Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 64
First Day

The wake-up call came at 7 AM sharp—Brett banging on a pot with a wooden spoon, grinning like a maniac.

"Rise and shine, Eagles! First full day at Pine Ridge! Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

Ash groaned, disoriented for a moment about where he was. Then it all came rushing back. Camp. Cabin 7. Top bunk above Garrett.

Below him, Garrett was already swinging out of bed, apparently a morning person. Across the cabin, Lucas was stretching. Oliver sat up slowly, squinting without his glasses. Kevin and Max were moving like zombies.

"Bathroom rotation," Brett announced. "Two at a time. You've got twenty minutes before we head to breakfast. Move it!"

Ash climbed down from his bunk, grabbed his toiletry bag. The bathroom was tiny—two sinks, two toilet stalls, one shower. He and Lucas ended up at the sinks together, brushing teeth in companionable silence.

In the mirror, Ash looked rumpled. His hair stuck up on one side. He had pillow creases on his cheek. He looked exactly like what he was: an eleven-year-old boy waking up at summer camp.

"Sleep okay?" Lucas asked around his toothbrush.

"Yeah. You?"

"Max snores. But it's fine." Lucas rinsed and spat. "I'm excited about baseball today. Brett said the clinic starts right after breakfast."

"Same. I've been looking forward to that."

By 7:20, all six Eagles were dressed and ready—athletic shorts, t-shirts, sneakers. Brett did a quick inspection.

"Everyone got sunscreen? Water bottles? Good. Let's head to breakfast."

The dining hall was chaos—over a hundred boys, all talking at once, counselors trying to maintain some semblance of order. The Eagles found their designated table, loaded up plates with pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit.

"Today's schedule," Brett said, pulling out a laminated card. "Baseball clinic from eight to ten. Then swimming from ten to eleven-thirty. Lunch at noon. Rest period until one-thirty—you can nap, read, write letters, whatever. Then afternoon activities—you guys get to choose between archery, rock climbing, or canoeing. Dinner at six. Evening activity is a camp-wide capture the flag game. Back to cabin by eight-thirty, free time until lights out at ten."

"That's a lot," Kevin said quietly.

"That's camp." Brett grinned. "Every day is packed. You'll sleep great tonight."

Ash ate mechanically, his mind already on the baseball clinic. Former minor leaguer. Batting cages. Actual coaching from someone who'd played professionally.

In his previous life, he'd never played baseball. Had been too dysphoric, too disconnected from his body to engage in team sports. Had watched from the sidelines, wishing he could be one of the boys on the field.

Now he was one of those boys. Had been for years. And he was good at it.

"You look intense," Garrett observed. "It's just baseball."

"I know. I'm just excited."

"Me too. I play second base on my rec team. You?"

"Shortstop. Sometimes outfield."

"Nice." Garrett loaded another pancake onto his plate. "We should practice together. Brett said they're doing position-specific drills."

The baseball complex was impressive—three full diamonds, batting cages with automatic pitchers, a large practice field with bases laid out for drills. Over fifty boys were gathered, sorted by age group.

The 11-12 group—about thirty of them—congregated near diamond one. Their instructor was a man in his thirties, athletic build, Pine Ridge staff shirt, and a well-worn baseball cap.

"Morning, gentlemen. I'm Coach Davis. I played minor league ball for six years—made it to Triple-A but never quite cracked the majors. But I learned a lot, and I'm here to share that with you." He had an easy confidence, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly what you were good at. "We're going to spend two hours every morning for the next two weeks working on fundamentals. Throwing, catching, hitting, base running, fielding. By the end of this session, every one of you will be a better player than you are right now."

They started with warm-ups. Running laps around the diamond. Dynamic stretching. Throwing drills in pairs.

Ash partnered with Lucas. They started close together, gradually moving farther apart, working on accuracy and velocity.

"You've got a good arm," Lucas said after catching one of Ash's harder throws.

"Thanks. You too."

Coach Davis walked among them, offering corrections. "Keep your elbow up. Follow through. Step toward your target. Good, that's better."

After warm-ups, they split into groups by position. Pitchers went to the mound on diamond two. Infielders stayed on diamond one. Outfielders went to diamond three.

Ash joined the infielders—about twelve boys total, including Garrett who played second base and Lucas who apparently played shortstop too.

"Alright, infielders," said their position coach, a college-aged guy named Ryan. "Let's talk footwork and mechanics. The infield is where games are won and lost. You need quick hands, good feet, and the ability to make split-second decisions."

