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Teen King By Libby Lazewnik
A "king" discovers that nobility is much more than a title
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
It was no more than twenty-four hours after camp started that Sruly was crowned king.
Every group — be it in a class, a bunk, or anything else — has its untitled monarch. The one person in the group who stands out just the little bit that makes all the difference. The one whose words are listened to with more attention, whose feats win the most admiration, whose opinions matter.
Within one day of stepping off the camp bus, Sruly was the undisputed, if unofficial, king of his bunk. Here's how it happened.
Dragging his duffel bag behind him, he walked into the bunkhouse with his bunkmates, who were all strangers to him. There was a scramble for beds. Finding an upper bunk still unclaimed, Sruly swung his duffel bag up in an easy, graceful arc, so that it landed neatly in the middle of the high bed.
"Wow!" someone exclaimed. "How'd you do that? You threw that heavy duffel as if it was a feather!"
Sruly turned. The speaker was a rather scrawny-looking kid whose name, he soon learned, was Zevy.
"Nothing to it," he said modestly. "It's all a question of using your throwing arm right. Like when you play baseball…"
"I'm not much good at baseball," Zevy sighed.
"Or basketball," Sruly said encouragingly. "Throwing is throwing, know what I mean?"
"I'm lousy at basketball, too." Zevy dumped his own duffel on the bed below Sruly's.
Later, when the boys had finished their unpacking and were sitting around getting acquainted, someone told a joke. Sruly told a better one. His bunkmates dissolved in laughter.
"That's the f-funniest thing I ever heard," a boy named Yochanan gasped, holding his sides which ached from laughing so hard. "Tell another one!"
So Sruly told another one, from the storehouse of jokes he and his six brothers shared at home. He was a big hit. By dinnertime that first day, Sruly already had a reputation in his bunk for athletic prowess — simply because of the way he'd swung his bag onto his bed — as well as for outstanding wit and humor. He told a ghost story to his bunkmates late that night, as the moonlight through the window lent the dark cabin an eerie glow. His bunkmates loved it. And, the next morning, Sruly confirmed the rumor of his athletic ability by hitting a triple his first time at bat.
That was the icing on the cake. His bunkmates were won over. They were prepared to worship and obey. Sruly was king.
"It's a funny thing," he told his older brother, Shimshy, when they met at the pool one day. "I mean, I'm nothing special. It's just that my bunk happens to be full of kids who — well, who don't shine in any special way. They're like a bunch of followers, looking for a leader."
"So, they've picked you to be the leader," Shimshy remarked. "King Sruly."
Sruly nodded. "It's kind of nice, actually. To be looked up to like that, I mean."
"I'm sure it is. But you'd better be careful. Being a king comes with responsibilities."
"What do you mean?" Sruly paused to wave at Binny and Heshy, two bunkmates who were trying to dive and not doing a very good job of it. He cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted, "You can do it! Just keep your legs together!"
He waited while Binny did a belly-flop into the water and Heshy chickened out completely. Then, turning to his brother, he asked again, "What do you mean, responsibilities?"
"Exactly that. If people look up to you, you have to be a good role model."
"Well, I think I am!"
"And you have to help them out. You have to put their needs ahead of your own…"
Sruly thought that Shimshy was taking things a bit too far. It wasn't as if he was really a king. He just happened to be a bit stronger, faster, and funnier than the group of boys who were in his bunk this year. It was his good luck, that's all. Nothing more.
Having decided this much, Sruly made a flying leap into the pool, and then rose gracefully to the surface to accept the admiration of his bunkmates for what they assured him was the most awesome dive they'd ever seen.
 Within the first few days, it became clear that Sruly had a particular admirer in his bunk. His name was Yanky, and he stuck to Sruly like a shadow. Sruly didn't mind. It was kind of nice to have someone around to hang on his every word, and to fetch and carry for him when he was feeling too lazy to get up for himself. One afternoon, when they were playing basketball, Sruly executed an especially impressive three-point throw — one that won the game for his side. No one cheered louder than Yanky. Afterwards, however, Sruly noticed that the other boy looked wistful. When he cracked a joke, Yanky hardly even smiled. "Something bothering you?" he asked. Yanky hesitated. "It's nothing." "Come on, tell me." They were walking down the hill toward their bunk to wash up before Mincha and dinner. "I wish I was better at basketball." The words came out in a rush. Yanky stared down at his shuffling feet, embarrassed. Automatically, Sruly started saying, "You're fine, Yanky." But they both knew that Yanky wasn't fine at basketball. He has some potential, and could occasionally land a fine shot. But he lost his head too easily, forgetting to dribble or aiming wildly at the hoop instead of taking careful aim. "You just get flustered sometimes, that's all." "I know. I wish I didn't." Yanky seemed to regard getting flustered as a permanent condition, like having brown eyes or flat feet. "Well, then — don't," Sruly advised. "I can't help it. When I have two seconds to make a shot, I get too excited to aim. Or when I'm holding the ball and thinking about how to get near the hoop, I forget to dribble. I just don't keep my head." Their bunkhouse loomed ahead. Sruly was looking forward to his dinner. He was about to drop the subject, when he happened to catch sight of Yanky's face out of the corner of his eye. It was woebegone. "If you want, I could practice with you sometimes," he offered lightly. "One on one. Show you the ropes. Know what I mean?" Yanky's face lit up as if someone had struck a match behind his eyes. "Would you really? Thanks, Sruly!" That night, when Sruly told one of his super-duper ghost stories, no one laughed louder than Yanky. He covered for Sruly next morning when Sruly was late getting up, and at breakfast he saved an extra cup of hot cocoa for Sruly. After all that, Sruly felt bound to set up a little practice session for his bunkmate during some free time that afternoon. He talked to Yanky about keeping cool under pressure. He demonstrated various shots, and encouraged Yanky to practice them.
