Thank you to all of you who have joined us to mourn Andy at the Memorials
in Marion, at the Head of the Charles, online and in spirit.
Two funds have been created in Andy's memory, one at the National Rowing Foundation
(www.natrowing.org),
to provide special funding to US Athletes competing abroad. Andy's old friend,
Jonathan Smith; his wife, Ruth Kennedy Sudduth; and his Dad, S. Scott Sudduth,
MD will serve as trustees of the Fund. The Friends of Harvard and Radcliffe
Rowing have established a fund in Andy's name for the purchase of single sculls
for Harvard scullers aspiring to elite competition.
For more information, please
contact Jon Bernstein: jon.bernstein(at)agedwards.com.
Of course, we hope the
numbers of people who ride in the Pan Mass Challenge and contribute to the massive
endeavor of finding a cure for cancer will continue to grow, in Andy's memory
and in the memory of all those whose lives have been forever changed by cancer.
I remember the first time I walked into the Farber with Andy, I suddenly realized
that I was woefully ignorant of the shape of the world. It wasn't just the Atlantic
and the Pacific that bounded our lives, but the cancer ocean as well.
Below are the texts of the tributes to Andy given on the blustery 21st of October,
2006, as the Champion Singles, the event that Andy dominated for five years,
rowed by. At the close of the tribute, two great crews rowed by Newell, each
with Andy's seat vacant : the 1984 Olympic Silver medal eight, and the 1985
Harvard Sprints, Yale-Harvard, National Champion and Henley Grand Challenge
Champion Harvard heavyweights. The Olympic eight rowed in the "Andy Sudduth"
the red Resolute eight rowed by the 2006 US men, with Andy's name in big blue
letters at the two seat.
An eight with one seat empty always looks awkward. That day, when the missing
seat belonged to Andy's distinctive hunched shoulder profile, our loss became
concrete.
Ruth Kennedy Sudduth
Sudduth Tribute
Oct 21, 2006
Gregg Stone:
Welcome to Newell Boathouse, home of the Harvard Varsity crews. Actually, I
should say “welcome back”, for the vast majority of you made your
home here once as well, whether during undergraduate years or while training
for a national team.
A special welcome to:
Sharlie Sudduth, Andy’s mother
Scott Sudduth, Andy’s dad, and his wife Gail
Ruth Kennedy Sudduth
Sophie, Zoe, his beautiful children, and Saiya, their mom
And Andy’s siblings, Rob, Matt and Jennifer
As much as Newell was a special place for many of us, so was it as well for Andy. Here is where his Harvard education was grounded. Here is where he found a place where he could test himself in a controlled environment. Here is where he was able to marry his incredible physiological talents with his love for, and feel for, boats and water. Also, here is where he found a mentor who had the intellect and stubbornness necessary to get Andy’s attention.
So, it should come as no surprise that Andy considered holding the reception after his memorial service on this dock. It should also come as no surprise that we who are left here, without him, should want to gather once more as a community of oarsmen and remember him and his feats – like the Trojans and Athenians who put down their swords to remember Hector and later Achilles – and to create a more lasting tribute to inspire those that follow.
Fred Borchelt, who rowed with Andy in Washington DC and on the US eight in 1984, offered a prayer.
Campbell Rogers, Captain of the 1983 National Champion Harvard Crew spoke about his memories of Andy.
Devon Mahoney Zimmerman, coxswain of the 1985 EARC, National and Grand Challenge Champion Crew, followed:
It is difficult to lead by example, and Andy Sudduth, walking into the Harvard boathouse in 85, had his work cut out for him. Being shy didn’t help much, though I soon witnessed the transformation he made from quiet student to Terminator like oarsman during our Friday race days. Andy was so strong that he pretty much mowed down everyone including the oarsmen in his own boat. Fall college oarsmen find it difficult to row a strong, steady 34 for three miles, something, no matter how much I fought with Andy, he would not concede. After our first Friday race day arguing up and down the Charles, Andy and I promptly became close friends. We disagreed most of the time, mainly for the fun of it. Andy was fascinated not by his pursuit of excellence, but by the pursuit of excellence and he enjoyed--as much—if not more, different opinions than his own, as long as they had logic and panache.
