Why does she always have to be different? Why can’t she play the game? I’m still flushed with the thrill of my big hit, the hit they didn’t think I would get, and I wish she could share the excitment.

In this game where no one strikes out, an inning has to be redefined. An inning lasts until half the team has been at bat. The game is four innings long. In the end, the Yellow team—Willie’s team—beats us. But we came close.

*   *   *

As darkness comes, we sports heroes walk, limp, shuffle, and are pushed in wheelchairs to a bonfire in a cleared space under trees nearby. An industrial-size bag of marshmallows stands by, waiting for the flames to rise. We gather in a circle. Illuminated by firelight, the inner ring of faces glows red and gold. The outer ring is more felt than seen, flashing into view only when the fire momentarily flickers bright. It is at once eerie and warm.

A girl counselor leads us in calm and soothing song: “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,” “I Gave My Love a Cherry.”

Soon the sweet smell of marshmallows combines with the smell of pine smoke. Carole pops a marshmallow into my mouth. The toasty crust collapses under my teeth, and the hot, sweet goo slides down my throat. So good! I’m swallowing another when they start “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” It’s so sad, so sweet that the marshmallow sticks in my throat a little. “If I Had a Hammer” comes just in time to lift my spirits.

“Hey, Willie,” I hear Sara say, “looks like the hippies of ’68 are gone but not completely forgotten.”

“Yeah, but I bet we won’t be singing ‘We Shall Overcome’ this year.”

“Or the political verses of ‘This Little Light of Mine.’”

I leave them to their shared memories and political analysis and join the singing. Back home, I never sing. If asked, I’d say I can’t sing, and that would be the truth: I can’t carry a tune, or pronounce the words clearly, or get them out on the beat. But at Camp Courage it doesn’t much matter. “Tell me why,” I sing, “the ivy twines.…” I know all the words from hearing them year after year at church picnics, but this is the first time I’ve heard them coming from me.

The fire takes in a heavy branch. Fed by boiling sap, it flares, rumbling bright. Then there’s a violent crack and the wood explodes. A slender stick breaks clear and is blasted, still burning, onto the clean sand. I watch it glow red, go black, then fade white as the smoke leaves. The fiber is consumed, and all that remains is a delicate curl of ash. I wonder how long it will keep its shape.