Underclassment vs. Upperclassmen

"That was a lot harder than I thought it was gonna be," Tom commented.

"It most c-c-c... it really w-was," Fermat replied, shaking his head in amazement.

The upperclassmen had firmly trounced the lowerclassmen. In many cases, it wasn't because of lack of knowledge as much as it was skill in how to play the game. The juniors and seniors had more experience in getting to their feet at just the right moment in the second round, but the freshmen and sophomores did well in the third round, where their combined knowledge was able to match the older boys answer for answer. Their victories, no matter how small, buoyed the new players' confidence. But Mr. Feng warned them against loud expressions of delight, as the judges would not stop asking questions while they high-fived each other.

"If there's cheering from the audience, they will pause for it to die down," Mr. Feng said.

"Yes," Devdan piped up. He shook his head ruefully. "Unfortunately, there is usually little applause for our meets, even when we have the 'home court advantage'. Few are interested in academic quizzing."

"And our meets often conflict with those of the athletic teams," Mr. Feng added. He looked at the ten young men before him. "Don't think for a moment that we'll ever be able to compete with the athletic department for popularity. We won't and that's a given. But what we do, how we conduct ourselves, and the fun we have expressing what we have learned, is as much a credit to Wharton as any soccer game. We carry the banner of academic excellence, showing the kinds of students that Wharton can, and does, produce on a yearly basis." He stopped, took a deep breath, then grinned. "Now that I've gotten that out of my system..."

The boys laughed, and he joined them. "Not that it's not true or anything, but... let's just have fun and beat the pants off of our opponents, okay?"

The practice meet had continued. When it was over, and the upperclassmen were triumphant, Mr. Feng took some time to address the persistent problems that individual team members were having. Then he, Dev, and Mikal worked together to measure each boy for a sports jacket, which would be part of their team garb, and gave each player a tie to wear at the meets.

"Hold for a moment, Fermat," Dev said as the younger boy prepared to leave. The team captain beckoned to Tom, who came over, a quizzical look on his face. "Mr. Lopez, would you please give Mr. Hackenbacker some assistance in returning to our mutual dormitory? As you can see, he is in need of it."

"Sure!" the sophomore said brightly. "You're in Maplewood, too, Fermat?" he asked. "Which floor?"

"Third floor, w-w-west wing," Fermat replied.

"Okay. I'm on the first floor, east wing. I'd be happy to give you a hand."

So it was that the two boys were making their way along the walkways, heading to the dorm on the far side of the quad, Tom carrying Fermat's bookbag in addition to his own backpack. They talked a little, small talk mostly.

"So, you said you lived somewhere near New Zealand," Tom stated. "What exactly do you mean?"

"I, uh, live with my f-f-f... my dad on a tiny, tropical i-island somewhere n-n-north of New Z-Zealand," Fermat replied. He shrugged. "It's, uh, k-kinda hard to e-explain."

"Huh, I guess it would be. Hard to pinpoint on the map?"

"Y-Yeah," Fermat said, nodding. "Something like th-that."

"Sounds cool, living in the tropics," Tom said. "Must be nice to not have any snow or ice." He looked around at the trees and heaved a sigh. "At least, having lived in Cincy, I'm used to the snow."

Fermat decided to pass over the other boy's oxymoron, and instead told him. "I'm n-not fond of w-w-w... the seasonal ch-changes. Autumn isn't b-bad, but the sn-snow can get d-deep."

"Yeah, it can. Good thing Wharton's well-prepared for winter conditions."

They fell silent as they entered the elevator and rode it up to the third floor. Fermat stepped out, and Tom asked, "Can you manage this the rest of the way?"

"S-Sure. Thanks for h-helping me out."

"No problem," Tom replied as he handed Fermat his bookbag. "See you in class tomorrow."

"Yeah, see y-you."

The elevator door closed, and Fermat strode down the hall. The laundry boxes, four this time, sat in front of their door, and once Fermat had deposited his school supplies and laptop inside, he retrieved the containers, leaving his roommate's boxes next to the appropriate chifforobe. He plugged his laptop back into its desk station, and booted it up. Mr. Feng had told the boys that the schedule of meets should be waiting in both their email and their campus mail, and Fermat couldn't wait to forward a copy to his father.

"Ah, th-there it is," he said in satisfaction as he sat down before his laptop. A few keystrokes, a quickly written note, and the schedule was on its way to Brains. Fermat scrolled down through his messages and his eyes lit up as he saw a particular email address among the dozen or so others.

"A letter from T-Tin-Tin!" he cried happily, opening the file. "With some p-p-p... photos! Cool!"

