Hometown: Old Lyme, Connecticut, USA

High School: Public school, 90 students in graduating class

Ethnicity: White

Gender: Male

GPA: 4.0 out of 4.0

SAT: Reading 760, Math 790, Writing 710

ACT: n/a

SAT Subject Tests Taken: U.S. History, Physics, Literature

Extracurriculars: Varsity Crew Captain, Basketball Captain, High School Band First Trumpet, FIRST robotics, Model United Nations Club cofounder

Awards: National Honor Society, Hartford Courant Scholar athlete, U.S. Rowing Youth Olympic Team, Louis Armstrong Jazz Award, Shoreline Conference Scholar Athlete

Major: Astrophysics

College statement advice

I sat in a pair at the starting line for the repechage of the 1000 meter rowing race at the Youth Olympic Games in Nanjing, China. I had trained all summer, twice a day, six days a week, for this level of international competition. The only problem was that I had done all of this training in the eight, in preparation for Junior Worlds, so I had relatively little experience both rowing and steering in the pair, the boat I was rowing here. Sitting at the starting line, however, I wasn’t nervous. I should have been nervous; this was a big deal. But I was not. I was beyond excited. I had the opportunity to win a real Olympic gold medal. I had trained as hard as my competition. I knew that I was as fast on the erg as my competitors. Then, the announcer began calling the countries, “Egypt, Romania, Italy, U.S.A., Turkey, Slovenia.” I heard, “Attention,” and seconds later, the light turned green, the starting beep sounded, and the race began.

At 200 meters, looking to my sides, I realized we were doing well, leading even. This could be a race. Suddenly, though, we were extremely close to the buoy line and in attempting to steer toward the middle of the lane, we caught a crab. My oar became stuck deep in the water causing me to lose control. As the oar swung over my head, I had a moment of clarity. As many times as I had visualized the race in preparation, I had never imagined such a complete loss of control. At the starting line, I was hoping for a fast, clean race. Minutes later, I had revised my aspirations, hoping that we would not be last by more than ten seconds. We wove erratically down the course, bouncing from the left to the right buoy lines. Eventually, in the last 250 meters, we ended up in a different lane. My pair partner shook with rage and frustration. The race was seemingly endless. I heard the buzzer as the first place boat crossed the finish line, and an agonizing seventeen seconds later, we finally finished. I was nearly crying, sadness and guilt had overcome me. My partner was swearing, furious. This failure was my fault. I was steering. But the real obstacle was not the failure, but that in spite of the failure, we had to come back the next day and race another race.

Everyone has experienced failure to some degree, and everyone has had to overcome it, but the emotion, the abysmal feeling which I experienced during and after that race, were entirely new to me. In truth, the situation was not dire. This failure was not life or death, but perhaps this is precisely why I was so scared of what I felt. I did not know that such an emotion could be generated from something as innocuous as a crew race; but, I was representing the United States of America, I was representing the program and the coaches for which I had rowed, and I was representing myself. I had failed them all. But I would still go home and eat a proper meal. I would get a good night’s sleep on a mattress. My life would go on, virtually unchanged. Nonetheless, I felt as if the world were crashing down around me. I needed to change this. I needed to overcome this, and in order to do so I could not give up. I had to come back the next day and succeed, doing the same thing at which I had failed the day before. Ultimately, I discovered why failure is so trying. It is not the failure itself. That is only a moment of pain in your life that will be over soon enough. Instead, it is the fact that in spite of failure, you must persevere, no matter how bleak things may be, and hopefully, one day you will succeed. Along with each success will come many failures, but you must try your best to endure and overcome these obstacles time and again.

REVIEW

Students are often warned against writing their personal statements about sports, the logic being that most of these essays read similarly: the student establishes his or her aspirations to greatness at the beginning of the essay. By the end, they have learned that spectacular achievements are within reach but require discipline and commitment. In triumphant fashion, Liam turns the infamous Sports Essay on its head, skipping a retelling of his ascent to greatness, instead beginning his narrative there—at the Youth Olympics—and promptly recounting what he considers to be utter and total failure. There’s no saccharine-sweet success-against-all-odds discussion here.

Though there are moments in this essay where the turn of phrase could be streamlined or clearer, the piece communicates an astounding amount about its writer both in its content and execution. We obviously learn that Liam is a talented rower and disciplined athlete. More broadly, we glean a sense of self-deprecating humor, or at least a healthy dose of perspective, in his ability to write so candidly and energetically about what was imaginably a hugely disappointing experience.

As well, Liam’s move to conclude his essay by drawing an important life lesson from his time at the Olympics is a stellar one. It speaks to his maturity and ability to reflect, and it effectively renders this much more than a “Sports Essay” after all.

From 50 Successful Harvard Application Essays, 5th Edition edited by the Staff of the Harvard Crimson. Copyright (c) 2017 by the authors and reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Publishing Group.