Around the boathouse that winter, he pretty much kept to himself. Winning the CRASH Bs of course, furthered his legend, but also served to put a bit more intimidating distance between Andy and the other guys on the team. Luckily, during the spring, Andy finally became human for us all, through his complete inability to tell a joke. I had instituted a “joke of the day” policy, where I would tell the crew a joke while they tied in, basically to create an opportunity for everyone to rag on me, before I spent an hour and a half ragging on them. Andy decided that, he also, would tell jokes, and it became his mission to see if he could gross me out, and/or make me laugh. I found his jokes, which, unfortunately are burned in my memory, disgusting and not funny at all, though watching Andy wheeze with delight was mildly amusing. Andy would start laughing before he finished the punch line, thus making most of what he said incomprehensible, and I would sit there and watch him laugh his very strange soft, cat like laugh while most of the crew groaned.
It is a testimony to both Andy’s sheer force of will, and the matching competitive drive of the oarsmen on the 85 crew, that our boat achieved what it did as the season progressed. The better we got, the more we had in common with Andy, though of course, the bar always got higher. At the nationals, I have an especially distinct memory of Andy and the thrill he got from the exploits of the rest of the crew. The race committee in Cincinnati had generously provided us with several brand new rental cars. Of course, everywhere we drove became an all out race from point A to point B. One morning, on our way to breakfast we were stopped at a light, with Andy driving one car and Arthur Hollingsworth driving another. What follows is a description Curt Pieckenhagen sent me earlier this week. “Arthur had the station wagon, loaded…more people and slower off the line. We were smoked as we watched the other vehicle pull away from us, and all hope was fading for victory had it not been for the massive display of testosterone (and shear stupidity) on Arthur’s part. Arthur turned off the road and accelerated across an open field, into and out of a huge ditch, over the curb into the parking lot.” I will never forget the look of glee on Andy’s face as we watched Arthur’s insane blitzkrieg across the field. Though we were clearly bested, Andy enjoyed that race just as much as he did winning the nationals.
By the time we reached Henley, we were very fast, and Suds had become an integral part of our boat. I think our transformation into a cohesive whole really had to do with each oarsman’s transformation into a champion. Once you win races, it’s alright to relax and become the idiots you really are off the water, because all is forgiven if you can deliver the goods going across that finish line. Andy, as the season became more of a pressure cooker, became more relaxed because he was in his element, doing what he loved most, pushing the envelope every day, in a big way.
At Henley, the night we won the Grand Challenge, the entire boat decided that tradition must be upheld and proceeded to strip and jump off the bridge right beside the Leander Club Boathouse. Andy Hawley still remembers watching Suds, buck naked, climbing up the railing of the pub by the river to the deep amusement of those drinking on the porch, then racing off down the street, white skin glowing, cackling away, with two English Bobbies in hot pursuit. That is also a quintessential Suds moment—he was extreme even when partying.
I have one more memory to share with you, that I’m sure will warm the hearts of every oarsman here. Andy struck me speechless one practice. Yes, there was a moment out there when I couldn’t speak. I remember it distinctly. We were doing a series of tens and twenties at three quarter power. I noticed that Andy was short at the catch, by about an inch. But I literally couldn’t believe my eyes. I checked again, and yes, this magnificent machine in front of me, who had never before manifested a stylistic flaw, was short at the catch. But I couldn’t say it, because I couldn’t believe it. A few seconds later, Harry brought up his megaphone, and in his laconic way said, “uuuh, Andy, you’re short at the catch.” Instantly, Andy corrected himself and the moment was gone. “Damn,” I thought, “That could’ve been the one time I caught him.” And, I think just to thwart me, Andy’s technical performance was flawless for the rest of the season.
