This past Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday was Middle School Camp. Once again we took our 225 middle schoolers out to the YMCA compound out in Wu Kai Sha.We went for a mountain hike, played capture the flag, cooked over an open fire, had a water balloon toss, made up skits, and ate s’mores.
One of the annual favorites that the kids look forward to all year is the Eighth Grade Hunt in which the eighth graders are given a ten-minute head start to run and find a hiding place on the ten-acre grounds of the YMCA. Then the sixth- and seventh-graders fan out into the darkness hunting for eighth graders. When they find one, they bring him or her back to the big meeting hall where they turn in the eighth grader and received points for their team. Each eighth-grader is worth a different amount of pre-assigned number of points.
The other perinneal favorite –at least for the teachers- is the life-size game of Clue. Clue –as you will remember from your childhood- is the board game where you try to deduce that it was Colonel Mustard in the library with the wrench. In our version, our thirty teachers dress as a character of their choice –Chef, Bandana Bob, Mad Scientist, Krazy Klown- and then spread out throughout the camp. Groups of kids then go from teacher to teacher.
Teachers make students perform a small task such as singing a song or making a pyramid after which the teacher will give them a clue such as “The murderer was not Julius Caesar” or "The weapon was not the rope."
Two days before camp I made a trip down to the open-air markets of Mon Kok. An hour later and I was set.
Ladies and Gentlemen: Making his debut appearance to MS camp, please welcome J-unit Big Dawg a.k.a. Sweet Baby J a.k.a Jackie J. Mugshot.
When groups of students approached me, I gave them their instructions . . . in a rap:
Yo, I’m Rap Master J
And this is what I say
Give me your best verse
Take a minute to rehearse
Lay down four rhyming lines,
It’s all you gotta do,
and Rap Master J
will give you all a clue.
I’ve got to be honest folks, it wasn’t pretty. Not the outfit. Not the rap. None of it. Several years ago, we found my kindergarten report card on which Mrs. Ostedyk had written “The rhythmic element of music seems to elude Jack.”
Boy was she ever right.
Forty-four year-old doughy white guy in an Orlando Magic jersey trying to throw down some rhyming verse.
Some things should just never be.
Man, the things I do for a paycheck.
-Jack
