Watching Samuel spend yet another maths lesson doodling Spider-Man in his exercise book, rather than tackling the questions, his parents realised that in their family, only the cat could look forward to a carefree future. Dozens of tutors had triedand failedto foster in Samuel a love of numbers and formulas. In fact, with each new teacher, the boy grew more philosophical, convinced that the world was but a fleeting vanity, and that true happiness lay in laziness, chocolate éclairs, and cartoons on his phone.
With spirits nearly as low as their hopes, Samuels father stumbled upon a peculiar advert online: “Selling weights and will inspire love for school subjects and sports in your children, relatives, friends, neighbours. Unique method. I work with maths, history, English, literature, biceps, triceps, legs, shoulders, chest. Frederick.”
Driven more by desperation than reason, father dialed the number. After a few rings, a heavy, gasping voice answered.
“Yes?” In the background, there was the rhythmic clanking of metal.
“Hello, Im calling about your advert.”
“I’ve sold the weights,” said Frederick with finality and was about to end the call.
“No, no, I want you to teach my son maths, English, literature…”
“Age, weight, skill level?”
Fredericks bluntness was both oddly reassuring and deeply unsettling. The clanking turned into the swish of skipping ropes. The father almost imagined he could smell sweat through the line.
“Nine years old, weighs about three and a half stone, can nearly add up in columns and”
“How many press-ups can he do?”
“Pardon?” The father rubbed his ear in confusion.
“Press-ups and pull-upshow many?”
“I not sure, maybe five?”
“Can he tell a prefix from a suffix?”
“Iwell, Id have to ask my wife.”
“What study tools have you got at home?”
“Tools?”
“Compass, protractor, resistance band, dumbbells?”
“Weve got a wooden ruler.”
“Understood. Text me your address, Ill be there within the hour,” said Frederick and yelled, “Wider stance, straighten your back! Not you, Im in a history session,” and hung up.
The father, now unconsciously standing bolt upright, went to break the news to Samuel.
Upon learning a new tutor would arrive, Samuel merely turned up the TV volume and asked for a cup of tea and a sandwich. He was completely indifferent to attempts at academic discipline.
The doorbell rang. Looking through the spyhole, Samuels mum saw a chest so mighty it made her a tad envious.
“Good afternoon,” announced Frederick, a mountain of muscle in a fitted vest who smelled faintly of coconut shampoo as he squeezed into the hallway. “Wheres your Olympian?”
“I-Its him,” the woman stammered.
Their neighbour, Victor, poked his head around. “Sorry about earlierIm an optician… no longer practising.”
“Im Frederick Jameson, a tutorpresently.”
“Ah, right, we didnt recognise you,” Victor replied, taking the giants sports bag with comedic struggle. The cat, terrified, performed a warp-speed retreat to a locked bedroom.
“Whats in here?” Victor asked, wheezing, as he dragged the bag into Samuels room.
“Learning materials. Primary school topics and hands-on resources.”
Samuel, as ever, was slouched on the sofa, phone in hand, oblivious to the world until the door swung open.
“Hold on! Hold on!” his father shouted, but Frederick strode in, scanning the room.
“Got a drill?”
“For what?” his father queried.
“To practise English,” Frederick replied, extracting a pull-up bar, a punchbag, and a skipping rope from his bag.
“Ill ask next door,” said Victor, breathlessly. “You two get acquainted. This is Samuel,” he said, hoisting his son upwho, compared to Frederick, looked the size of a kneecap. “Son, this is Mr Jameson.”
“How did you grow all those muscles?” Samuel asked, instead of saying hello.
“I stacked them up,” replied Frederick, balancing several weight plates on the floor.
“Right, get started,” said Victor, beating a hasty retreat.
“Are you stronger than Spider-Man?”
“Does Spider-Man bench two hundred kilos?”
Samuel didnt quite get the question, but suspected the answer was no.
“I dont like lessons,” Samuel stated, drawing a line from the start.
“Thats for losers. Were working on your abs,” Frederick countered and began crunches on the carpet. Samuel watched, expecting the odd tutor to peter out, but Frederick merely changed tempo and added weights, switching to dumbbells, then resistance band, finishing with press-ups.
“So, got all that? Want to be strong? Or just a layabout webhead, lost in the dust?”
Samuel shook his head.
“Good. Now, all exercises, three times forty-five minus thirty-nine. Start with crunches.”
“And thats how many?”
“You tell me.”
“Theres no drill, just an electric screwdriver,” Victor blurted, re-entering the roomand stopped short at the sight of Samuel already halfway through a set of press-ups. “Ill come back later,” he whispered, tiptoeing out.
