To row, or not to row, that is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The agony and disenchantment of unthinkable defeat,
Or to grab the oar against all moral feelings of pain,
And by opposing be left in the wake and flipped. To row, to win;
No more, and by to row we mean to stroke and win
The final regatta, and the Henley medal
That is our born right; ‘tis a victory
Devoutly to be wish’d. To row, to win;
To stroke; perchance to miss water; ay, there’s the others;
For in attempting to row much harder, we are stopped,
When overzealous rowers and entangled oars,
Must make us crash; there’s the disaster
That causes heartbreaks in this agonizing tournament:
For who would bear the pull and recovery of eight men,
The  faithful coxy commanding with his box, the great eight runs,
The wild temper of Scully, the timely strokes of Walter,
The fast starts of Michelle Harris, and the sloppy strokes of  the rookies,
When they could leave the water and entertain themselves,
**Watching their replay on television? who would want to bear the burden,
To follow the race so intensely.
But that the dread of something before the Ice,
That terrible calm, from whose boredom
None return for one long year,
And makes us bear the losses that we have taken
Rather than attempt to foresee those we know not of?
Thus rowing does make scullers of us all,
And thus the popularity of the sport
Is diminished by titan Guelph’s defeat,
And regatta of great promise and excitement
With this defeat, their hopes are dulled,
Soon turned to be rekindled.

By: Chris Zulinov