Sejje.net

This (entirely true) story is about a summer camp I worked at a YMCA in 2002.

Summer camp in the sports department was about to undergo a radical change. Coach Bob, the new director, had an idea for camp that was a huge change from any previous camp. Basically, that the kids would be on one team for each week of camp--led by one or more coaches--and the teams would compete in athletic events. The week would end with a victorious team. Motivation? Winning team gets Papa John's pizza for lunch on Friday. And no more little kids: this camp was strictly eight years and up.

The other coaches and I met on Sunday afternoon before the first day of camp. We pulled out the enrollment roster and had a draft. I was lucky enough to know some kids ahead of time, but it didn't really afford me much advantage. Besides, I wasn't going for brawn: I wanted a team I would enjoy, and one that had a little brains. I only had one pick cemented before I came into the office, and it was a little eight-year-old girl named Lynsey. She was the aquatic director's daughter, and easily my most favorite kid in the whole world.

Camp began Monday morning better than anyone could have hoped. Coach Bob was amazing--within two hours, every single kid in camp was playing like it was for a Superbowl Ring. And every coach, too. Coaches were allowed to play--in games where the rounds were short (30 seconds to 2 minutes, say), we would have a couple of coaches-only rounds, which were a lot of fun, and every bit as intense as you could imagine some kickball or four-handed floor hockey being. In large-team games like capture the flag, dodgeball, or soccer, we played alongside our kids. It was not a rule, but generally practiced that coaches would do the "dirty work"--guarding the flag, playing defense, etc. In every event, the winning team would receive five points. Sometimes it was two teams versus the other two teams, so there was also some inter-team camaraderie now and then.

Each team selected a name for the week. I'm from Indiana, and so my team was coerced into being the Hoosiers.

It has been said that I was intense, and I won't deny it. My motivation for intensity was multi-fold: one, I like to lead by example. My kids saw that I was trying my best at everything I did, and therefore I never had to ask my kids to play hard. They also saw that I tried hard at every position I played, and I was able to make a difference from each one. Second--yeah, I'll say it--I'm a competitor. Even in this tiny realm of fifty kids and eight coaches, I wanted to win. Badly. I don't believe in playing just for fun. I believe that fun comes with winning. Teaching kids to play for fun isn't doing them any favors: teaching them to have fun while giving their all in the pursuit of winning is breeding success--not just in sports, but for their entire life.

There was another way to get points; by being a good person. There were tons of ways to get these points, most of which nobody had any idea. If Coach Bob caught you doing something outstanding, you got two points for your team. Kids helping up other kids who fell, cheering wildly for your teammates, making extra sure to clean up their trash at lunch, helping carry equipment, or maybe sharing lunch with someone who forgot theirs, getting hurt without complaining: all would receive points. Things that were outstanding a few times often became routine: after one kid got points for holding the door for everybody, you couldn't find a cubic inch of empty space on any door that didn't have a sweaty hand plastered to it. Those things soon began to stop being rewarded, but interestingly, I never had to open my own door the entire summer--long after every kid knew that they wouldn't receive anything.

The rest of the Hoosiers filled out in much the same way as my first pick: my oldest kid was ten, and I easily had the smallest, scrawniest bunch of kids of the four teams--the Terps, the Gators, and the Blue Devils. Not to mention most teams outnumbered mine by five or more--apparently I had some no-shows, and as our enrollment increased through the week, I didn't seem to get my fair share. I didn't mind, though. I like a challenge.

In truth, the Hoosiers held their own in most of our athletic matches. I etched into my kids' brains that we weren't going to win by being faster or stronger or better than the other teams: we were going to win by being smarter. We would always make the right decision in everything we did. We would select an optimal batting order for kickball. A bunting strategy for smash-ball. The right kids in the right places on defense. Pairing up the right partners in scooter races. Sometimes kids would have to sacrifice the more "fun" part of a game to fulfill a role that made more sense, or to allow a better player to play a certain position, but I never had a complaint. Because we were winning. From the very get-go we were winning, and although we didn't win all of our matches, my kids were by far and away the smartest, most well-organized and well-disciplined team. And smart kids get more "good Samaritan" points.

