ME AND FINN IN 1969…AND MANY OTHERS
They called him ‘Finnah.’ Some still do.
As a twelve-year-old he was an oversized, tall, pot-bellied and loud-mouthed kid. I was ‘Old Man’ starting at the age of 10, referred to as ‘Kappy’ later on. Me? I was a borderline midget, excuse the politically incorrect language which somehow was acceptable then but has not been included in any edition of Etiquette by Emily Post since.
Finn and I were not the same — far from it — and neither of us cared. No bones were made about it. I knew then — the first time I looked at him — that I could never be Finn. Very few could. He? Clearly at that age he was too busy thinking about himself to look beyond the large shadow he cast. And it was large. Finn was a great athlete.
Finn and I went to summer camp together. Along with scores of others, almost all of whom have remained as close as close could be, this camp may have been the best thing that ever happened to us, as in all of us. But this is not about the camp itself, great and impactful as it was. It’s about lifelong friendships made and a particular friendship.
Few contemporaries if any could compete with Finn one-on-one. He had too much size and unparalleled skill in almost everything. Athletically there was nothing he couldn’t do. He went on to become a Division I scholarship football player (UNC) but he probably could have played college basketball too. He taught himself how to play lacrosse in the spring of his final year at prep school and excelled immediately. Too bad lacrosse and baseball were played in the same season because even Finn could only be in one place at a time; as I remember it on the diamond he was pretty fair behind the plate and he had a sweet left-handed swing.
I was a modest athlete at best but I tried hard. Really hard. I had to. I wouldn’t let anyone outwork me or outhustle me because that was my only ticket. Lacking size and speed I had to make up for it somehow. And that was how. Because I was willing to run through a wall I guess I demonstrated some leadership skills which ended up serving me well. I was fortunate enough to have been voted a captain of many teams on which I played and though I clamored for all-star recognition as did everyone, this kind of statement by one’s peers was a far greater honor to me. In fact, I felt then and feel now that there is no greater athletic honor.
As was and perhaps still is the case at many summer camps Color War was the signature event of the camp season. Taking place at the end of camp, it was the crown jewel of competition. The entire roster of kids — 120 or so — is divided into two teams which in turn are subdivided by age and ability. Each Color War team is comprised of six units — three junior and three senior — evenly matched with their counterpart to ensure neck-and-neck competitive contests of all kinds for six action-packed days and nights. The extravaganza culminates in Song Night, the last night of Color War, during which each team performs a litany of cheers, formations, songs and skits — rehearsed feverishly all week — before a panel of judges. Song Night is worth valuable Color War points and many of the annual galas have been decided right then and there. Whatever results have been compiled on the playing fields or in the gymnasium or the lake can be washed away in a two-hour Song Night.
Each Color War unit elects a captain to help lead it and all five captains defer to the captain of the eldest senior unit who is the team’s #1 man — the Color War Captain. With half-a-dozen coaches on each side made up of older staff members and led by a Head Coach, the Color War Captain is the next in line. It’s a pretty big deal, a badge of achievement and respect.
In 1969 when we were both fourteen, Finn was the Great White Hope Color War Captain and I was the Color War Captain of the Blue Hombres. Due to the wide disparity in our athletic talents my senior unit was stacked. It simply had to be that way in order to compete with Finn. In six various sporting contests — football, basketball, softball, soccer, volleyball and swimming — Finn’s bunch beat us four times. But the games and events were close which was the whole idea.
Then there were a number of special events and the one which sticks out like a sore thumb to me was the Tug-o-War. That’s right, the old-fashioned Tug-o-War. Each team lines up 10–12 strong from the middle of the heavy, knotted rope with the unit’s strongest manning the back end. The rationale is the lighter, quicker guys can get the first pull at the sound of the whistle while the bigger, zaftig fellas are more apt to heartily resist being dragged over the line of demarcation separating the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. During this best 2-of-3 competition each team’s respective coaches maniacally move up and down their side loudly exhorting the troops to pull harder. The encouragement so freely offered is at times infused with vitriol and the whipping up borders on incitement. It can be effective.
If memory serves the score was one apiece when the unthinkable was about to unfold. I have vigorously repudiated the recounting of this tale which I thought was nothing more than a fable for the better part of fifty years and frankly, I’m still not right with it. Silly I know. As the story goes our team was winning which is to say that we had more of them on our side than they had of us on theirs. Naturally Finn was the anchor of his unit, the last man standing — or pulling — and the one who would author the exclamation point one way or another. With a handful of coaches in each of his ears the decibel level was off the charts. So he dug in and pulled harder. The rope wrapped around his waist he started to impact movement. He stopped our movement. We were stuck. The recognition of incremental progress made and more discernible by the moment, further fueled him and them. Obviously they were all pulling but once again it became about Finn. And I guess it should have been. They won and it was because of him.
I was infuriated and embarrassed.
We won Color War 555.5–545.5, something I never fail to remind Finn.
He won Camper-of-the-Year in no small measure due to his Tug-o-War heroics surely among many other things. I was the runner-up and I’m still sore.
Fifty years later I love him more than ever.