Brains was already hard at work, sitting at his work station in a corner of Thunderbird Two's hangar, a thermal mug of lukewarm coffee at one elbow, and the Firefly's specs dominating his wide, flat-screen computer monitor. He was following Jeff's instructions on finding a way to add some kind of shielding to the cannon operator so they could prevent a repeat of Gordon's recent experience. His goal was to find a way to retrofit the machine instead of redesigning it... though, if he had to go that far, he would.

"Need to use something clear, so the operator can see, but tough and enclosed, so that cooler air can be pumped in," Brains muttered to himself, his stutter disappearing as he became lost in his work. "I'll need to beef up the air conditioning units, as well."

His computer gave a soft "ping" sound and he glanced up almost irritably at the small window that appeared in the lower right of his screen. He read it, looked back at the schematics, then it finally registered with his mind what he had read and he turned back to the window. Fermat! he realized with a smile. Touching the screen, the window opened and the note from his son appeared.

Dear Dad,

I had my first practice for quiz team today. It was interesting. Mr. Feng went over the format with us. There are three rounds: questions directed at specific individuals on a team, questions directed to both teams (and the first to answer gets the points), and questions given to a team in general. Once he went over the rules, we played a practice round, the upperclassmen against the lowerclassmen. Sadly, we underclassmen were soundly trounced, though we did very well in the third round. I was fitted for a jacket, and was given a tie to wear at the meets. Just giving you fair warning on any incoming bills.

You'll find our schedule attached to this note. I wish you could come to our first meet, but that will be out of town and this weekend, which is too short a notice. Maybe the next one? In any case, I hope to see you soon.

Everything else is as well as can be expected. I'm still waiting to hear from Alan on the subject of room changes. Perhaps he'll tell me at supper.

Well, on to my homework. Got lots to do.

Love,

Fermat

Brains smiled wider at the missive, and opened the attachment to scan it. He took a moment to bring up his planning calendar, and quickly added the dates of Fermat's meets to it. Then he forwarded the schedule on to Jeff with just a sentence, "Here's the schedule of Fermat's quiz meets. We can compare it with Alan's later. Brains."

That completed, he saved the letter to his hard drive and got back to work. It took a bit for him to regain the focus he had before the email popped up, but eventually he did and ended up working through lunch on the Firefly retrofit.

Alan trudged back to his dorm, sweaty and tired. Xavion had put him through his paces, giving him instruction on how to do the "Fosbury Flop" and trying to undo the technique Alan had already taught himself.

"You'll clear the bar more cleanly this way, and without twisting your back muscles," the team captain told him. Alan couldn't quite agree. He didn't see what was wrong with what he had been doing, nor could he get the hang of the new technique. Exasperated, Xavion called a halt to the lesson and sent Alan off to Coach Evans, who was at the jumping pit. Lee Sugimoto was there, smoothing the sand's surface after the last jumper.

"All right, Tracy. Here's what I need for you to do," the coach began. "Get a good running start, and push off from this raised board with your stronger leg. Then, as you move through the air, bring both of your legs forward beneath you for your landing."

"Right, Coach," Alan said, nodding.

The man held up a finger. "Now, something to remember. There's a piece of Plasticine here at the end of the board. It's there to mark if any part of your foot is in front of the board when you start your jump. Should there be any mark on that bit of soft clay, your jump doesn't count, no matter how far you've gone. So, you want to judge your launch position very carefully. Understand?"

Alan nodded again. "I understand, Coach. No marks on that... stuff... whatever you called it."

"Plasticine, Tracy. It's a kind of modeling clay, sort of like Play-Doh, but it doesn't get hard." Coach Evans shook his head. "Just jump, Tracy."

"Right." Alan backed up along the grassy lane. The jumping pit, seeing as it had a sandy landing zone, was set at one end of the track, where it wouldn't interfere with the soccer oval, where most of the other track and field events could safely be held. He tried to gauge the length to the launching board, nodded to himself, and began to run, picking up speed as he went. His feet hit the board one after another, the stronger ending up closer to the pit, just as he'd intended. He leaped into the air, the momentum of his run carrying him on, and unconsciously brought his legs under him to stop his forward fall. His heels hit the sand first, and the upper part of his body moved beyond them, so he ended up on hands and knees. The entire jump was so lightning fast that he had no time to think about it, and he was almost surprised to find himself in the sand, his hands stinging from breaking his fall. He stood and looked over his shoulder at the coach.

"Not bad, Tracy, not bad at all. A clean jump," Coach Evans said encouragingly. Lee, who had wordlessly measured the length of Alan's jump, spoke quietly to the coach.

"Hmm. Not as far as your jump during try outs, but respectable, very respectable." The older man beckoned to Alan. "Let's try that again."