They took turns fielding ground balls while Ryan filmed them on his phone, then played back the video in slow motion.

"See here?" Ryan pointed to Ash's footwork. "You're getting to the ball fine, but your throwing motion is a little off balance. You're rushing. Watch—" He demonstrated. "Get your feet set first, then make the throw. Accuracy over speed, especially on routine plays. Try again."

Ash adjusted. Fielded the next grounder, set his feet deliberately, threw to first.

"Much better! You felt that difference, right?"

"Yeah."

They worked through infield fundamentals for an hour. Proper fielding position. Footwork for different types of hits. Double play turns. Backhand technique. Reading the ball off the bat. Ash absorbed it all, his adult mind processing the technical details while his eleven-year-old body worked to execute them.

He'd been playing shortstop for years now, but never with this level of instruction. Coach Williams was good, but this was different—this was professional-level coaching, the kind that could actually make a difference in how good he could become.

"You've got great range," Ryan said after watching Ash make several difficult plays. "And your arm is strong. How long have you been playing shortstop?"

"Three years."

"You've got excellent instincts for it. With proper training, you could play in high school, maybe even college." Ryan made a note on his clipboard. "Keep working on that footwork. And we'll work on your pivot for double plays later this week."

The second hour of clinic was live drills. They set up game situations—runners on base, different outs, various hit types. Each infielder had to field and make the right play.

Ash went through several scenarios. Ground ball with a runner on first—field it, throw to second for the force out. Hard grounder up the middle with bases loaded—make the tough play, throw home. Slow roller with a fast runner—charge it hard, make the quick throw to first.

Ryan kept track of their success rate. "Nice work, Walsh," he said after Ash successfully completed a difficult double play turn. "You've got the instincts and the hands. That's what separates good shortstops from great ones."

After baseball, they had fifteen minutes to change before swimming. Ash was sweaty, his legs pleasantly sore from all the lateral movement and quick footwork, his mind buzzing with everything he'd learned.

"That was awesome," Lucas said as they walked back to the cabin. "Did you see me in the outfield? Coach said my reads on fly balls are really advanced."

"That's huge."

"And you were making plays all over the infield. That double play turn looked so smooth."

Ash laughed. "He was fine."

"No, seriously. You're really good." Lucas paused. "We should both try out for the camp all-star team. They pick the best players from each age group to play against the other camps."

"There's an all-star team?"

"Yeah. Tournament at the end of the session. Winner gets a trophy and bragging rights." Lucas grinned. "We're definitely making that team."

Swimming was in the Olympic-sized pool—fifty meters long, multiple lanes, starting blocks at one end. A female counselor named Jessica ran the session, clipboard in hand.

"Alright, gentlemen. We're doing swim assessments today. I need to know what level everyone is at so we can group you appropriately for lessons and competitions."

They lined up by the pool. One by one, they swam two laps—down and back, any stroke they wanted.

Ash dove in when his turn came, let the water envelop him, found his rhythm. Freestyle, breathing every third stroke, efficient and fast. He'd been swimming since he was physically three years old. This was second nature.

He touched the wall, pulled himself out. Jessica was making notes.

"Walsh, right? You're advanced. Very clean form." She marked something on her clipboard. "You'll be in the competitive group. We're preparing for the inter-camp swim meet in week two."

Lucas was also placed in the competitive group, along with four other boys from various cabins. They spent the rest of the hour working on starts, turns, and race strategy.

"You and Lucas are going to dominate," Garrett said during free swim at the end. He was in the intermediate group—competent but not competitive. "I bet you both make the swim team and the baseball all-stars."

"Maybe," Ash said, not wanting to sound too confident.

"Definitely," Garrett corrected. "You guys are good. Like, really good."

Lunch was sandwiches and chips and fruit. The Eagles sat together, comparing notes on the morning.

"Baseball was incredible," Oliver said. He played first base and had apparently gotten praise for his reach. "Coach said my height is an advantage."

"Swimming was hard," Kevin admitted. "I'm only in beginner group."

"That's fine," Brett said. "Everyone starts somewhere. By the end of two weeks, you'll be better. That's the whole point."

After lunch came rest period. Back to the cabin, quiet time for an hour and a half. Some boys napped. Oliver read. Kevin and Max played cards quietly.

Ash lay on his top bunk, staring at the ceiling, processing the morning.

