Three cheers for our very own checkers champion — Marcus Welby, M.D., also known as D’Artagnan.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” shouted out my close-knit companions — Joey Cartwright, Michael Painter and Henry Windsor, otherwise called Athos, Porthos and Aramis — when they each put down their plate of snacks to mimic the dancing flames while making a complete circle as part of the impromptu celebration.
My eyes lit up like a Christmas tree when I was singled out for winning top honors at a two-day, double elimination tournament earlier in the week, and received my very first trophy — a ceramic bank in the shape of a baseball player.
“What are you planning to do with your one-of-a-kind award?” asked one of my camp comrades, their eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“It’s going on our dining room display case,” I explained. “Upon getting home from camp, I’m putting it in a very prominent position alongside my big brother John’s Punt, Pass and Kick trophies; so, now my parents will finally be able to share my accolades with company around the dinner table.”
“I would’ve won a gold medal for the shot put at our school district’s Sixth Grade Olympics last year; but, instead, I crashed and burned during the actual competition and lost by a country mile,” I added with disappointment.
“Well, you sure picked the right competition this go around; and you’ll be known for your checkers expertise throughout western Pennsylvania,” stated our fearless leader.
That was the animated scene taking place around a roaring campfire in a wooded area behind our secluded cabin as my three bunkmates and I, along with our dedicated camp counselor, reminisced about the highlights from a week of activities at Camp Lend-A-Hand — a summer campground specifically designed for disabled children — while gobbling up as many s’mores as humanly possible on the third Friday in July.
Since our activity’s coordinator, Greg Butterfield — a rising senior at the University of Pittsburgh majoring in pediatrics — was such a huge fan of The Three Musketeers written by Alexandre Dumas, he sprang from his private sleeping quarters donning an outfit similar to the seventeenth century French king’s bodyguards.
That’s when he dubbed us all musketeers bearing the infamous names from the novel.
How about the most unforgettable event from this past week?
“That’s a no-brainer,” declared Michael, carefully placing a toasted marshmallow between two graham crackers and a slab of Hershey’s chocolate. “When we were moving our gear into the bunkhouse last Saturday, Mr. Butterfingers jumped out of the back room, nearly giving all of us a heart attack. I’m just lucky I didn’t have a seizure right there on the spot.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Butterworth, you scared us half to death,” agreed Henry, placing another marshmallow on the end of his makeshift poker to toast amongst the burning embers.
“Even though you dubbed us the guardians of King Louis XIII, you do realize that we came up with our own nicknames, right?” snickered Joey, grinning from ear to ear with a dab of chocolate mixed with graham cracker particles on his upper lip.
“I know all about it, Little Joe; but I think we need to talk about the plethora of pet names you boys have conjured up for me,” Greg implored his young charges as he leaned over to wipe the little whippersnapper’s mouth.
“Too bad, so sad, Mr. Butter My Biscuits,” quipped this rising eighth grader, popping another untoasted marshmallow directly from the bag into his waiting mouth.
“And there it is!” Greg responded with a chuckle.
“What, your bubble butt?” I quizzed, feigning shock before poking my elbow into the hulkster’s meaty ribcage. “The only other time I’ve seen a muscular guy like you is in one of those muscle magazines at the checkout counter when I’m grocery shopping with my mother.”
“You need to show me how to get a big badonkadonk like you; so, the next time I fall backwards, I’ll be able to bounce right back up,” I added as my bunkmates joined me in a fit of laughter.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Pricearoni,” proclaimed the avid weightlifter, in a desperate attempt to change the subject while placing me in a headlock for a light-hearted butt noogie. “Because you also get the prize for being the only camper from our bunk to acquire a girlfriend at camp this week.”
“That’s why I dubbed you as D’Artagnan, because you were checking out Angela Moore from the kitchen crew at registration in the cafeteria; so, I had you pegged from the moment you walked through the door,” he added with a smirk, tousling my brown locks.
“Excusez-moi,” I gasped dropping my jaw before intertwining my fingers with the muscle-bound college student for a short demonstration. “The only thing I did with Angela was hold hands while taking a walk down by the creek to skip a few rocks across the water; but we all saw you playing kissy face with one of the female counselors last night.”
“Greg and Katie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” this quartet giddily sang out as they stood to their feet and danced around the small bonfire teasing the dumbfounded young man. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Greg with a baby carriage!”
“So, you boys were spying on me!” Greg exclaimed, a look of mock horror crossing his face.
“Of course, would you have expected any less from us?” questioned Michelangelo as he led his temporary roommates, still standing around the fire, in a game of playing kissy face with the backs of their hands.
“Why, you sly little devils,” chuckled the sentimental 21-year-old, placing hands on his hips. “Instead of being upset with you boys, I sort of feel like a proud father, who raised his sons well; so, I think I need another one of those big bear hugs.”
Dogpile!
Shortly after we tackled our camp counselor like a bunch of defensive linemen sacking a quarterback from the opposing team, everyone settled back onto our individual tree stumps to make another s’more by placing marshmallows on the sticks, which I sharpened with my handy pocketknife — a gift from my 12th birthday.
“I have just one question,” queried the only adult around the campfire, helping the youngest of the bunch with his marshmallow. “Although it’s easy to figure out how youns came up with Little Joe, Michelangelo and Pricearoni, how on earth did you ever come up with King Henry for the amiable Henry Windsor?”
“Easy peasy,” I noted, glancing over at our would-be Monsieur de Treville with my baby blues. “Due to the fact that he has the same surname as England’s monarch, King Henry seemed appropriate enough.”
As we put our marshmallows into the flames of the campfire, everyone shouted in unison, “All for one, and one for all!”