I say, “How a-bout putt-putt?” Dad and Cindy like to play, and sometimes when no one else is around, I take a swing myself. A little course is free.

“Oh, why not?” Sara rolls her eyes and Sue puts a club in her hands. With a parody of pro-golf precision, Sara lines up her stroke, limbers up her shoulders, and tap.… The ball rolls barely five inches. My turn. Slam! The ball flies from one end of the course to the other and ricochets back, ending up almost where it started.

“Whoa!” Sara says. “Now I’ll tap mine around this little incline and approach the hole from the rear.” The ball goes exactly as she says. Three inches. “Jean, dahling,” she says, “we’re just perfectly matched.”

I whack, nowhere near the ball, but I succeed in breaking one of the plastic obstacles off the course. Sara says, “Nice work, Spazzo.” I respond with a kick.

Her ball is in a crater. With the next stroke, it twitches but gains no ground whatsoever.

“Ve-ry good, Feeb!” It’s all I can think of to say, but it gets us both laughing.

In tiny increments, she moves her ball out of the crater and eventually into the hole. When my ball goes in, it takes me completely by surprise. I’m also surprised to find I really want to win. All the excitement seems to be at the horseshoe game, but Sara and I are actually competing. Her constant wisecracks make concentration impossible, but I don’t need concentration, not the way I play. Finally I get stuck in a tight corner, and the game peters out. Worn out by exertion and laughter, we join the crowd at the horseshoe game.

It’s Margie against a paraplegic boy. “How’s she doing?” Sara asks.

Denise answers, “Just watch.”

Limbering up for the toss, the boy throws his weight backward onto his big wheels. The casters pop up, and he rolls around on his back wheels.

“Look at that!” Sara says. “Popping wheelies. Paras think they’re such hot stuff!”

He pops down and snarls, “Hey, I’m trying to throw.”

“Trying. Okay. You’re trying, and Margie’s succeeding, right?”

“Sara!” Sue says severely.

“Please forgive me, so very sorry. I know you need your concentration.”

I let a little squeal escape.

“Jean!” Sara copies Sue’s stern voice. “We can have no inappropriate spazzing, do you hear? Our brother paraplegic NEEDS to concentrate.”

I squeal again.

“Jean! How is he supposed to throw? How is he supposed to dazzle us with that world-famous para upper-body strength? Calm down, Jean. I said calm down.” I try. Sort of. Not really.