The 2022 Senior Perspectives is the 17th in a series of annual collections. Senior captains and representatives of teams at Harvard have been invited to contribute viewpoints based on personal experience from both their senior seasons and full varsity careers at Harvard.
Charlie Olmert
Hometown: Annapolis, Md.
Concentration: History & Literature
House Affiliation: Leverett
After every game, I receive a text from my grandfather, Michael Olmert. He is a professor of English at the University of Maryland—so he's got quite a few quotes at his fingertips—and he's my biggest supporter in all things. One quote that he has returned to frequently in his post-game messages comes from the final stanza of 19th-century British poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "Ulysses." The poem is written from the perspective of the mythological Ulysses (or Odysseus), restless and growing old at home after his thrilling life's journey. In the poem's final lines, Ulysses, after remembering things past and his little time remaining on Earth, remains resolute:
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield. That is what I will remember about my lacrosse career at Harvard. After wins or losses, no matter the obstacle that laid ahead or failure behind, I learned to stand back up and keep going, with my teammates by my side. That's what made it special.
When I arrived in Cambridge as a first year, I was coming off a string of high-school injuries that had me unsure about my place on the team. I did not know at the time that the reaper of injury would follow me to Boston. Since 2015, I have undergone six surgical procedures, broken four bones, bulged a disk, and received repeated back and hip injections. At Harvard, I have spent countless off-season mornings in the training room—thank you to Nic, Chloe, and Andrei. Regaining and learning the athleticism and skill required of a Division I college lacrosse player has been an arduous process, time and time again. Nearly every winter and summer break has been occupied with recovering from some sort of injury in an effort to return to 100%. It has been a path littered with pain, failure and doubt. I always wanted to be the best on the field, yet it just never really came together for me, no matter the sweat, tears and pain I poured into the sport.
Failure and disappointment are, of course, inevitable. Everyone, one day, arrives at a point where they're not the smartest in the room, the most accomplished, the best athlete, the greatest performer—whatever it may be, there is someone else who is better at it out there, or will be soon. Growing up, I had taken energy from being the best at whatever it was I was doing. Nothing is worth doing if you are not going to try your best, a sage piece of advice that is often said in some form or another. But my young mind twisted that sentiment: nothing is worth doing unless you are the best, or close to it. The value of the journey, of doing things for the sake of doing them, was entirely lost on me. It was all about the award, the ranking, and glory that hung waiting at the end.
Learning to rebel against that tendency has been a constant struggle. Do I still wish I was an All-American and achieved every on-field goal I ever set? I would be lying if I told you no. But I have learned to check that impulse. I have come to center myself through my relationships, returning the favor to the many people who have helped me in so many ways up to this point and paying it forward to those who follow. Grounding my identity in this way, rather than through accomplishments, has helped me handle various struggles in college and on the field. Every time I am confronted again by failure, I get a little bit better at handling it.
Last Saturday, I walked off a lacrosse field for what I believed was the final time in my career. We had just lost in overtime to Yale in New Haven, with it a chance at the Ivy League Championship and Tournament slipping through our fingers.
From the outside, it appeared to be the unceremonious end to an altogether unremarkable career. Yet there I was after the game, sitting on the bus back from New Haven with a bus full of my fifty teammates, bouncing from row to row with a big grin on my face and cherishing the fleeting moment. Sure, I was crying my eyes out just a bit before when I embraced my parents after the game for the final time. But on that bus, I was again made whole. I was a part of a real team, a group of men that had sweat together, competed against one another for playing time, pushed each other, and come together over the course of a year—there is nothing else in the world like it. The final result suddenly did not matter, and the failure and pain were all worth it. The jovial atmosphere of the bus ride said it all—we knew, deep down in our souls, that we had walked on the field all season long and competed our hearts out. That was all the solace we needed.
Eight days later, we gathered in the locker room to watch the NCAA Tournament Selection Show, expecting with near certainty it would be our last time together as a whole team. But then we heard our name called: Harvard will be going to Piscataway to take on Rutgers in the First Round. With a stroke of luck, a decision over which we had no control, our time together had been extended. Filled with an untapped well of joy and gratitude for the mysterious workings of the universe, I sprinted out to practice the following Monday. I was there, still standing, still going, still in the grind, with my teammates by my side. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
