At Camp Arrowhead, the summer we were twelve—what turned out to be my last summer there. The next year our family went to Israel for my bar mitzvah, and the year after that my father died unexpectedly and uninsured, and we fell out of the middle class like skydivers. We moved from our house to a cramped apartment, and there was no more summer camp for the Geller boys, at least not out of the city. Sammy Adler was without doubt the least coordinated, least athletic person, male or female, in the camp. Tall, gangly, flat-assed, he ran like Frankenstein’s monster, knees knocking together, ankles weak, his feet slapping the ground like a bird headed for extinction. His height made him of occasional use in basketball or volleyball, but on the softball diamond he was what we then called a spaz. And still would. A glove on his hand was like a metal pan ready to clank. Balls hit or thrown to him caromed off his shins or bounced through his legs cleanly. To say he threw like a girl would be an insult to most girls in the camp.
