Chapter 32 Camp Balls #3
It’s 87 degrees. The sun is a ruthless God. A truly deranged obstacle course sprawls across the grass, made from pool noodles, rope, hula hoops, tarps, and something that looks suspiciously like the inside of a car wash.
West adjusts his ball cap like a drill sergeant having a spiritual crisis. His face is covered in camo war paint, and his fatigues are Army issue.
“I did not approve the sprinkler tunnel.”
“You did when you were eating a popsicle and distracted,” Jax says, proudly pointing to the PVC monstrosity he built out of plumbing and zip ties.
Brandt finishes drawing the final chalk finish line. “Obstacles include: the tire drag, hula-hoop limbo, the pool noodle crawl, a squirt gun ambush, and then the final sprint.”
“And emotional damage,” Nash mutters. “You forgot emotional damage.”
McCormick claps his hands. “Alright, troops! Two teams. Kids vs. Counselors. Losers clean the juice cooler.”
The kids erupt in shrieks of glee. The counselors do not.
“I’m not running,” Mandy says immediately.
“You don’t have to,” West tells him. “You can keep score.”
“I will cheat,” Mandy warns.
Brandt winks. “That’s the spirit.”
The race begins with West hurling a whistle into the air like a grenade. The kids surge forward like a snack-fueled army. Counselors follow, most limping within the first ten feet.
Brandt’s yelling “We move as a unit!” even though he’s already halfway to the sprinkler tunnel.
Jax is ambushed by three kids with neon water guns and falls dramatically into the grass like he’s been mortally wounded. “Tell my story,” he gasps.
McCormick hurdles the hula hoops like a majestic buffalo. Nash dead-ends himself in the tire drag and refuses to crawl. “I’m not getting down there. You don’t know what lives in that grass.”
A small child throws a granola bar at him. “Coward!”
Mandy watches from the shade, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between horrified and faintly amused.
The kids dominate the course. The counselors trail behind, breathless and sweaty.
“I used to be fast,” West mutters, halfway through the pool noodle tunnel.
“That was three knees ago,” Nash grunts.
The final challenge is a foot race from the sandbox to the finish line.
“I need one more runner,” McCormick calls out. “Mandy?”
“Nope,” Mandy says, instantly.
A tiny girl tugs on his sleeve. “Please? You’re the coolest one here.”
Mandy glances at West, his throat closing up.
West just shrugs. “Up to you.”
Mandy exhales like it’s physically painful, then hands off the clipboard. “If I lose, I’m not speaking to anyone until next week.”
He steps up and stretches, knees popping like bubble wrap.
“Ready?” Brandt calls out.
Mandy nods.
“GO!”
He bolts. And to everyone’s surprise—including his own—he wins. Not just barely. He blazes past the finish line. A kid drops a juice box in awe.
The field goes quiet for a beat.
“MANDY! MANDY! MANDY!” the kids chant.
Mandy collapses to his knees, panting. “I need an ice pack and a priest.”
One of the smaller boys, the same one who gave Mandy the Wolverine compliment and the Starburst, runs over and throws his arms around him.
“You were so fast! That was like superhero stuff!”
Mandy blinks at him. “I was… adequate.”
“Can I ride on your back like it’s a war horse?”
Mandy stares. “A what?”
“A war horse. For the victory lap!”
Mandy sighs. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for dramatic children.”
He hoists the kid up piggyback style. The kid raises both arms in triumph. Mandy trudges past the finish line again while the other kids cheer and McCormick hums the Gladiator soundtrack.
Nash watches from the shade, arms crossed. “Why are we all pretending this isn’t the best part of camp?”
West grins. “Because if we admit it, Riggs will make us do this again next summer.”
The kid on Mandy’s back yells, “TO THE CANTEEN! MY STEED CRAVES ICE CREAM!”
And Mandy—sensitive pride, aching knees, and all—starts walking again.
“God help me,” he mutters. “I’d die for these weird little monsters.”
The cafeteria is decked out in bunting. Someone borrowed the small wooden bridge from physical therapy and turned it into a makestift stage.
There’s a very unstable podium made of milk crates zip-tied together.
One kid plays a kazoo, constantly hitting the same off note.
The counselors stand at the front, half-dressed in camp shirts, half-draped in exhaustion.
It’s been a long summer.
West rubs his temples. “Why is the kazoo part of the anthem again?”
“Tradition,” Jax says.
“This is literally the first year of Camp BALLS,” West replies.
“And already steeped in lore,” Jax grins.
“Can we focus?” McCormick yells over the din, waving a clipboard like a baton. “We need dignity. Decorum. Order.”
Brandt raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Are we talking about the same camp?”
McCormick points to the kids lined up behind the ‘stage’.. “They’re about to start the national anthem.”
