Looking at Henry as he doodled yet another Spider-Man in his exercise book instead of working through his maths problems, it was clear to us, his parents, that the only member of our family assured of a stress-free and well-fed future was the cat.
Wed tried countless tutors in the hope one would ignite some sort of passion for the sciences in Henry, but it always went the other wayeach new teacher, and our son drifted further into vague philosophical daydreams. To him, life was a fleeting fluster of pointless efforts. Real happiness, he believed, could only be found through idleness, chocolate éclairs, and endless cartoons on his mobile.
When wed nearly given upquite literally feeling our arms drop to our anklesmy husband stumbled upon a curious advert online:
Selling a barbell and offering to instil a love for both academic and sporting subjects in your children, relatives, friends, and neighbours. Unique approach. I cover maths, history, English, literature, biceps, triceps, legs, shoulders, chest. Philip.
Desperation trumped common sense, and my husband dialled the number. A heavy, breathy voice answered after a few rings, the background filled with the clanging of weights.
Hello,
Good afternoon. Im calling about your advert?
Ive sold the barbell, Philip replied gruffly, about to hang up.
No, Im interested in lessons for my sonmaths, English, literature…
Age, weight, any abilities?
The brevity was both impressive and unsettling. The clanking faded, replaced now by the slap-slap of skipping rope. My husband could almost smell sweat through the receiver.
Nine, weighs three and a half stone, just about stacking addition now, and
How many press-ups can he do?
Sorry? my husband asked, cleaning his ear with a little finger.
Press-ups. Pull-ups. How many?
I suppose five?
Suffixes from prefixes?
Erm Ill have to ask my wife.
Whats in the house? Protractor, compass, resistance bands, kettlebells?
Weve got a wooden ruler.
Understood. Send the address. Ill be round in an hour, and, after a shouted, Wider stance, back straighter! added, Not you, Im in the middle of a history lesson, and hung up.
My husband lingered there for a few moments, feet shoulder-width, posture bang on, before going downstairs to Henry.
When told hed soon have a new tutor, Henry cranked the telly up and asked for a cup of tea and a sandwich. Scientific upbringings left him entirely unmoved.
The doorbell rang. Peering through the spyhole, I spotted a chest formidable enough to spark envy.
Good afternoon, grunted a mountain of muscle in a vest smelling faintly of coconut shampooPhilip. Wheres your Olympic champion?
In here, I whimpered, nudging my husband. It’s the wide-eyed bloke with the Vauxhall you said youd help see straight in that note you left under his wiper.
Sorry, called a voice from the lounge. Its a misunderstanding, Im an optician… in a previous life.
Names Philip Jameson. Tutorcurrently, declared the man himself.
Oh, its you, said my husband, emerging from the sideboard. Sorry, didnt recognise you. Let me take your bag.
Philip handed over a massive sports holdall, immediately pulling my husband earthward as soon as he let go of the handle. Our cat, alarmed beyond reason, dashed off at breakneck speed through two rooms and a locked door.
What have you got in here? My husband staggered as he hauled the bag into Henrys room.
Study material. Everything for primary school and applied subjects.
Henry, sunk as always deep into the sofa and his phone, barely looked up as the door swung open.
On your side! my husband criedtoo late. Philip strode in and took a good, long look at the wallpaper.
Have you got a drill?
Why? my husband asked.
To help with English, Philip replied, and out from the bag came a pull-up bar, a punching bag, and a skipping rope.
Ill ask our neighbour, my husband panted, arms weak, Meanwhile, Philip, this is Henry. He yanked Henry upright, who stood knee-high to Philip. Son, this is your tutor, Mr Jameson.
How did you get so muscly? Henry asked instead of Hello.
By stacking things in columns, Philip replied, and began piling up barbell plates.
Right, get started, my husband said, and fled the scene.
Are you stronger than Spider-Man?
Does Spider-Man bench two hundred?
Henry had no clue, but somehow felt the answer was no.
I dont like lessons, he declared immediately.
Lessons are for losers. We’re training abs, said Philip. He lay down and launched into sit-ups. Henry, cautious, watched from a distance, expecting the odd tutor to tire, but he just changed pace and upped the weights. When he was done with sit-ups, he moved to dumbbells, then resistance bands, and finished with press-ups.
Got all that down? Want to be strong? Or dyou fancy living your whole life like your mutantstuck in cobwebs and dust?
Henry shook his head.
Good. Three rounds of each exerciseforty-five minus thirty-nine reps. Start with sit-ups.
