March arrived and I packed everything. The tools, the ingredients, a clean chef’s coat, and (I hoped) everything else required. I drove to snowy Providence, Rhode Island, to Johnson & Wales University, where our hosts were again the baking and pastry department. There were four bread candidates in the finals, and we were split up so that each of us had his own bakery with a spiral mixer, benches, and an oven. The requirements, in broad strokes, were three different “freestyle” breads with rolls as well as loaves (all unique formulas with novel shapes and great flavor) and one “healthy” bread with an emphasis on whole grain. We also needed a pain de mie and many, many baguettes, some decorative, some classically shaped and cut. In addition to evaluations for structure, flavor, and innovation for all loaves, the baguettes also needed to weigh 250 grams baked. If loaves fell more than 10 grams outside that range or if they measured outside the range of 54 to 56 centimeters, points would be subtracted. When I arrived, I was confident of my ability to complete the work, preparing almost 200 pounds of dough, and secure in the feeling that I had worked as hard as I could to be ready. I also knew that the other candidates were immensely talented: a baker and miller from California with an astonishing knowledge of niche grains and milling techniques, a French transplant with an amazing résumé and novel flavor combinations, a dark horse from Idaho who had stunned everyone at the semifinals, and me. A hopeful, scrappy boy from Arkansas running on heart fuel and elbow grease.

I would not be telling the whole story if I didn’t first say that I was nervous. Yes, I was concentrating on the big picture, the long view of a life of baking and the elusive target of mastery. But I also wanted—so damn badly—to be chosen. Every single day, without fail, Arlo, my youngest, wished me luck on my journey to Paris. His small voice chirped as he walked out the door to school, or at bedtime, “Good luck, Daddy, I hope you make it to Paris.” I wanted this for him, for my whole family, for my team of bakers, for my company, for anyone, anywhere, who could dream, who could work tirelessly and jump for a height of hope in an attempt to catch something.

From the second we left the starting gate during the sixty-minute period of preparation on day one I was followed by judges and students, who observed my every move. I lined up my containers first, in the order of what I would need, and then taped labels printed with amounts of flour, water, and sourdough culture to the lids. I measured water into containers, then yeast or sourdough culture, combined them, added flour, and mixed everything by hand. There were more than thirty tasks to complete in sixty minutes. When the timer sounded, I felt confident and relaxed; I had done what I had prepared to do, and took off my apron and headed to the hotel to pretend to sleep. In the darkness of that night I finally dozed off, only to awake a short time later, sick. I had chills and then began to sweat, drenching my clothes as I sat on the tile floor of the bathroom, waiting for the waves of hot and cold to pass. I tried to relax against the onslaught of questions and worry. What had I forgotten? Did I measure things correctly? What the hell was I doing here? In the depths of this mess I looked for some way, some route to a better space.

On a day with the stakes of a high-wire act, performed at the margin of what is possible, some things will go well, and others . . . well, not so much. The room may be cold when doughs need coddling; nerves may cause errors; and you will have to work with curveballs, knuckles, sliders, and fastballs, each one a test to see what you can do. Can you bunt? Will you lean in and take a ball on the shoulder to get on base? My day saw the gamut, from fist pumping to fist pounding; I made mistakes, I tripped, I got back up and ran faster. I pulled myself out of an impossible time deficit and took baguettes from the oven up until the final moments of the allotted eight hours, counting down the seconds until a judge called, “Time!” I loaded everything, hundreds of breads and rolls spilling across multiple cooling racks, and rolled them into a separate classroom where I built my display.

Loaves are like children. They hold the mark of what we do well and also show where we forgot them at soccer practice, weren’t patient, or didn’t treat them gently. As I picked up each loaf, holding it before placing it on the display table, I saw the stories. The Boxcar was undermixed, with resultant poor volume; some of the Kvassmiche had been baked in an oven with malfunctioning steam; but, on the bright side, the SunSeed was happier, its deep yellow crumb and salt-seed crust showing the contrast of yellow against mahogany; and the powerBROT was dark, crunchy, seeded, and delicious. For all the breads, I placed the signs that I had made in advance by pressing a stiff dough against the grain of wood from our woodpile before cutting and drying them. I stained the pieces with coffee and made a tiny picture frame for the name of each product, stamped in an old script on aged paper.

And then it ended. It was over, all of it. Nothing more could be done or strived for; years of work, worry, and wishing; all of it, lifted and removed. The corners of my mouth began to lift, curling upward, I felt my heart ache and my throat catch, and all of it rose up and out, forming a smile.

And when I say “smile,” I mean my face did things it hadn’t done in months and months. I was secure, content, fulfilled, and exhausted—if this was my day to be chosen, then so be it, Team Martin would be part of Team USA. I would prepare endlessly and we would all go to Paris. And if it was my day to simply go home, then that was OK, too. I would leave intact, for I had brought home with me. I had used bread to connect my heart to my hands and my soul to my mouth, filling everything with my history, my heritage, my love for my roots and for this craft. It was truly win or win.

It took a few days to receive the final results. People far and wide checked in, hoping, cheering for a positive outcome. I took a few days off in an attempt to unwind, and then Jeffrey finally called me from King Arthur and asked me to drive in. He wanted to give the results in person rather than have me hear via e-mail or phone. I couldn’t tell from his voice whether it was good news or bad. My sense of the day, based on what I had seen and heard, was that I hadn’t done anything to either eliminate myself or stand out positively. Jeffrey had helped me endlessly in preparing and knew full well the effort a bid requires. He had been the captain for Team USA in 1996. He had also seen me grow for almost ten years as I worked and improved, building my skills from the basement to the roof. I walked into our office and he stood and, with some formality and a hug, told me that Nicky Giusto, an excellent baker and miller from Northern California, had been chosen. Bummer. I had come to terms with the outcome, whatever it would be, for myself. I would be great with Paris, every aspect of it—the work, the representation of U.S. bakers, everything—and even if I didn’t go on, I could see and feel how much I had grown. I had found a connection to my own self, a way to weave what I am, past and present, into what I make. The bummer was that I had to go home and tell my family. Those proudest, most loving, and cheering loudest were also fervent hopers, wishing for a win.

The recovery process continues. I am glad and so fortunate to be exactly where I am, and I am cheering loudly for Nicky, who as I write is in Paris with the rest of Team USA, about to compete.