Alan brushed the sand off his hands and headed back towards the coach. Lee was approaching, the smoothing broom in his hand, and he bumped his shoulder roughly into Alan's as he passed. Alan paused long enough to give Sugimoto a poisonous glare, but the older boy continued on his way as if nothing had happened.

"C'mon, Tracy! Time's a-wasting!" the coach called.

Alan drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then trotted off to get his running start.

The next two jumps weren't as successful as the first. Alan marked the Plasticine on the first of them, and didn't get enough momentum on the second.

"Okay, Tracy. We'll work on those jumps again later. Right now, I want you to tap Steve Ulrich over there," the coach pointed to a tall, dark-haired boy who was at the opposite end of the field from them, "and have him work with you on the javelin."

"Yes, coach," Alan replied. He jogged off, heading for the boy who he had seen working with the discus and shot put. When he reached Steve, he took a moment to catch his breath then held out his hand. "I'm Alan Tracy. Coach said you're to work with me on the javelin."

Steve looked at Alan's outstretched hand, scowled, then ignored the offered handshake. "I know who you are, Tracy. You can call me Steve. So, you're my alternate on javelin?"

"Yeah," Alan replied coolly, dropping his hand. "I am."

"You ever throw in competition before?" Steve asked, a touch of sneer in his voice.

"No, I haven't. I haven't thrown it except for try outs," Alan admitted, folding his arms over his chest.

"No? That's odd. Usually we get throwers who are much more prepared," was the snide reply.

"Listen, Steve," Alan said, accentuating the older boy's name, clipping his words off sharply in an unconscious imitation of his father. "I don't know what bug you've got up your ass, but remember this: the coach seems to think I have some talent, or he wouldn't have given me the position." He leaned over to pick up the fiberglass javelin. "Now, are you going show me how or not?"

"I'm not the one with something up his ass, Tracy," Steve muttered in reply. He snatched the javelin from Alan's hands, and walked away to a painted area set between the track and the baseball field. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger boy, who stood still, his face pale. "Come on."

Alan found himself unable to move. The muttered taunt had taken him completely by surprise. His face drained of color as the shock, like a bucket of cold water to the face, made it difficult for his mind to actually process the barely audible comment. Then he began to shake with rage, his face turning a dangerous, angry red. It took all his willpower to stop himself from attacking Steve, and he clamped his jaw shut tightly to bite off a reflexive, caustic string of invective before it reached his lips. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stalked off after his instructor.

By the end of practice, Alan was sore both physically and emotionally. Steve remained condescending while showing Alan some of the finer points of throwing the javelin, including demonstrating the best way to hold, carry, and throw the spear. He had Alan throw it, each time criticizing the way Alan moved down toward the release line, his timing on the release, and just about anything else the younger boy tried to do.

"Coach will be downloading some training vids for you to watch on your computer," he told Alan. "And he'll set up some throwing drills as well. But remember, you're only the alternate. This isn't something you'll be doing often, if at all."

Alan was tired, so he simply nodded. But as they walked over to join the coach for a few last instructions, his frustration with the older boy came to a head, and he reached out to grab Steve's arm. Swinging Steve around to face him, Alan's blue eyes narrowed and he spoke in a cold, controlled voice.

"Listen. I don't know what you've heard about me, but that crack you made earlier was way out of line. I know that a rumor's going around about me. I know what it is, and who started it. Most importantly, I know why he started it, though that's between me and him. But I'm telling you now, it's not true. Even if it were, that crap you said was still out of line. If I hear anything like it again, you'll wish you'd never opened your mouth."

Steve shook him off. "What'll you do, Tracy? Go running home to daddy?"

"No. I'll report you for harassment. First to the coach. Then to whoever in the administration can do something about it." He began to walk away, then turned and pointed a finger at the older boy. "Remember that." Then he jogged off to find the coach.

Coach Evans went over the practice times for the team, including the addition of a morning run to the new team members' daily schedule.

"I'll see you all at the gym at seven a.m. sharp. The dining hall opens for athletes at six, so get a light breakfast as early as possible." The coach glanced around at the young men. "Everyone on the same page? Good. I'll see you all tomorrow morning."

Now Alan stood before the door to his room and in a bit of a quandary. Do I go in and possibly find Sugi in there? What happens if I do? In his current state of mind and body he'd almost rather not go in, but something his father had said came to mind.

"...don't let your roommate ride roughshod over you. It's your room, too, you know."

You're right, Dad, Alan thought. It is my room, too... but only until the end of the week - I hope.

With that, he knocked, then put his hand up to the lock. The door swished open, and Alan came face to face with Lee Sugimoto - who was coming out of the bathroom with a syringe in his hand.