Baseball clinic had been everything he'd hoped for. Real coaching. Technical instruction on footwork and positioning. A chance to actually get better, not just play for fun.

Swimming had reminded him how much he loved being in the water. How natural it felt. How his body—this body—was built for it in a way his previous body never had been.

He was good at these things. Not just competent, but actually good. And people noticed. Ryan had said he could play in high school, maybe college. Jessica had put him in the competitive group without hesitation.

This body could do things his old body never could. And not just because it was male—though that was huge—but because it was athletic. Coordinated. Strong.

He thought about his previous life. How he'd avoided sports because being in that wrong body, doing physical things, just amplified the wrongness. How he'd existed in his head instead of his body because his body felt like a prison.

Now his body felt like freedom. Like potential. Like something he could actually use and develop and be proud of.

"You awake up there?" Lucas called softly.

"Yeah."

"Want to play cards?"

"Sure."

Ash climbed down. They played Rummy with Lucas and Garrett, keeping score on a piece of paper Brett provided. Easy companionship. No pressure to talk if they didn't want to, but comfortable when they did.

This was nice. Different from hanging out with Marcus and the guys back home—those friendships had years of history. This was new. Temporary, even. But nice.

Afternoon activities were choice-based. The Eagles split up—Garrett and Oliver chose archery, Kevin and Max chose rock climbing, Ash and Lucas chose canoeing.

The lake was beautiful—clear water, surrounded by pine trees, mountains visible in the distance. A dozen canoes were pulled up on the shore, paddles stacked nearby.

Their instructor was a counselor named Miguel, probably nineteen or twenty, with the easy confidence of someone who'd spent his whole life outdoors.

"Canoeing basics," Miguel said to the group of fifteen boys. "It's about teamwork, rhythm, and reading the water. You'll work in pairs. One person in front, one in back. You need to paddle in sync or you'll just spin in circles."

Ash and Lucas claimed a canoe. Got life jackets fitted properly, grabbed paddles, pushed off from shore under Miguel's supervision.

The first few minutes were chaos. They spun in circles twice before figuring out the rhythm. Lucas was in front, Ash in back, trying to coordinate their strokes.

"Left side," Lucas called.

"I am paddling left side."

"No, I mean switch to left side. Or—wait, are you supposed to mirror me or match me?"

Miguel paddled up beside them in his own canoe. "You're overthinking it. Front person sets the pace. Back person follows and steers. Don't switch sides constantly—pick a side and commit for ten strokes, then switch together. Try again."

They tried again. This time it clicked. They found a rhythm—both paddling left for ten strokes, then both switching to right, the canoe gliding smoothly across the lake.

"There you go!" Miguel called. "That's it! Now you've got it!"

They paddled out to the middle of the lake, where Miguel had them practice different strokes—forward, backward, turning, stopping. By the end of the hour, Ash and Lucas were moving in perfect sync, their canoe cutting through the water smoothly.

"You guys are naturals," Miguel said. "Most pairs take days to get this coordinated. You did it in an hour."

"We're both athletes," Lucas explained. "We're used to working as a team."

On the paddle back to shore, moving in easy rhythm, Ash felt something settle in his chest. Peace, maybe. Or just the physical satisfaction of doing something well with another person.

This was good. Camp was good. Scary and overwhelming sometimes, but good.

Dinner was chicken, rice, vegetables, and cookies for dessert. The dining hall was loud with excited chatter—boys comparing their afternoon activities, planning for capture the flag, ribbing each other about who would win.

"I bet Eagles win capture the flag," Garrett said confidently.

"You can't bet on that," Oliver pointed out. "We don't even know the teams yet."

"Doesn't matter. We're going to dominate."

Brett was checking his phone, apparently getting instructions from the head counselors. "Okay, Eagles. Capture the flag teams are organized by cabin cluster. We're on the Blue team with Cabins 5, 6, and 8. Red team is everyone else. Game starts at seven, ends at eight-thirty or when one team captures the flag three times."

"What are the rules?" Kevin asked.

"I'll explain at the field. But basic idea: two territories, one flag per team, if you get tagged in enemy territory you're frozen until a teammate tags you free. First team to capture the opposing flag three times wins."

They finished dinner quickly, energy building. This was the kind of thing boys lived for—team competition, running around in the woods at dusk, the thrill of capture and escape.

The game field was massive—using half the camp property, divided by the main road. Blue team territory on the east side, Red team on the west. Each team's flag was planted at the back of their territory, guarded by designated defenders.

