Camp has transformed overnight. The Olympic bugle sounded for Juniors and Seniors late last night, and Olympics later broke for our Warriors in the dining hall this morning.
The bandanas are on, green and grey have taken over Camp Takajo, every field was alive today, and every court was being put to use. As I moved from one field to another today, boys weren’t just discussing the score of the game they had just finished, they were shouting to the next court over to find out how their teammates were doing in tennis, basketball, baseball, lacrosse, and every other Olympic event taking place across camp.
The dining hall looked different today as well. Boys arrived wearing green and grey bandanas, faces flushed from the heat and humidity, water bottles constantly being refilled before heading back out for another afternoon of competition. They were tired, sweaty, but proud. There was an unmistakable sense that everything they had experienced over the last six weeks had been building toward this moment.
One might assume that an event like this would divide a camp into two opposing sides. In reality, it does exactly the opposite. When Camp Takajo was founded, we held a traditional Color War similar to that of other camps. Everything became about winning, points were deducted for the smallest infractions, and competition had begun to seep into every corner of camp life.
Morty Goldman recognized something important. While Morty was an exceptionally competitive man who loved athletics and believed deeply in the lessons that competition could teach, he also believed that competition should build a community rather than tear it apart. So, after a few years of Color War, he replaced it with our Olympics. The distinction is subtle, but incredibly important. At Takajo, the Olympics celebrate competition without allowing competition to define relationships.
Our boys compete as hard as they possibly can, and they desperately want to win. They dive for loose balls, sprint through finish lines, and cheer like never before. But when the final whistle blows, they shake hands and congratulate one another. After a morning or afternoon of fierce competition, they walk into the dining hall together, return to the same bunks together, and continue being teammates in the much bigger game that is camp life.
Many of the boys competing against one another today are best friends, some sleep just a few feet apart every night, and others have grown up together for eight or nine summers. Tomorrow they’ll compete against each other again, and by evening they’ll be laughing together in the bunk again. That balance is intentional. Morty often spoke about what he called the “defects of competition.” He questioned the idea of measuring children by victories, trophies, or end-of-summer awards. How could anyone determine who the “best camper” was? Is it the boy with the strongest tennis serve? The fastest swimmer? The hardest thrower? Those distinctions always seemed arbitrary to him.
Our purpose is not to identify the best athlete, but to help every boy become the best version of himself. We want the boy who was afraid to waterski in June to discover that he can get up. We want the camper who was nervous to speak in front of others to find his voice. We want boys to step outside their comfort zones, gain confidence, build resilience, and develop character through example. That is why the Olympics remain one of the most meaningful traditions at Takajo. The points and the championships matter, but the friendships matter more.
Long after today’s scores have been forgotten, our boys will remember sprinting across these fields beside their teammates, wearing green or grey bandanas, giving everything they had for one another. Those are the moments that define a full-season summer camp experience and the values that continue shaping young men long after the Olympics— or indeed the summer— have ended.