I've always had an easy time with kids. I don't allow misbehavior. That's not to say I'm a screaming, yelling, Nazi-esque loon. On the contrary, I almost never have to raise my voice. It sounds too simple to be true, but if you keep kids busy, and adamantly disallow misbehavior, kids just behave.

But these Hoosiers--I've never had a better-behaved group of kids. It wasn't even just obeying rules--they were going out of their way to be good people. My kids were picking up other teams' trash at lunch, without being prompted. My kids were lugging heavy equipment, far larger than they were, out to the fields. My kids were asking if there was anything they could help Coach Bob with. My kids were in line before I could ask them.

More than being smart, my kids were motivated. Every kid had the desire to win just as strongly as I myself had it. They would scream wildly for their teammates. During down-times while we set up a new game, my team would be chanting: "Hoosiers! Hoosiers!" My kids were like a high-school football team: nobody's there for the money, everybody's there for the glory. They were loving every minute of camp, and they couldn't help but get extra points.

One of my proudest moments came on Tuesday or Wednesday at lunch time. I asked that my team sat together each day at lunch, and on that day I was the guy who had to make the lunch run to pick up some fast food for all of the staff. I told my kids I would be back shortly, and to behave themselves, be smart, and make me proud. That was all it took: when I came back, my team had apparently been geniuses: we had ten more points than when I left.

Scooter races were my team's specialty: for scooter races, the equipment is a plastic square, probably 14" on each side, with caster wheels. We invented many types of races, but they usually involved one scooter, either being propelled by the person on it (maybe on their belly, or sitting and pushing with their legs), or with a pair of kids, one sitting and one pushing or pulling. Each kid or pair would take their turn in a relay, so every kid had to figure out the best way to run the race--what worked well for one kid might be terrible for another. The key to most scooter races seemed to elude the other coaches for the better part of the summer, but it was really simple: make sure the kid who sits on the scooter is a kid who won't fall off. That was always easier for my team because we tried to be smarter, but also because we were smaller--thirteen year-olds have trouble keeping their feet on the tiny scooter. One of my kids, named Chris, was undeniably the best scooter racer in camp. Usually he and I would be partners, because I could literally run top speed and whip him around sharp corners, or do a 180 degree turn on a dime, and neither one of his cheeks would part company even one millimeter from the top of the scooter. Super-glue wouldn't have made him any better. Scooter races were worth five points apiece for first place, and that first week I bet we won seven out of ten. We were virtually unstoppable.

I was extremely pleased with my team the entire week. I would not be happy with kids who played hard at one sport, and not at another. I would not be happy with whiners. I would not be happy with kids who didn't mind losing. None of my kids, not a single one, was a kid like that. Maybe they drew that attitude from me, or from each other--I'm not sure. But my team played their little guts out on every play of every game and relay race and contest we had. They did everything in their power to win, and I wouldn't have taken the American Gladiators crew over those eight kids that week.

We led most--if not all--of the week, and on Friday everything was looking good. About 10AM, Coach Bob announced that we would soon be holding the last event: a tug-of-war match. It wasn't good news for us: my eight little kids and I didn't have much of a chance against any of the other teams. One team had fifteen kids present that day, and it's about impossible to out-pull against those kinds of odds. But we weren't worried: We had a pretty big lead, twelve points over second place. We were a lock.

Until Coach Bob continued: "We're going to play a tournament."

Well, depending on the tournament, a team could win enough matches to come out three games ahead of us for a fifteen point gain, but it was so unlikely. I was confident.

"Since this is the last event, each match will be worth FIFTEEN points." WHAT!? Did I just hear that? At least Coach Bob knew how to make things exciting. It was really devastating for tug-of-war to be worth fifteen points per match--there was little "smarts" or skill involved, and my team had so few kids. We had no edge to exploit. But I couldn't let my kids see it. I would not concede defeat: someone was going to have to do a whole lot of pulling, because there was no way the Hoosiers were about to lie down and roll over. I was going to out-pull ten kids, I could feel it.