It was a very happy Yanky who finally fell asleep later that night. As for Sruly, he had a satisfied feeling. He'd done his duty by Yanky. He'd been a good king. It had been a bit of a pain, though, having to carve out the time to practice with Yanky. Tomorrow, things could go back to normal.
Yanky was disappointed when the practice session wasn't repeated. Sruly urged him to practice on his own. "Just remember all the things I showed you," he said. "You'll be great!" So, skinny little Yanky started practicing. Vaguely, Sruly noticed that Yanky was doing better in their bunk's basketball games. He felt proud of his protege, and then promptly put him out of his mind.
He was finding his kingly life far too pleasant to waste thinking about anyone else…
The big, inter-camp baseball match was all anyone could talk about for days. To his delight, Sruly was picked for his camp's team. On the big day, he waved to Shimshy, watching with his bunk on the sidelines. The sun was warm on Sruly's shoulders, but the brim of his baseball cap kept it out of his eyes. His bunkmates waved at him enthusiastically, giving Sruly the thumb's-up sign to wish him success. Sruly returned the sign, and then turned his attention to the first player on the other team, who was just stepping up to bat. It was a hard-fought game. The teams were evenly matched, first one team was ahead, and then the other. The tension kept the campers on both sides holding their breaths, either groaning aloud (when the other team scored a run) or cheering wildly (when theirs did). At the bottom of the ninth, with bases loaded, it was Sruly's turn at bat. The other team was ahead by three points. As ball games go, you couldn't find a more high-pressure situation than this. Sruly felt the sweat pour down his back and tension fill the rest of him. Determinedly, he flexed his arms, whispered a little plea to G-d, and then put everything out of his mind but the ball speeding toward him in the sunlit air. He could do this… And he did! With one mighty swing, he hit that ball right out of the field! The cheer that erupted from his fellow campers could be heard a mile down the road. Sruly trotted around the bases, basking in the glow of the moment. His team had won the game by a single point — thanks to him! His bunkmates rushed forward, along with dozens of their fellow campers, to lift Sruly onto their shoulders for a triumphant march around the field. The cheers and adulation were like music to Sruly's ears. He could get used to this kind of thing very easily… "Congratulations, Sire," a voice murmured in his ear. Sruly had been tenderly deposited on the ground again, though plenty of boys were still milling admiringly nearby. Turning, Sruly saw — who else? — his brother Shimshy. "Quit that," he said, grinning. "I'm not really a king, you know!" "Just a hero," Shimshy said, grinning back. "You did great out there, Sruly." "Thanks." "Your bunk must be off their heads with excitement. There'll be no stopping them after this. Maybe they'll crown you Emperor!" "Quit it, I said," Sruly protested, looking around to make sure no one had overheard.
"Okay." Shimshy gave him an odd, penetrating glance. "Keep up the good work."
And then he was gone. Once again there was no one around Sruly except admiring fans. He relaxed, and soaked it up.