I believe that Andy embodied the finest traits New Englanders pride themselves on—he was an iconoclast with a deep sense of responsibility to his community. He was a man of thrift, with words and with himself, but generous of deed. He enjoyed climbing the mountain, more than he did waving his arms at the top. He had a keen appreciation for the talents of others, and an even more finely tuned sense of self-criticism. When he got sick he wrote a letter, asking that everyone communicate with him, even if they were scared of saying the wrong thing. In true Andrew Sudduth style, one of his last gestures was to overcome something he struggled with his entire life, his own shyness. I smile to think of it. He has raised the bar again for all of us here, asking us to not only care for one another, but to utter the words. Andy, we cared for you deeply. Thank you for this last challenge.
Jon Smith, who rowed with Andy at Exeter and on a number of US Teams spoke next:
As Greg Stone mentioned, while I did go to a school down south, it wasn’t THAT school…and yes, I probably spent 4 times as much time in Newell as I did at the Brown boathouse (Marston Boathouse for those who are checking). But, that is a topic for another time.
I’ve known Andy a long time: we met as sophomores at Exeter. Growing up, we shared many goofy teen-ager conversations about everything. However, it all seemed to come back to the water: boats, rowing and sailing. Everyone says Andy was shy, but I am not sure that was true. I think he was incredibly thoughtful and precise with his words. However, he did have an interesting way of pulling all sorts of stuff out of people and cackling merrily when something funny was exposed. I laughed out loud when I read his letters and the part about his dentist. It was pure Andy.
I find it very fitting that Andy’s picture will be here at Newell for generations of oarsmen to notice. To state the incredibly obvious, Newell was very important to Andy. I recall one of the thousands of conversations we had in and around one of our workouts. I commented on the photos of the various crews and remarked that it was interesting that his photo wasn’t anywhere to be found. He commented that was because he hadn’t beaten Yale yet. I was struck by that and his tone of determination and frustration.
I think this photo is perfect and captures the essence of Andy on the water. Hopefully, it will provide some inspiration and guidance to those who stop to look at it. If one or two kids each year come through these doors, look at this photo and take more than 10 seconds to try to understand who Andy is and what he means to rowing and what he brought to our sport, then Harvard will continue to be a very formidable crew for years to come. Each and every day he brought with him to the boathouse passion, fairness, desire, honesty, courage, charisma and a great ability to inspire those around him. Boy, was he a fiery competitor.
This energy and drive that I see in this picture and that I tried to paint for you reminds me of watching him row with Twig in 84 in one of the fastest pairs ever. I am amazed to this day that they didn’t break right in half. I remember similar rows with him in the double where it became a contest of who could out-crank the other. It became a bit of a suffer-fest with each of us dropping the gauntlet time and again throughout a piece. At the end, we would politely comment to each other that the boat “at times felt pretty good” or that “we had some ok moves in there”, all the while knowing that we were really moving. Usually, I was also wondering if I would be able to make it back to the dock…
I will miss Andy very much. He was a good buddy and one that I felt would always be there with that same bounce, energy and bright expression. We shared lots of funny, stupid, sophomoric moments together that make me smile when I think of him. We also shared many poignant, quiet moments. I loved rowing with him and competing with him. While I didn’t do it all that much, I also enjoyed competing against him because our friendship always came out on top. I think of him whenever I am on the water. Andy, I will miss you and will continue to take tens for you.
Gregg Stone closed with:
After Andy had left us a number of e-mails circulated discussing the possibility
of naming a shell after him here at Harvard. I must say that I was a little
taken aback, because shells at Harvard are merely vehicles for a larger purpose,
and Harry has a habit of trading them if there is the slightest chance of another
boat aiding the team. I think a number of us wanted a more lasting tribute.
There are many photographs of rowing in this boathouse, but there are only two, to my knowledge, of individual oarsmen. One is of Marshall Newell, for whom the boathouse is named, and one for Mike Christian, a former lightweight oarsman. It seemed most fitting to memorialize Andy with a photo, which could serve as a lasting reminder and inspiration. A short biography of Andy has been printed to hang with this photo, and you can get a copy of it in the shop or from Bill Manning.
Now, Zoe and Sophia, could you come up here and do the honors.