After Brad and Pete's horseback ride they went to assembly where they learned all the rules of the camp (boring). Then they had lunch. What with dry corned beef and all that talking Brad could hardly keep his eyes open. Now it was free time. Petes was nodding to sleep in the cabin, Brad thought that if he started moving he would be able to stay awake and explore camp.

Behind the boy's cabin was a baseball field. Brad wandered back there, kicking up the dirt to see how it settled on his shoes. He stood on home plate and whacked a few imaginary home runs. Then he noticed a trail heading off into the woods.

Brad followed his curiosity along the trail until he found a clearing with a giant maple tree in the middle. The branches were low to the ground and sturdy; a great climbing tree. There was bare dirt under the old tree, a bottom branch hung out over the packed ground. It was the perfect height for tricks.

Brad climbed up on the branch and tested its bounce. With a good spring he might get enough height for a double flip. He pushed off the branch, but halfway through the second flip landed in the dirt with a thunk. Whew.

He sat up and waited until he could gulp in a breath of air. This was a regular, every day thing for Brad. As soon as he was breathing again, he brushed the dust from his shoulders and eyed the branch. Maybe if he bounced several times before jumping he would have enough height to get through the second flip. He whacked his knees a few times, enjoying the sight of billowing dust coming off his pants, then he faced the tree. He sprang, legs together, and landed on the branch in a squat. One. Two. Three. He arched in the air. A quick tuck of his head threw him forward. One turn, one and a half and splat, he was in the dirt again.

As he rolled over, considering the wisdom of single flips, he found his nose poking into a pair of shiny shoes. The shoes were attached to thin black socks which led to tan creased pants. Further up were long legs and, towering high in the sky, was Mr. Spensor's scowling face.

"What's all this about?" demanded the familiar raspy voice. The hair stood up on the back of Brad’s neck. That voice seemed to have some sort of pull on him.

Brad leapt to his feet, standing in front of the tall counselor. He pounded a cloud of dust from his clothes. "I was just trying to get the last twist in that double flip," he sputtered. "I always seem to fall shor..."

"Have you been trained pro-FES-sionally in acrobatics?" snapped Mr. Spensor.

"Well no, I. ."

"Where is your tumbling mat and safety spotter?"

"Well, I never thought.." Brad was getting confused. "I never used one before. I just felt like flipping."

"Just felt like it!" exclaimed the head counselor. "No one can just feel it. One must be trained for it! If you have not been pro-FES-sionally trained and haven't the proper equipment you can-NOT tumble. It is im-POS-sible. There are certain rules of motion, balance and geometry which must be studied."

The older man rasped on and on. He started to become blurry to Brad's dusty eyes. The sun, shadowing the counselor's thin head, seemed to spark rays of light, like a halo, around him. A new sensation, that of fear, began a little knot in Brad's stomach.

"It takes years of direct training and a totally equipped gym for such activities." continued Mr. Spensor. "I have served on the state O-lym-pic committee. I have experience in such things."

Brad stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet. For the first time in his life he was flustered. "I didn't know." he stammered.

"Remember it." Mr. Spensor waved his knuckly finger under Brad's nose. "I'll not have campers engaging in DAN-gerous Activities." He stomped his long legs, turned stiffly and left.

Brad watched him strut down the trail and disappear into the pines. I can't tumble? he thought. Dangerous? Not even a single flip?

He raised his arms, held his breath and leaned back, but instead of a quick arch in the sky he slowly crumpled over and landed in the dust of the path. Pain shot through his elbow.

"It's true," he gasped, clutching his arm. A tear trickled down his cheek as a little pearl of blood appeared on his elbow; it was the first time he could remember being hurt. Slowly he limped back to his cabin. He had entered the woods following his curiosity. On the way out he was followed by something new; fear.

He barely ate dinner and went to bed early.

Brad lay awake that night staring at the wood on the ceiling. Shadows from the trees outside the bunkhouse window made strange patterns across the rough slats. The buzzing of crickets in the grass set up a hum in his head. "It's impossible," rasped Mr. Spensor's voice along with the crickets. "Without professional training you can NOT tumble."

The lights went out around camp and darkness filled the cabin. With the darkness the cricket's buzz turned to a chant in his head, "It's impossible, it's impossible."

Brad lifted the covers from his feet and slipped from his bunk. He padded across the room and eased his way out the door.

Darkness covered him like a blanket as he trotted out to the ball field. The only light came from the street lamp over the kitchen far down by the lake. Brad slowly stretched his arms and leaned into a cartwheel. His legs arched high above his head and he landed in a perfect finish on his feet. Easy.

Now for a handspring. Brad took off at a run, he leapt forward onto his hands and pushed himself into the sky. Wham! He landed flat on his back in the dirt. Pain tore through his body and he couldn't pull in a breath. For the first time this panicked him! Air! Air! The breath finally came in a big gulp that tore at his lungs. He sucked in again and blew out. It was a long time before he rolled over, pulled himself to his feet and limped back to his bunk.

That night he dreamed of falling and woke up clutching his mattress. By morning his eyes were rimmed with red.