The kids stand tall. Some with hands on hearts. Some chewing string cheese.
And then—disaster.
A small, panicked voice cuts through the quiet. “I peed.”
Dead silence. Then a dark stain begins to spread across one camper’s shorts.
Mandy freezes. Jax chokes on laughter. West closes his eyes.
The kazoo keeps playing. Off-key. Heroically.
Brandt, with the precision of a Secret Service agent, wraps the kid in a camp flag like a patriot and swiftly escorts him away. The anthem ends to polite applause and a few whispered “ewww”s.
West mutters, “Honestly? Still more respectful than the Fourth of July barbecue last year.”
As Mandy steps forward to continue the ceremony, a faint click echoes from behind the podium. Then another click. Then a soft, mechanical whir.
McCormick turns just in time to see a group of kids wearing lab goggles and suspicious grins shouting: “THREE… TWO… ONE—”
BOOM.
The Weenie Blaster 9000 roars to life one final time, launching a flaming hotdog in a glorious arc over the cafeteria. It lands in the punch bowl with a wet splat. A second dog shoots out and knocks over a decorative balloon arch.
Brandt taps West. “Tell me you got that on camera.”
Jax just nods. “That’s some damn fine engineering.”
West holds up a charred hotdog impaled on a fork. “We’re keeping this. For the archive.”
“Now,” says McCormick, voice echoing through a cracked bullhorn, “it’s time for our final awards.
” He gestures to the front. “By unanimous vote, the campers have chosen their favorite counselor. For bravery, mystery, and the ability to out-sprint a sugar-high eight-year-old…” He turns dramatically.
“The Coolest Superhero Counselor award goes to… MANDY!”
The campers break out in applause. Some shriek. Someone throws confetti. Mandy blinks like he’s been hit with a stun grenade. He walks up slowly, scarred hands tucked in his sleeves, posture stiff.
A tiny kid hands him a hand-drawn certificate that says,
“Mandy is Deadpool but Better”
and a sparkly foam crown. Mandy hesitates.
Brandt whispers, “Say something, man.”
Mandy clears his throat. “Uh. I didn’t think I’d like this camp.
I didn’t think I’d like you.” Some of the kids giggle.
He continues. “But you’re weird. And fearless.
And kind. And I guess… I kinda like you now.
” He pauses. “And if I ever see one more hotdog launched out of a weaponized PVC pipe again, I will report it to the FBI.” Cheers erupt. “And Margaret Anne and Riggs.
The room goes deadly quiet at that threat.
Mandy adjusts his foam crown and steps back, lips twitching toward a rare smile.
As the final round of applause fades after all the participation awards have been handed out, McCormick clears his throat.
“There’s one more thing,” he says. “We all know Nash doesn’t like group activities, loud noises, or…
feelings.” Nash, already suspicious, narrows his eyes.
“But he’s here. And he made it through. And the kids wanted to thank him anyway. ”
A girl walks forward with a drawing. It’s a stick-figure version of Nash with huge muscles and angry eyebrows holding a sign that says,
“SAFE AND SCARY IN A GOOD WAY.”
Nash stares at it. Everyone stares at him. His jaw twitches.
“I’m not crying,” he says immediately, voice tight. “I’m hot. I’m sweaty. I have allergies. Shut up.”
“Okay, bud,” West says gently, patting his back.
“You shut up too.”
He folds the drawing with care and puts it in his pocket like it’s classified intel.
Finally, it’s Brandt’s turn. He steps up to the mic and clears his throat.
“This week has been wild. You guys made me laugh. You made me worry. You made me eat four pudding cups in a row just to cope.” The kids and their parents laugh.
“You’ve also reminded me what it means to show up, even when it’s hard.
Even when you think you’ve got nothing left. And I—”
POOF.
A cloud of glitter detonates above his head, courtesy of the Weenie Crew in the back. Brandt blinks, now absolutely coated in sparkles.
He coughs once. “Right. And now I have glitter in my teeth.”
One of the kids screams, “YOU’RE A FAIRY PRINCESS NOW!”
“Damn right I am,” Brandt replies, striking a pose.
“And you’re not getting in my Jeep like that,” West vows.
As the sun starts to set, the kids gather for one last chant.
“CAMP BALLLLLLLLLS!”
The guys groan. But it’s fond now.
West picks up a half-eaten s’more. “Same time next year?”
Mandy glances down at his foam crown. “God help us… yeah.”
And in the distance, a kid cannonballs into the lake in slow motion, screaming:
“THANK YOU, BALLLLLLLLLS!”
Fade to black.
Glitter hangs in the air.
And a single hotdog arcs over the horizon.
God Bless Camp BALLS and Camp counselors.