Perry was my supervisor at what I would consider the best job of my teenage life.
A relatively serious, slightly eggheaded (I don’t mean that in the metaphorical sense. Perry looked a bit like Chicken Little in that animated movie) guy, Perry was a few years older than my noodly-armed 16 year-old self and took his role of running the sports camp division of the YMHA Summer Camp very seriously.
I worked at the sports camp for three summers starting after my junior year in high school and the reason I consider it the best job of my teen years (and I had a lot of them!) is that I felt like I belonged and that made me, probably for the first time in my life, feel cool.
I quickly formed relationships with the other counselors and after a day in the sun trying to get a bunch of 10 years olds through an organized game of softball on a completely unkempt field, we would all get together and work out or shoot pool or go to a Mets doubleheader or have barbecues in someone’s backyard.
This was the type of life I dreamed for myself when I would watch Breakfast Club or Better Off Dead or Summer School and believed my life would look like a movie if only I could make it to high school.
My first summer at the camp I aimed to be Perry’s teacher's pet.
After every event I’d ask him what I could do to help. And he’d ask me to make sure the equipment got back to the shed or that we had enough bug juice ready for lunch.
This continued for the whole summer and things were going great. But about a week into my second summer, Perry pulled me aside.
“Dan, if you keep asking me what to do I’m not going to have you back next year.”
I was reeling. Wasn’t I being helpful? Isn’t this what a 5-star counselor would do?
So I did what any slightly immature kid would do in that situation. I threw in the towel.
If Perry didn’t want the extra help, fuck him.
But then, when the bat bag was left out or the juice jug was empty, I found myself naturally compelled to take care of it.
Sure, maybe Perry didn’t want the help any more. But I wasn’t going to let the camp - and, more importantly, my all-time favorite job - go to shit.
As the end of August approached and I was getting excitedly scared about my impending first semester in college, Perry called me over.
“Dan, I wanted to tell you, this is my last year at the camp,” he said.
Looking back, it made sense. Perry had just graduated college himself and wanted to start a real, full time career. He seemed way older than me but he was just a young guy beginning to figure out his life. But the camp without Perry also seemed like a strange non-possibility. In my head, the guy never even went home. He just lived there all winter waiting for the camp season to begin.
“And I’m recommending you for supervisor for next year.”
My head was swimming. Just six weeks earlier, Perry told me that he was going to fire me. That all the extra stuff I was asking him if he needed help with was bugging him.
I blurted out the only thing I could think of at the time.
“Why?”
“Because no one cares about this as much as you do. And I’ll know you do a good job.”
“But, you said….” I started to ramble in my confusion, about to ask for clarification on why this sudden change of heart. But Perry interrupted me.
“Dan, you can’t spend your whole life asking for guidance and permission. Most of the time, you have to figure it out for yourself.”
As much as I didn’t get it at the time, I see now what Perry was teaching me.
Yes, I needed his support in the beginning. I needed direction, guidance, someone to tell me where the equipment shed was and how to get the kids back on the buses on time. But at some point, if I was going to really understand what it all took, I was going to trust that I could figure it out myself.
Progress works the same way in the gym. In the beginning, you need someone to show you what to do, correct your form, keep you accountable. But eventually, you have to start owning it. Not the programming or the loading or the exercise science of it all. But the effort and the output. You can’t spend your whole life asking for permission or waiting for someone to push you.
Support is essential in the gym and in life. But it doesn’t replace responsibility.
The real shift happens when you stop asking “what should I do?” and start asking “what needs to be done?”
And that is the lesson I learned from Perry. The slightly eggheaded but wise-beyond-his-years camp supervisor who I lost touch with long ago.
But if you’re out there, thank you Perry. For teaching me the perfect ratio of juice powder to water, how to get a group of 10-year-olds to instantly pay attention, and most importantly that growth starts the moment you decide to take responsibility for yourself.