Kids Say The Darndest Things

“It’s too hot in here. Get some fans so I don’t sweat,” said Akayla, every basketball camp-counselor’s worst nightmare.

“Akayla, you’re at a basketball camp. You are going to sweat…I’m sorry,” I replied sheepishly.

“I don’t like sweating. When I sweat, I crave meat,” She said.

“What? You crave meat when you sweat?” I replied, baffled.

“Yes. I want like, ribs or chicken or steak when I sweat. So get some fans, because I am not even that hungry. Also, my fingernail just broke. I need to go to the bathroom,” Akayla replied.

From this point on I should have known a summer full of working with children at a basketball camp would bring some surprises, but nothing could have prepared me for the events that occurred in the summer of 2010.

Then again, how could anyone be prepared for a fire drill? I mean, really, fire drills are made to catch you off guard—to test how you would REALLY react if the place actually went up in flames. But at camp, it’s standard safety protocol, so everyone was pretty well prepared to get the little boogers out of their rooms, and evacuated safely into the parking lot to take roll, and go back to bed.

This was all and well until we came to the name of “Logo,” one of the most notable campers for his seemingly endless supply of NBA gear, and equally impressive ability to have zero idea of what is happening around him at any given time.

After minutes of panic, and the realization that, “Oh shit, where is Logo?” set in, we decided to ask his roommate if he had seen him. Last he saw Logo, he was sniffing a cologne sample from a magazine ad in the chair in his room. This didn’t really happen, but it gives you a feel for how different Logo is.

Anyway, once the coaches scrambled up to Logo’s room, they found him in a panic amidst the chaos of the “BEEP RING BEEP BEEN RING BEEP!!!” of the fire-alarm, frazzled in his room, repeatedly pounding his alarm clock, exclaiming, “Why won’t my alarm TURN OFF!!?!?? I didn’t even SET IT!!!”

The coaches calmly explained to Logo that it was the fire-alarm making the noise, not his alarm. Relieved, Logo laid down on his bed, and was again reminded to please put down the cologne-sampler and please join the rest of the camp in the parking lot.

The fun doesn’t stop there. Not only are some of these kids extremely hilarious because of their evident shortcomings, but some of them are ridiculously smart, and make you feel exceedingly inadequate at any given time. Like when they tell you that when you run it looks like your feet are in cement blocks. Or when they say, “I used to think dunking was cool. Then I saw you do it,” or refuse to listen to your shooting demonstration because, “I haven’t seen you make a jump shot all camp.”

Ordinarily, being a 20-year-old college basketball player with 2 feet of height and 10 years of experience on your campers assures an authoritative position. That is, until you meet a camper who will probably be better than you one day, and knows it.

“Is D3 even hard to play?” Said this little shit that will most likely one day be a college athlete.

“I mean…a lot of people want to play a college sport, but you have to be pretty good to make any school’s roster,” I said, politically correct.

“Oh. Cuz I saw you air-ball a 6-foot-jump shot today. I don’t do that ever,” he said.

“Well…I mean…that happens to everyone once in a while. Keep working hard and I am sure you can be a college player somewhere someday, bud,” I said, grinding my teeth, trying to not kick him in the chest.

“No I know. I’ll play D1 or at least dominate D2. My dad has already been talking to some coaches,” he said.

“You’re 12. Seriously? Look, stay humble. You have talent but you need to work hard to realize your potential, okay? And as your camp-counselor, I’ve gotta tell you, your outside shot really needs some work. Your form is way off,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? I’m sure you know. Is that why you didn’t even make a 3 during the coaches shooting contest?” He said.

Fed up, I let his 12-year-old wit and audacity get the best of me, so I challenged him to a 3-point-contest right then and there. He annhialated me, with awful form, but didn’t miss, then told me he never had to listen to me for the rest of camp. He didn’t.

He proceeded to correct MY form, and explained to me I wasn’t following through. I shot 10 more 3-pointers, with him at my side, double checking my form. I made 8 of them…6 more than in my contest with him…and he smiled, walked off, then told everyone of his peers that he beat the tall guy. Some might call this inspirational..but the way I look at it, there is nothing more demoralizing than losing to an arrogant 12-year-old who thinks you suck at basketball.

Looking to break even, I found the worst 9-year-old at camp, and beat him in HORSE. I may or may not have pounded my chest and asked him “How defeat tastes?” while screaming in his face. I was about par for the day, so I called it good.

That last part was a joke. He was 10, and I said “Tell your parents to get their money back. You are an awful shooter. Punk.”