. A place where people of all sizes, shapes and confidence levels could enjoy messing around in little boats.

For 14 years, I have directed Moss Bay Rowing and Kayaking Center on South Lake Union. Thousands of little kids have participated in our sculling and kayaking programs — including many kids who had already been told by some coach not to turn out for their team.

Through Dick's sharp-tongued wisdom, I know how much rowing is a great metaphor for "inside-out" learning in life — you become successful one stroke at a time. With internal persistence you learn to handle turbulence, all kinds of turbulence, in your life. Dick touched thousands of lives — his bantering and chiding almost always sent as an invitation for people to pursue their internal passions, even if others don't care.

There's no bronzed plaque at Moss Bay in honor of Dick. But there sure are a lot of little kids running around with oars, eager to go mess around on the water. And like Dick, some of them don't wear shirts or socks. Look what he did to us!