As luck would have it--and it wasn't quite going our way at this point--our first match-up was the second place team--the Gators. And, as luck would have it, they were the team with fifteen kids. And did I mention two coaches? We didn't care: we weren't giving them anything free.

It was our first tug-of-war event, so none of us really knew what to expect, but I prepared my team. I know enough about tug-of-war to know that traction on the ground is important. I grabbed the dust mop and cleaned up the area we were going to be pulling in. The other coaches probably noticed, but didn't realize how important it was. I had my kids wipe off the bottoms of their shoes with their hands, to get the loose sand off. Then I spaced my kids out on each side of the rope, all of them with enough room so that they wouldn't entangle their feet. I, of course, was going to be in the very back--the traditional spot for the largest team-member. And then I told them the most important rule of tug-of-war: if you fall down, let go of the rope and stand back up. They nodded and we took our positions.

The rope we had was borrowed from a local firehouse. The gym was approximately one-hundred feet across, and I would guess the rope was about two-hundred and fifty feet long. Our rules were that you had to pull the front player of the other team across half-court. That meant if a team let the rope slide through their hands, there was going to be a lot of rope pulled before the end of the match. At least seventy-five feet worth.

Seventy-five feet or not, the match didn't take long. As well as we had prepared, we really stood no chance, our nine against their seventeen. I think I probably out-pulled the other two coaches, because my feet were so snug on the clean rubber floor that I didn't slide, they had to pull me over. But eight kids against fifteen isn't a match. It's a massacre. We were out of the tournament. The Gators had now secured enough points for second, and we had lost. Our entire week had gone down the drain on one lopsided tug-of-war match. I was disgusted.

I took my kids to the side of the court to sit while the Terps and the Blue Devils had it out. It was really a moot point: anyone who won couldn't come in first, they were too far behind. If one of them won both of their matches, they would finish second ahead of us for the week.

My kids were totally dejected. All of our arms ached, our hands were sore and red. They didn't understand the points yet, but one of them asked: "Are we still winning?"

"No. We've lost." It hurt me just to say it. The kids' shoulders slumped. Nobody said anything. Nobody complained about uneven teams, or huge points being awarded for a mostly thoughtless competition. But they were dejected. A couple of the kids, including Lynsey, began to cry. I tried to hold it together, but the tears were welling in my eyes also. I wanted so badly for them to win. My team. They deserved every bit of that glory. They wore themselves ragged, exploiting every little edge they could find. And now they had lost all of that hard work in a freakin' tug-of-war match--one they never had a chance in.

Coach Bob was getting ready to start the next match, and came walking by. He saw the looks on my kids faces--the tears. He wondered aloud: "What's wrong with you guys? Did you give up or something?"

Lynsey replied to Bob: "What? We lost."

"Aren't you going to pull in your second match? You could still win!"

Oh God, I loved Coach Bob. We got to pull for third place in the tournament! Another chance at fifteen points! I scoped out the teams while they were pulling--the Blue Devils vs the Terps. It was another pretty lopsided match, probably the Blue Devils' sixteen versus twelve Terps (and two coaches). The twelve were all bigger than my kids, but a lot of them weren't athletes. They didn't sweep the floor or clean off the bottom of their shoes. They clogged their feet together. Shoddy coaching. The Blue Devils handily defeated the Terps and moved on to the finals.

The winners played each other next. We had a few reasons to pull for the Blue Devils in this second round. First, Coach Biggie, the team leader, was my best friend. And second, if they didn't win, we couldn't win the week. The other team would have too many points. Biggie's team was up to it, though, and after a pretty long match, they finally pulled a kid over the half-court line.