Over a hundred boys assembled, sorted by team. Brett gathered the Eagles and their allied cabins for a strategy session.

"Our cabin's strength is speed and athletics," Brett said. "Noam and Lucas are our fastest runners. Garrett's got good instincts. Oliver's height gives him range. Kevin and Max are quick. We're going to use that."

They developed a strategy: some boys would defend, some would be decoys, and Ash and Lucas would be the primary flag runners—fast enough to get in and out, coordinated enough to work together.

The whistle blew. The game began.

Chaos. Beautiful, organized chaos.

Ash sprinted toward the boundary, Lucas beside him. They crossed into enemy territory together, dodging Red team members, weaving through trees, heading for the flag.

A kid from Cabin 10 lunged at Ash. He juked left, the kid missed, kept running.

Lucas got tagged. Frozen, trapped twenty yards from the flag.

Ash kept going. Two more Red team members converging on him. He couldn't get the flag alone—too many defenders.

He circled back, tagged Lucas free. "Go right, I'll go left. Split them up."

They separated. The defenders had to choose who to chase. Three went after Lucas. One came for Ash.

Ash was faster. He reached the flag, grabbed it, turned and ran.

Whistles blew. "Blue team captures! First point!"

His cabin mates mobbed him when he got back to Blue territory. Garrett was yelling. Brett was laughing. Even Kevin and Max were excited, high-fiving everyone.

"That was insane!" Lucas said, breathless. "How did you know to split up?"

"Just instinct."

The game reset. Red team got the next capture—a tall kid from Cabin 9 who just bulldozed through defenders.

Then Blue team again—this time Lucas got it, with Ash running interference.

Back and forth. By the time it ended, Blue team had won 3-2. Ash had captured the flag twice, Lucas once. They'd worked together perfectly, instinctive teamwork that came from being similarly athletic and competitive.

Walking back to the cabin afterward, tired and sweaty and happy, the Eagles were buzzing.

"We crushed it," Garrett said for the fifth time.

"Noam and Lucas crushed it," Oliver corrected. "We helped, but they did the heavy lifting."

"Team effort," Ash said diplomatically.

"Definitely team effort," Brett agreed. "But yeah, you two are a hell of a duo. Coach Davis is going to love having you both at baseball tomorrow."

Back at the cabin, they had an hour before lights out. Boys showering, changing into pajamas, settling down from the excitement of the day.

Ash lay in his top bunk, body pleasantly exhausted. His legs were sore from all the lateral movement at shortstop. His core ached from the quick twisting motions. His throwing arm was tired from making plays across the diamond.

He felt good. Better than he had in a while, actually.

Today had been... fun. Genuinely fun. Not complicated or layered with family dynamics or weighted with the past. Just camp. Sports. Competition. Making friends.

Being a normal eleven-year-old boy at summer camp.

"Hey Noam?" Lucas called quietly from his bunk.

"Yeah?"

"Today was awesome."

"Yeah. It was."

"Tomorrow's going to be even better. Brett said we're doing advanced batting practice."

"Can't wait."

Lights out came at ten. The cabin went dark, the sounds of boys settling down, the quiet breathing of sleep slowly taking over.

Ash stared at the dark ceiling, thinking about the day.

Baseball clinic with professional-level coaching. Swimming with competitive training. Canoeing on a beautiful lake. Capture the flag where he'd actually been the hero.

Making friends. Being good at things. Fitting in.

This was what normal childhood looked like. This was what he'd always wanted—to just be one of the boys, participating fully, excelling without having to hide or hold back.

"My name is Ash," he whispered, so quietly no one could hear. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I worked on double plays and fielding technique with a coach who said I could play in college. Today I raced across a lake in a canoe with a new friend. Today I captured the flag twice and my cabin mates treated me like a hero. Today I was just another boy at camp."

He paused.

"Today was good. Really good."

Four thousand, seven hundred and four days to go.

But right now: thirteen more days at Pine Ridge. Thirteen more days of baseball and swimming and new friendships. Thirteen more days of being exactly who he was supposed to be.

No family watching. No complicated history. No weight of being the youngest Walsh child with a past life no one could fully understand.

Just Noam Walsh. Age eleven. Athletic. Competitive. Normal.

He fell asleep smiling, the sounds of his cabin mates breathing around him, the unfamiliar-becoming-familiar comfort of camp life settling into his bones.

Day two tomorrow.

And he couldn't wait.

Growing up, one perfect camp day at a time.