The Cadle Era: Resurrection of Georgetown Rowing‎ > ‎Crew Reflections & Stories‎ > ‎

A Band of Brothers: a Coach's Wife Remembers

by Molly Barrett

Cadle—and later Goose and Frank—weren’t paid to coach. They volunteered—and dug deep into their own pockets to buy stuff like gas for the launch (which, I believe, was also a gift from Don). I would guess that the first shells were loaners, but I’m not sure about that.

Unlike Yale and Harvard, where rowing was an elite activity, generously supported since almost the beginning of time, there was no monetary support from the university. Goose was the rigger—pulling all-nighters, shimming the oars and preparing the shells for races. (Didn’t he sand the finish off of the shells and coat them with soapsuds, to reduce friction?)

And students who gave their time as managers were the unsung heroes who did a lot of the dirty work, behind the scenes.

Crew members had to raise money to cover expenses— there were raffles and maybe other fund raisers? It wasn't just about rowing. They had to earn the privilege.

Was it something about the timing—the early 60s—and the religious and ethnic culture at GU (a different work ethic)? I don’t think there was the sense of entitlement that one might have found in the Ivies. I wonder how many of the students at GU, were the first in their families to have an opportunity to earn a college degree.

In the summer of 1963—and, maybe, before—Don found summer internships so the kids could afford to stay in Washington for the summer—and row!

Before I ever saw the crew on the water, I watched Cadle putting the lads through their paces on a blazing summer afternoon, somewhere on campus where there was a raised track, outdoors. Himself marched up and down the track, sweating profusely, and shouting orders. Swampy, who was blind as a bat, put his glasses on the track, since they kept sliding off his nose, and Don, engrossed in coaching, almost trod on them (Molly to the rescue!)

The workout was what I imagine marines go through in basic training. Rope climbing was involved, and the heavies looked on in dismay as Tiger skittered to the top with ease. (Few, if any, of them could do it.) Was this Cadle’s way of impressing on the young swarthies that a cox was more than a person who steered the boat and yelled a lot?

Don’s secret weapon was Inge (and, later, Caron). Need I say more ;)

Camaraderie and tradition

In those days, Washington was a small town, and you couldn't walk four blocks, that summer, without running into a member of the crew. Often, I'd see a couple of young men, dressed for office work, gleefully lurking, skulking, pouncing, and pummeling. It was a brotherhood.

Are there still gatherings where Black Velvet is served? Stout and champagne were never one of my favorite combinations, but Cadle knew the value of building tradition, so it didn’t matter if anyone particularly liked the concoction. Black Velvet was the nectar of the rowing community—the one form of alcohol permitted. (Ahem.) One of my cherished memories is of meeting freshman John Soisson at the 1789, where we sipped the sacred brew and became friends forever. Among other things, John was our daughter Hilary's first babysitter.

There are more stories:

An expedition to Gifford's on St. Patrick's Day with dress code required (coat and tie). Goose and Frank had neglected to mention slacks, so there were a number of fancy boxer shorts and a shortage of collared shirts. I think it was Linc Hoffman who sported Kelly green underwear. The staff at Gifford's were faced with a dilemma: If they let them in, they'd sell LOTS of ice cream. LOTS! It would be a bonanza. But what about the other customers (who were slack-jawed, but survived)? Gifford’s yielded (and prospered).

Rusty Duffy and John Soisson and “the shirt trick.”

Beards—facial hair was verboten. (I can expand on this, if you like.)

Fred Volbrecht, working off his pre-race nerves at the piano. He was very talented.

Linc Hoffman, hurling before every race—poor guy. It didn’t affect his performance.

Victory at the Dad Vail, in the spring of 1964—a definition of joy unbounded.

Bob and Frank house-sitting at the Cadles and making Sunday breakfasts for the varsity. That idea was short-lived. Neither of them had enough money to feed a ravenous mob. I watched as Bill McNeil, having devoured a hefty meal, leaned back in one of Inge's elegant dining room chairs, only to have it fold up underneath him. Fortunately, Goose was a skilled carpenter.