***
The next day at half five in the morning, the phone rang. Bleary-eyed, Samuels father stumbled to the hallway, ready to unleash a tirade on whoever dared disturb them. But when he saw Fredericks bald dome looming in the doorframe, he realised there was simply too much head for any tirade to cover.
“Were doing history and geography today, kit: trainers, vest, shorts. Long-distance run while mastering landscape and local history.”
“Hes only in year three, hasn’t got those yet,” yawned Victor.
“Poetry’s in the curriculum too. You joining us?”
“No, thanks. I did fine at school, mate.”
“In what year did the Normans land on these shores?”
“Erm got to wake up my son now,” stammered Victor, making a swift exit to Samuels room.
A few minutes later, he returned, whispering, “He wont wake up.”
“Get him dressed, hell awaken en route,” Frederick replied sensibly.
***
Three times a week, Frederick arrived on the doorstep, and training commenced: Mondaychest, triceps, shoulders, maths, English; Wednesdayback, biceps, literature, reading; Fridaylegs, geography, history.
Three weeks on, Samuel wandered into the kitchen shirtless, six-pack glittering, and his father, embarrassed, tucked his beer gut behind the kettle. The boy stood tall, strong, and began scolding his parents for their sedentary lifestyle.
“Victor, I dont like this one bit,” Samuels mum muttered at dinner. “You know what Samuel asked me for his birthday?”
“Yes, an Xbox. He asked me, too.”
“No, he wants a climbing frame and a smoothie blender. Im worried this Fredericks not really a tutor. Probably another exercise nut out to ruin our sons health.”
“You think? They do seem to be working on maths”
“Have you ever seen them with a proper text book?”
“No, but I saw a calorie chart.”
“There you go. Those gym blokes”
“Those what?” Victor blinked.
“A bit simple,” she tapped the glass table for emphasis. “Our boy will be just like them.”
“Well, maybe better a simple lad than a weak, bookish one?”
“I just want a normal child! These lessons are ending, and thats final!”
Just then, the phone rang.
“Its his form teacher,” she said, answering. “Hello? Whats he done now? Right, Ill be there.”
“Whats up?”
“Samuel started a fight. See, I told youno good will come of this.”
“Im coming with you.”
***
They sped over in a cab, summoned swiftly to the headteachers office.
“Look at thata tutor, and now were in the headteachers office when hes only in year three.”
The room was packed: parents, pupils, school psychologist, and class teacher. The noise was so bad the piano next door fell out of tune.
“This is not a gym! This is a school!” shrieked one of the mums.
“So, what happened?” Victor tried to cut through the chaos.
The class teacher took the floor.
“Samuel was making the others do step-ups at break and keep score using division.”
“Doing what?”
“Taking turns on the pull-up bar, increasing the load each time,” Samuel explained.
“Quiet! The others didnt want to. Samuel threatened them if they didnt comply.”
“But they started it! They tried to hit me when I corrected their grammar.”
“How exactly?”
“I told them how to inflect bothered and show-off. They came at me, so I had to defend myself. As Mr Jameson says, if youve got energy, do more pull-ups, and in a scuffle, teach them fractions rather than fighting,” Samuel mumbled, head bowed.
“He said if we bothered him again, hed make us extract square roots!” whimpered one boy.
“This neanderthal doesnt belong here!” shrieked a mother.
“Hang on,” Victor protested. “So, there was no actual fight?”
The injured group shook their heads.
“So, when they got aggressive, my son responded with maths and exercise?”
“And made us run round the pitch reciting Wordsworth!” another piped up.
“See? And you were worried hed become a thick muscly meathead,” Victor said to his wife, who gave a nod.
“Id like to apologise to you,” the headteacher suddenly interjected.
“Let him apologise!” one parent barked, pointing at Samuel.
“No, I meant to Samuels parents. Your child is doing marvellously,” the headteacher turned to Victor and his wife. “Given what Ive just heard, however, well need to move him up a class.”
“Justice at last! Thatll teach you and your thickhead jock tutor!” jeered the parents.
“Im moving him to year fourhes way ahead of the curriculum,” the headteacher concluded.
A heavy silence settled, broken only by the sound of envy gnawing at the other parents. Everyone shuffled out, avoiding each other’s gaze.
“Hello, Mr Jameson, bit of newsSamuels going up to year four. More subjects coming up,” Victor said into the phone as they left.
***
Within a week, Samuel was in year four. Two weeks after that, he went to a childrens crossfit competition and started preparing for his first junior literary Olympiad. A month on, Victor got a call from one of the former rival parentsasking for Mr Jamesons phone number.
Soon enough, a junior club was set up with a unique anglechildren were only kicked out for bad marks, never for poor athletic performance.
And so Samuel learnedand taught othersthat true strength isnt just about muscles or brains, but blending the two, and that happiness can be found not in idleness or endless treats, but in striving, growing, and helping others along the way.
