Watching my son Oliver doodle yet another Spider-Man in the margins of his exercise book instead of solving the maths problems, my wife and I came to terms with the fact that, at this rate, only our cat Mr. Whiskers would grow up to enjoy a comfortable life. Wed hired more tutors than I could count, but none of them succeeded in inspiring much love in Oliver for anything scientific. If anything, each new teacher pushed him further into soul-searching. To Oliver, life was a bit of a fuss, and true happiness, he believed, was to be found in idleness, chocolate éclairs, and cartoons on his phone.
When our parental optimism was hanging by a thread, I stumbled upon a bizarre advert late one night: Barbell for sale and Ill also teach your children or anyone you care about to enjoy school subjects and sport. My own method. I work with mathematics, history, English and literature, biceps, triceps, legs, shoulders, reading, chest. Nigel.
Out of sheer desperation, we cast caution to the wind. I dialled the number, and after a couple of rings, a gravelly voice puffed into the receiver, accompanied by some odd rhythmic clanging.
Yes?
Er, hello, Im calling about the advert.
Barbells sold. Nigel sounded ready to hang up.
No, Im after tutoring for my sonmaths, English, literature
Age, weight, abilities?
His concise questions were as unsettling as they were inspiring. The sound of clanging was replaced by a skipping rope whipping the floor. I could almost smell sweat wafting through the phone.
Hes nine, weighs three and a bit stone, can almost do column addition
How many press-ups?
Sorry? I stuck a finger in my ear, wondering if I misheard.
Press-ups and pull-ups? Nigel repeated.
Ive no idea. Five, maybe?
Can he tell a prefix from a suffix?
I Ill have to ask my wife.
What equipment do you have at home?
Equipment?
Compass? Protractor? Resistance band? Kettlebell?
Just a wooden ruler, I think.
Understood. Text me the address. Ill be there within the hour, said Nigel, and then, to someone else in the background, yelled, Wider stance, back straight! Thats it, keep going, this is a history lesson! He hung up.
I stood rooted to the spotlegs apart, back straight like a lancebefore heading off to break the news to Oliver.
When I told him he was getting another tutor, Oliver reacted as usual: cranked up the TV volume and asked for a cuppa and a sandwich. Academics had no appeal for him whatsoever.
Soon the doorbell rang. My wife peeked through the spyhole, only to be greeted by a mountainous chest bursting out of a vest, glistening and somehow coconut-scented.
Good afternoon. In strode the man, already halfway into our hallway. Nigel, he was called.
She stammered, I-I think thats the bushy-browed chap from down the road you once left a note on his Vauxhall, promising to sort his eyesight!
A muffled voice came from the kitchen, Sorry, mistake! Im an optician well, used to be.
The man introduced himself: Nigel Thompson, tutor, at your service.
Ah, of course! I said, emerging from behind the wardrobe. My apologies, let me take your bag.
He handed me a hockey bag, which promptly flattened me the moment he let go. The cat, startled witless, achieved supersonic speed, tearing through two rooms and a locked door.
What on earth is in here? I groaned, dragging the bag to Olivers room.
Teaching materials. Primary school and physical education.
Oliver, sinking into the depths of the sofa and glued to his phone, hardly noticed us until the door swung open.
Careful! I warned, but before I could finish, Nigel had breezed in, scanning the room as if Oliver were invisible.
Got a power drill?
Why?
To practise English, obviously! he replied, pulling a pull-up bar, a punching bag, and a rope from his bag.
Ill check with the neighbour for the drill, I muttered, knackered. This is Oliver, by the way.
Nigel eyed the boy, who stood little taller than his own knee. Whered you get all those muscles? Oliver asked instead of hello.
Stacking up the numbers, mate, Nigel replied, stacking barbell plates one atop another.
Right, off you go then. I ducked out.
Are you stronger than Spider-Man? Oliver asked.
Can Spider-Man bench two hundred kilos?
Oliver had no idea, but something told him probably not.
I dont like lessons, Oliver stated, clearing the air early.
Lessons are for the hopeless. Well be doing sit-ups.
Nigel sprawled on the floor and started a ruthless set. Oliver stood back, expecting him to run out of steam, but instead, Nigel picked up the pace and loaded on more weight. After sit-ups came dumbbells, then resistance bands, finished with a round of press-ups.
Remember all that? Want to be strong? Or spend your life like your mate Spider-Man, faffing about in cobwebs?
Oliver shook his head.
Good lad. Now, do each exercise three times, forty-five minus thirty-nine each set. Start with sit-ups.
How manys that?
You tell me.
