Camp was electric. Every field and court was alive with Olympic competition today.
The cheers echoed across camp as teammates rushed from one event to another, hoping to catch the end of a game before sprinting off to support another. The energy around camp is relentless. Every point counts. The competition is spirited, and the emotions are real. But, if you spend enough time watching closely, you begin to realize that the games themselves are only the vehicle. What we’re really teaching has very little to do with the final score. The lessons our boys will carry home aren’t found on the scoreboard, they’re found in the way they treat a teammate after a mistake, the respect they show an opponent after a hard-fought game, and the character they display when no one is paying attention.
There are many things we hope to teach boys during their summers at Camp Takajo.
We want them to become more self-reliant. We hope they show courage by trying activities that once intimidated them. We want them to practice good sportsmanship—to win with humility, lose with grace, and become better teammates and better friends.
But, what matters most to me is that we impress on these young men the value of integrity. Integrity is a word that gets used often, and it’s one of our twelve Arch Ideals, but I sometimes wonder whether we spend enough time teaching our boys what it truly means. Integrity is doing the right thing when there is no reward for doing it. It is making the difficult decision when the easier one would make you more popular. It is treating others with kindness when no one is watching. And it is having the courage to stand apart from the crowd when the crowd is headed in the wrong direction.
Leadership is much the same. Some say leadership comes with age. Others think it comes with seniority or a title. But leadership isn’t given, it’s earned. Leadership comes only after trust has been built, respect has been earned, and admiration has been bestowed upon an individual over time. Someone may have authority because he’s older, but that does not make him a person of integrity. Someone may be able to intimidate others, but that certainly does not make him a leader.
Our oldest campers occupy a fascinating stage of life. At fifteen years old, peer acceptance often feels like the most important thing in the world. The desire to fit in, to get a laugh, or to attract attention can easily outweigh good judgment. That’s part of adolescence, which is precisely why this environment matters.
One of the greatest responsibilities we have is helping our oldest boys recognize something they often don’t see. There is always someone watching. Whether they realize it or not, our oldest campers are writing their own legacy every single day, and our younger boys are deciding what it means to be an Okee by watching the current Okees.
I’ve been fortunate enough to spend more than five decades at Camp Takajo, where I’ve watched generations of boys grow into men. There are names I haven’t heard spoken in thirty or forty years. Yet if one of those names comes up in conversation today, I don’t remember the championships they won, I don’t remember how many goals they scored. I remember the kind of young man they were. I’ll remember whether a boy made younger campers feel safe, and I’ll remember whether he had earned the respect of his peers.
A reputation can take years to build and only moments to tarnish. That’s why we place such an emphasis on role models, and that’s why our counselors understand they are teachers long before they are coaches.
Our oldest boys carry such an important responsibility because culture doesn’t happen by accident. It isn’t created by speeches, it isn’t built during Olympics, and it isn’t established in a single moment at one summer’s Opening Campfire. Culture is built every single day by the examples our community chooses to set. It is built one interaction at a time, one act of kindness at a time, one courageous decision at a time.
Our founder, Morty Goldman, often spoke about teaching young boys to become fine young men. That’s exactly what we’re trying to do at Camp Takajo every summer. We often describe our mission in simple terms. Yesterday’s values for today’s boys. In a world that often celebrates popularity over principle and attention over substance, we remain committed to something timeless. We remain committed to building character through example.
One day, today’s seven-year-old will become tomorrow’s fifteen-year-old. When that happens, my hope is that he’ll remember what leadership looked like not because someone told him, but because someone showed him.