The aftermath of Sruly's triumph lingered. From being king of his bunk, he had leaped into the role of a sort of king of the whole camp. Wherever he went, he was the recipient of admiration, warmth or envy. He was no ordinary camper — no, not Sruly. He was special. That was the message he got, one way or another, from just about everyone he met. Inevitably, though, the excitement died down. Other things took its place in his fellow campers' minds. New events pushed aside old victories. Sruly felt let down, though he tried to deny it to himself. At least he was still king of his own bunk… His bunkmates were still more than ready to adore him. When Heshy received an especially tempting package of goodies from home, he offered Sruly first pick of the lot. Zevy, in the bed below, fell into the habit of making Sruly's bed for him. "It's easy," he boasted shyly. "I like to climb." "Thanks," Sruly said. "I owe you one…" Zevy broke out in a wide smile. Apparently, being "owed one" by the king was an honor in itself! Yanky, his basketball protege, wanted to show Sruly some new moves he'd been working on. "Maybe later," Sruly said vaguely. "I'm kind of busy now." "Okay, Sruly. Whenever you get the chance." Sruly looked up from his book. "But you've been making progress, right?" "Oh, yes. I'm much better now." He gazed at Sruly with worshipping eyes. "Thanks to you." By now, admiration was so commonplace for Sruly that he hardly heard. "Um. That's good…" By an odd coincidence, basketball was the big news at lunch that day. "For the very first time," their head counselor announced, "our camp will be hosting a basketball tournament for three other camps, right here on our own grounds! Tryouts for the team will take place during rest hour today…" A babble burst out at every table. Sruly felt almost too excited to eat. As soon as lunch was over, he was one of the first boys on the basketball court, shooting practice hoops along with other hopeful candidates for the tournament team. Watching his ball sail through the air and drop neatly into the hoop, he felt a surge of pleasure. He just knew he'd make the team!
He did make it. To his surprise, so did Yanky, his bunkmate. Along with the ten other players who'd been picked for the team, Sruly began an arduous regimen of extra basketball practice every day. By nightfall, he was so weary he could hardly talk. In vain did his campers beg him for ghost stories. The king needed his sleep.
The big day arrived at last. Sruly's heart had been thumping strongly in his chest since morning. After lunch, busloads of boys began pouring in, as the three other teams plus hosts of campers came for the tournament. As Sruly ran out onto the court later, one of the five first-stringers to start the game, he was conscious of a powerful exhilaration. He was going to ace this game — he just knew it! He played very well. In short order, both his own and the opposing team knew that Sruly was a player to take seriously. His team won that first game, while the two other teams slugged it out on a separate court. Then it was time for the highlight of the afternoon: The two winning teams were to be pitted against one another! Once again, Sruly was out there among the first players. He scored a number of points before Coach ordered him off the court for a rest. Yanky, already sitting on the bench hopefully waiting his turn, gave him a big, nervous grin. "Nice," he said, referring to the way Sruly had played. Sruly nodded, too winded to speak. Together, they turned to watch the game. It was close — too close for comfort. The score kept swinging to and fro, with first one team taking the lead and then the other. The coach put Sruly back in the game for the third quarter, then pulled him out to rest again before the crucial final effort in the fourth. Sruly sat breathing hard, watching the scoreboard. His team was just holding on to a two-point lead — a lead that could dissolve with a single three-point shot by the enemy. There were less than five minutes left in the game. Coach came over to the bench. "Sruly. Time to go back in. Give it all you've got." Sruly was about to get to his feet, when something stopped him. That "something" was Yanky's face. Apart from a few minutes back in the second quarter, Yanky had not been given a chance to play in this game at all. Sruly thought of all the long hours his bunkmate had practiced this summer. He thought of Shimshy, and about the responsibility that his brother had said comes with being a leader. And he thought about the glorious way it feels to ride your teammates' shoulders after a smashing victory… "I — I don't feel so good," he said slowly. "Maybe you could put Yanky in instead of me?" Coach hesitated, frowning. The clock was ticking. He looked frustrated. "All right, Yanky. You're in. At least you're rested… Give it your best shot!" Yanky gave Sruly a look that was one-part gratitude and three-parts sheer terror. "You can do it," Sruly said softly. "You can!" And Yanky did. In the final minute of the game, as his team hung desperately onto its tiny lead, Yanky found himself holding the ball. He was a long way from the hoop, but the path to it was clear. He had about two seconds to make up his mind. Carefully, taking proper aim, he pulled back his arms and let the ball fly. Swoop! The ball was in — a three-point shot for Yanky! There was no way the other team could inch past them now… The cheers were deafening — almost as deafening as the buzzer that sounded seconds later to announce the game's end. Campers poured out onto the court to sweep Yanky onto their shoulders. At the bench, Sruly stood up. It would be lying to say that he didn't feel a small pang of disappointment for himself. But that feeling was quickly swamped by an elation such as he had never felt before. He'd done the right thing. He had acted like a true leader. He had seen someone's need, and had filled it — even at his own expense. Sruly looked around the court to see if he could spot his brother. Sure enough, Shimshy was looking at him, both thumbs in the air and a huge grin on his face. Sruly grinned back. And then, as the crowd around Yanky began finally to part, the king went forward to greet the hero. Interested in a private Judaic studies instructor — for free? Let us know by clicking here.
JewishWorldReview.com regularly publishes uplifting and inspirational stories. Sign up for the daily JWR update. It's free. Just click here. Libby Lazewnik, the highly acclaimed juvenile author, writes weekly for the Monsey, New York-based Yated Ne'eman. Comment by clicking here.
One Step at a Time
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