Mr. Bob blows an earsplitting whistle. “Softball grand final! Everybody plays! It’s the Greens against the Yellows.” We divide into teams according to the color of the string on our name tags. Thus we avoid the awkwardness—the routine misery—of picking sides.

“There are no winners or losers,” Mr. Bob says. “Everyone’s a winner at Camp Courage!”

Each team has two girls’ cabins and two boys’ cabins. The game is organized so that, one way or the other, every camper gets a hit. The pitcher aims the ball right for the bat. Instead of “strike three,” Mr. Bob calls “try again!”—sometimes six or seven times. Some campers find counselors’ arms wrapped around them, holding the bat, and swinging. When all else fails, there are proxy arrangements.

It’s my turn, and Carole pushes me up to the plate. “Do you think you can hold the bat?”

I reach out. Carole gently uncurls the fingers of my right hand and wraps them around the bat. I try to grip with my left hand too, but I can’t get my two arms together.

“Let me help.” A boy counselor I’ve never met has me locked up in his arms. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get my arms around you.” He smells like stale sweat.

“No, I got it.” My voice is too loud, but I want to do it myself. The guy jumps out of the way before I spaz the bat right through his skull.

I raise the bat high in my right hand and swing experimentally, my arm extended almost straight from my shoulder. “Okay,” I tell the pitcher.

The pitcher studies my crazy swing. Carefully he tosses a ball at my bat and almost hits it. He is good. Amazingly good. Our eyes meet, and we smile. This is like dancing; I’m moving with another person, trying to adapt my kind of movement to the kind of movement produced by natural grace. But I’m getting distracted from the job at hand. I need to make my bat whack the next ball that comes this way. That’s all. I look away from the pitcher, toward the space the ball will cross, and nod that I’m ready. A ball comes, and I’m there a split-second too late. It’s strike two, but nobody’s counting. Another ball comes, and another miss. On the fourth try, the bat jumps loose. People scatter.

“We better get you some help, okay? You could’ve hit someone,” Carole says.

I shake my head. “One more time. Just one.” I wedge the bat against my left elbow and scrape it through my right fist until I have a tight grip near the center. My fingers burn, but I don’t care. Give me one more chance. This time I’ll hit that ball. I can feel it. I extend my arm. The bat’s heavy, but my hold is solid.