How manys that?
Why dont you tell me?
No power drill, just managed a hand-drill! my husband burst in, stopping short on seeing his son mid press-up. Ill check in later, he whispered, tiptoeing out and shutting the door behind him.
***
Next morning, at half five, the phone rang. Bleary-eyed, my husband staggered out, primed for a proper rant. But standing in the doorway, Philips bare dome gleaming, he knew hed run out of curses before covering a head that size. Philip seemed even broader overnight, the bags under his eyes were like biceps.
Were doing history and geography today. Dress code: plimsolls, shorts, vest. Long-distance run, surveying local geography and city history.
Hes only in Year 3. They dont even do those subjects yet, my husband yawned.
And there’s poetry included. You joining us?
I was fine at school, thanks, my husband muttered.
In what year did the Norse invasions recede from our county?
Erm, I need to be up for work soon, Ill just get Henry
Back in a few minutes, my husband whispered, He wont wake up.
Get him dressed. Hell wake up on the way, Philip advised.
***
Three times a week, Philip was at our doorstep. Mondays: chest, triceps, shoulders, maths, English. Wednesdays: back, biceps, literature. Fridays: legs, geography, history.
Within three weeks, little Henry strolled into the kitchen shirtless, his father covertly shielding his own paunch behind the kettle at sight of those six-pack abs. Henry stood tall, strong, and actually began shaming us for our sedentary ways.
Nick, I dont know how I feel about all this, I said over dinner. Do you know what Henry asked for his birthday?
Xbox. He already asked me.
No. A climbing frame and a blender for smoothies! Im worried Philip isnt even a tutor. What if hes just another sports-obsessed trainer ruining our boy?
Come off it! I see them doing maths!
Have you ever seen a textbook?
They had a calorie chart.
There you go. You know what they saymuscleheads arent exactly thinkers
What are you saying? my husband frowned.
Theyre not the brightest bulbs, I tapped the glass table for effect. And now our sons going the same way.
Better a daft gym fanatic than a feeble bookworm, maybe?
I just want a normal child! This has to stop.
A phone call interrupted us.
Its his teacher! I said, answering.
Hello? Whats he done now? Yes, of course, Ill be right in.
What is it?
Henrys been in a fight. See? I told you. This can only end badly.
Ill come with you.
***
We took a taxi to school and were immediately called to the headteachers office.
Well, so much for your tutor, third year and were already summoned to the office.
Inside, parents, children, school counsellor, and Henrys class teacher all crowded together, so boisterous even the piano next door seemed to go out of tune.
This isnt a gym! This is a school! one mother snapped at my husband.
Can someone tell me whats happened?
The class teacher took the floor: Henry was forcing the boys to do pull-ups at break and tallying their scores using fraction division.
He did what?
Taking turns on the pull-up bar, increasing reps each time, Henry explained.
Enough! The boys didnt want to; Henry threatened them.
But they started it! Calling me names, I just corrected them on the proper use of clumsy and show-off. They rushed me, so I had to react! Like Mr Jameson says, if youve got lots of energy, do more pull-ups and better to divide using fractions than fight savages, Henry finished, eyes downcast.
He told us if we bothered him again, hed make us extract roots! sobbed a boy.
That Neanderthal shouldnt be allowed near our children! another mother wailed.
Wait a minute, my husband interrupted. You mean, instead of hitting back, my son used division and a pull-up bar?
And made them learn poetry while running the field!
Told youno danger of him turning into a dumb brute, my husband whispered to me, and I nodded.
Id like to apologise to you, the headteacher said suddenly.
He should be apologising! snapped a parent, nodding at Henry.
No, to his parents! Your sons exceptional, the headteacher addressed us. Given all this, well need to move him up a year.
Justice served! Right you are! And good riddance to your little muscle-man, too! crowed the parents.
Im moving him up to Year 4. Hes miles ahead academically, the head concluded.
An awkward silence followed. You could practically hear the envy gnawing through the other parents petrified brains as they shuffled out.
Hi, Mr Jameson, bit of news Henrys moving up to Year 4, more subjects, my husband rang the tutor whilst leaving.
***
The next week, just as promised, Henry moved up. Two weeks later he was off to compete in a youth crossfit comp and started preparing for his first childrens poetry Olympic. A month on, one of the ‘conflict’ boys dads calledasking for Mr Jameson’s number.
Soon, Philips workout-and-academics club was full of kids, cutting those out not for lagging in sport, but for poor grades in their homework diaries.