One fine spring day, Fred King (and Paul Barbian?) went missing in a pair. A distraught Frank Barrett raced up and down the river and discovered them in the Tidal Basin, their shell laden with cherry blossoms. No doubt, the air turned blue—there’s a fine line between relief and rage—but the tirade was silenced when sly Fred announced that they had picked the blossoms for Molly.

In Inge’s absence, I became the crew laundress. Oh! How I remember those striped uniforms. One hundred percent cotton and very pricey. (I believe they were made in Germany—a gift from Don, who did everything he could think of to inspire the oarsmen to emulate the champion rowers from Ratzeburg (sp?). Legend had it they could (almost) walk on water.

Anyway, I was terrified that the uniforms would shrink (not a pretty picture), so I convinced the guy at the Laundromat to turn off the hot water and the heat in the dryers. The problem was the humidity and, no matter how many dimes I poured into the dryer, the heavy-grade cotton wouldn't dry. So, every week, all season long, I hung those outfits in my bedroom (my roommate had the patience of a saint and a very good sense of humor); then, if they weren't dry by race day, I ironed them! Imagine that!

At the end of the year, I learned that one member of the crew had washed and dried his own uniform, throughout the season, and neither the hot water nor the heat in the dryer mattered. They didn't shrink. Aaaaarrrrrgggghhhh!

When Frank and I were married, we received a telegram from the crew: "Laundry piling up. Please come home. Love … "

Other benefits accorded a coach’s wife: Jim Conley brought me a lovely little Madonna, when Hilary was born. She has it, now. Mark Pisano promised me the shirt off his back, if ever GU beat Marietta. He was a man of his word. I wore it until it was in shreds. Linc and Muffie brought chocolate chip cookies to GU hospital to celebrate Hilary’s birth. Friendships with girlfriends and wives of oarsmen— John (Soisson) and Barb, Janie and Mark, Ginger and John, Carol and Peter), Linc and Muffie, Jack and Linda, the list goes on …

My association with the crew was a wonderful experience. The sport is infectious; it creates a sense of community among participants and onlookers. It attracts people of varied interests and unites them in a common pursuit of excellence.

Without lifting an oar, I learned wonderful lessons about rowing, and much, much more: teamwork and technique, the psychology of competition, and the often hilarious workings of the minds of young men, many of whom became my good friends. Over the years, I’ve learned that great coaches are a gift to those whose lives they touch. From my perspective, the Cadle years were extraordinary.

Somewhere, I have a letter from Art Charles advising me that a new four was to be christened the Molly B. –A lovely way to honor Frank's good coaching. I'm sure she's gone to her rest, as tradition dictated when shells were built of wood—in flames.

I miss watching the workouts from the launch, the wait at the end of the course, and the sound of the coxswain’s call. That feeling returns every spring.

Never row, indeed!

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A Crew is Founded

by Frank Barrett '61

Our first 1958 race was a practice row against Potomac Boat Club and George Washington, the two institutions that lent us our first shells. We were given a big head start and Potomac barely caught us (it was a big head start). We even finished ahead of GW. Drew Gerber was in the winning boat, since Potomac was a man short and Drew filled in!

We proceeded to lose every other race in 1958 and 1959. We were never close to winning and didn’t take it terribly seriously. We put little in and didn’t deserve to achieve much. We were clueless about how to be decent rowers, much less excellent ones.

Fred Maletz was transferred from Washington at the end of March 1960, and we oarsmen decided to advertise for a new volunteer coach in the Washington Post. How the choice was made is anybody’s guess. We ended up not only with Don Cadle as our unpaid coach, but also with his supportive wife, Inge, and a little blonde baby named Caron. What could have been a better deal?

Don came in the spring of 1960, after a winter with no training. We tried hard and even went to the Dad Vail at the end of the season, but we didn’t win a single race. (In 1960 Ye Domesday Booke, GU's yearbook, began covering the sport, even though we had yet to gain University recognition.) 1960 was the year that we began to take crew seriously. With Cadle there was no other way.

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Subpages (7): Class of 1961 Reflections and Stories Class of 1962 Reflections and Stories Class of 1963 Reflections and Stories Class of 1964 Reflections and Stories Class of 1965 Reflections and Stories Class of 1966 Reflections and Stories Class of 1967 Reflections and Stories