Our moment of redemption had come. We were on the other side of the gym this time, and I grabbed the dust mop again. We took all our preparations, and we got ready to begin. My adrenaline was surging; my heart was beating fast. I couldn't let my kids down again. I felt like I could out-pull the entire team single-handedly. I felt like Superman. No drug can make you feel that way.

I knew we were going to win. I didn't care if they had two coaches. My kids felt it too, and it's a good thing. We were in for quite a match.

The Terps couldn't win the week, but they could sure as hell win third place in the tug-of-war tournament. They had a lot of team pride too, and they weren't lying down. The match started off a total dead-heat. Nobody moved an inch. Our feet gripped the ground better, but they had enough traction--probably from me sweeping the floor earlier--and a few extra kids, and held us steadily. After maybe twenty seconds we gave a foot or two. I wasn't going to have that.

I had swept the floor well enough that it was like I was glued down. My shoes gripped the rubber floor like a vise. My feet would not slide, so I turned around, facing backwards, and leaned down as far as I could towards the wall. My head came close to the ground, and I pulled with all my might. Slowly, inch by inch, we were able to make our way towards the wall. Kids from the other teams were watching. The Gators were down on the other side of the gym cheering on the Terps. (Biggie's team) was cheering on my team. We kept moving slowly, and finally we reached the wall. On that side of the gym, there was an office, and the door was open. The floor inside was carpet, and dirty. I didn't want to be on carpet, but I figured it was better than having my kids re-grip on the rope while we pulled it through our hands, because we had about seventy-five feet worth of rope to pull through. I kept going, right into the office, and eventually, seven little kids followed me. That was all the room we had, and little Lynsey, who was in the point position, was left outside. Now we had to re-grip--but the other team was losing its steam. The rope wasn't coming easily, but slowly and steadily we were able to inch it by. A pile of rope began to accumulate at my feet. I was shouting encouragement to my kids. Outside the office window, I could see my best friend. He's six-foot-eight, and he was standing there, screaming his guts out, shouting encouragement right in Lynsey's little ears.

Out the office door, over the eight little heads, I could see across the gym that the point kid on the other team was nearing the half-court line. Behind their two coaches I couldn't see much rope. They had--for all intents and purposes--reached the end of their rope. I knew we were close.

I shouted to my kids "On the count of three, everybody pull!"--thinking we could pull that kid across in one fell swoop. On three, everybody pulled, and we gained about two feet of rope--but the kid had not budged.

"One more time!" I shouted, and they responded again. And the kid did not budge.

"One more time!" Still, he did not budge.

I'm not sure how many times I shouted "one more time!", but it more than a few. The last time, I shouted it and apparently the other team was out of rope. The point kid on the other team came across the line--not by inches, but by several feet. The Terps let go of the rope simultaneously, and my entire team and myself all fell backwards onto the office floor, a big sweaty, mess, chests heaving for breath. And grinning. We had done it. We had sealed our victory for the week, in a grueling six-minute match.

We picked ourselves up and came out of the office into the gym, and (Biggie's team) was all screaming for us. The Hoosiers gathered around me, and I had never, and have never since, been so proud to be a part of any group. Their hands, and mine, were raw. Some of ours were bleeding. Mine were. Lynsey's were. Our arms were noodles. I rubbed a couple of heads, and gave a few high-fives, and soon we went off to lunch. I never could have imagined working so hard for two cheese pizzas.

I never told them so, but I have never had so much respect for anyone than I had for eight Hooisers that week. They displayed so many things, things that I wish I could be. They were disciplined, courageous. Smart. Kind and good-natured. Competitive. Proud. Each kid on my team that week, from my ten year old down to little Lynsey, had displayed all of the traits that I admire, respect, and strive for. They were little heroes. They were winners.

Coach Bob's camp was a grand slam. Our enrollment went from thirty-two to start the first week to well over one-hundred and thirty-two to close the summer. I went on to win seven out of nine weeks that summer--and Biggie won the rest--with a different team each week, although I chose as many of the same kids as I could. None of the other victories could hold a candle to the first one. I'm so proud to have been a Hoosier.