Then I burst in, waving a drill. Upon seeing Oliver attempting squats, I froze in my tracks. Ill just come back later, I whispered, backing out and wedging the door shut behind me.
***
The next morning, at half five sharp, the doorbell rang. Bleary eyed, I stumbled to the door, prepared to unleash my choicest curses, but found myself facing the now even bulkier crown of Nigels head filling the doorframe. He seemed to have unnaturally swollen overnight, his eye bags now resembling small dumbbells.
Were doing history and geography. Kit: plimsolls, vest and shorts. Todaya cross-country run exploring local landscapes and notable sites.
Hes only in Year 3; those arent on the timetable yet, I yawned.
Theres poetry toocoming, or not?
I got on fine at school, thanks.
What year did the Normans leave Kent?
Erm I need to wake Oliver. One moment.
Back in Olivers room, I whispered to my wife, He wont wake up.
Dress him. Hell come to on the way, Nigel advised.
***
Three times a week, Nigel would appear at our doorstep, commencing sessions that went: Mondays, chest-triceps-shoulders-maths-English; Wednesdays, back-biceps-literature-grammar; Fridays, legs-geography-history.
After three weeks, Oliver wandered into the kitchen shirtless, and I, catching sight of his new set of abs, subtly shielded my beer belly with the kettle. Oliver stood tall and straight, and began shaming us for our sedentary lifestyle.
Im really not sure about all this, my wife confided one evening. Do you know what Oliver wants for his birthday?
An Xbox? He already asked me.
No. A Swedish ladder and a smoothie blender. Im telling you, this Nigels no tutorjust some gym-mad trainer out to ruin his health.
You reckon? They do seem to do schoolwork, dont they?
Have you seen a single book in their sessions?
A calorie chart.
Thats my point. You know what these gym types are like
Whats wrong with them? I asked, surprised.
Not the brightest, she replied, tapping the table for emphasis. And our sons turning the same.
Id rather a dim strongman than a puny bookworm.
How about just a normal child? I want these lessons stopped!
The phone rang.
Its his form teacher, she said, then answered. Hello? Whats happened? Yes, Ill be right there.
Well?
Oliver started a fight. See? I knew thisd end badly.
Im coming with you.
***
We got a taxi to the school and were promptly summoned to the headteachers office.
So much for tutors. Third year and already up before the headmistress.
The office was jam-packed with parents, kids, the school counsellor and Olivers teacherso noisy even the piano next door lost its tune.
This isnt a gym, its a school! one mother snapped at me.
Could someone please explain whats happened?
The teacher took charge. Oliver forced these boys to play ‘ladder runs’ during breakand keep score using long division.
Do what?
He made them take turns on the playground bars, increasing reps each time, Oliver explained.
Hush! The boys didnt want to. Oliver threatened them.
But they started it! Wanted to rough me up because I corrected their grammar, said Oliver earnestly.
How did you correct them?
I explained how to conjugate blockhead and show-off. They came at me, so I had to defend myself. As Mr. Thompson says, If you have energy, do more pull-ups, and teach fractions, not fighting.
He said if we came near him, hed make us extract square roots! one boy sobbed.
That Neanderthal isnt safe around our children! another mother screeched.
Hang on, I interrupted. So there was no actual fight?
The victims shook their heads.
So my son, instead of fighting, responded with maths and athletics?
And made them run laps and recite Shakespeare!
You see? Hes not turning into a meat-head, I said to my wife, who nodded in agreement.
Id like to apologise, the headmistress spoke up quietly.
He should apologise! a parent retorted, glaring at Oliver.
Not to you to his parents. Your son is remarkable. She turned to us. Given todays events, though, well have to move him up.
Justice! Thatll teach him and his muscly freak of a tutor! someone cheered.
Were promoting him to Year 4. Hes outpacing the curriculum.
An awkward silence hung in the room. You could practically hear jealousy gnawing away at the other parents. They drifted out, avoiding our eyes.
Nigel? Hi, about what happened Were moving up to Year 4, therell be new subjects, I called him after leaving the office.
***
A week later, as promised, Oliver joined Year 4. Two weeks after that, he competed in a junior crossfit event and began training for his first childrens literature Olympiad. A month on, one of the parents from the earlier fiasco rang, begging for Nigel’s number.
Before long, a childrens club formed: you werent dropped for missing a goal or a run, but only if your grades slipped.
Looking back, Ive learnt that sometimes the unconventional path is the one that brings out the best in your child. A strong body can open the mind and sometimes, just sometimes, the way forward is found not in the pages of a book but in the sweat and laughter shared along the way.
