Matt came home from practice around 5:00, slammed the door, and flung himself dramatically into a chair.
“I hate that fucking school. I hate that fucking coach. Made me do laps because he said I shaved reps, and I didn’t, he was just too busy staring at O’Donnell’s ass. Again.”
Tom looked over at his son. “I gotta talk to you, mijo.” He drew a deep breath. “I got fired today. I can’t remember anything about work. I gave Alec a putazo and got thrown out.”
Matt looked shocked. “Fired? But…”
Tom held up one giant brown paw. “I’m not done, mijo. Right after, I met a coach from Syracuse University and apparently this body was their top football prospect. I’m leaving in a bit to go work out with this guy and see if the body can remember how to play football. If it can… we’re thinking about moving to Syracuse.” He held his breath for a moment.
Matt frowned slightly, before his thought process caught up. “Wait, so… you’d go to college again? And football? You hate football. You only go to my games to support me, but you don’t know how to play.”
“You’re right, son, but this body keeps surprising me.”
“Wait, hold up. So… we might move? I might escape the hellhole that is Winnova Academy? OH MY GOD!” He bounced up and down on excitement.
“Can I go with you to meet this coach? I’ll admit, your old body was in decent shape but kind of skinny fat. I gotta see what New Dad can do in a gym.”
“Sure,” said Tom. “Go change into something and grab whatever you need for the gym.
A short while later, in the busy lobby, Tom found himself explaining Mind Storage to a very bored counter attendant who had seen that the picture on Tom’s membership didn’t match the enormous Mexican in front of him. The employee shrugged. “Whatever.”
The father and son made their way to the locker room to change. More than a few pairs of eyes were locked on Tom’s muscular build as he changed into Nick’s high school PE shorts and a pair of beat-up old Metcons that had been in the box of clothes.
“You made it!” Coach Flanagan called from a deadlift platform. “Who’s this?”
“This is my son, Matthew Allen. He’s a rising sophomore at Winnova.”
“You play, son?” Matt nodded. “Good. Keep at it. If your dad agrees to sign with us, I’ll make sure you get into the program at Uni High, and of course you’ll have access to all the team equipment and trainers. Now. Thomas. I want you to deadlift this bar…” and he went on into a technical explanation of the deadlift.
Tom sauntered up to the bar and took a grip.
“Not like that, not that wide. Bring your hands in. And raise your hips.”
But Tom was not listening. He tugged on the barbell experimentally, then set his back and muscle snatched the bar over his head in one effortless motion.
“That was gorgeous. For a snatch. Let’s try a conventional deadlift instead.”
“Ain’t enough weight,” said Tom. “Feels like a damn stick. But okay.” He set up for a deadlift and stood up as though nothing were in his hands.
“Okay,” said Flanagan. “More weight.” He set another set of 45 lb plates on the bar. “225… go.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Oooookay.” He deadlifted the bar again.
Flanagan, cool as a cucumber, just kept loading the bar and loading the bar until Tom had to hitch the bar. By this time, the group had attracted a crowd of gym rats.
Matt counted the weight out and stared at his huge father. “Bro. You are a BEAST! Nobody at my high school has ever come anywhere near this deadlift.”
“How… whew… how much was it?” asked Tom.
“745,” called one of the rats. “Seven plates, a quarter and a dime on each side.”
“Wow,” said Flanagan. “Impressive. And that’s without a serious strength program. What do you weigh, Martinez?”
“290, I think,” replied Tom.
“Good. Let’s move over to a squat rack. Damn it. Excuse me, sir, you can curl anywhere but we can’t squat without a squat rack.”
The man with the E-Z bar protested. “Move, you chucklefuck,” growled Flanagan. “I got the finest D-Line prospect I’ve ever seen here. Go use the Smith machine.”
He loaded a barbell, then looked at Tom and moved the J-hooks 7 notches higher. “I’m gonna need a goddamn plyo box to reach this,” he muttered. He loaded 225 on the bar. “I know this is light. But I want to see your form.”
Tom obliged and set up to walk the bar out. “Make sure you go below parallel,” called Matt. Tom looked straight ahead, hinged his hips, and descended gracefully into a deep squat before standing back up. Someone applauded. “That’s called ass to grass, big guy!”
Flanagan stroked his chin. “Better mobility than I would expect for someone of your size,” he said. He put Tom through the paces with the squat, and after several reps, Tom had Flanagan spotting him behind and two gymgoers spotting the ends of the bar.
“675,” said Flanagan. “Impressive.”
They moved to a bench, which freed up as though they’d conjured it, and Tom went through the motions before winding up with a 455 press that was wobbly but good.
After that, Flanagan put Tom through drills designed to gauge his speed, his explosive power, and his agility.
“Jesus,” said the coach. “You are one gifted young man. You’d make an excellent running back, except you’re so big you’d be a terror on either the O-line or as a defensive end. There’s one more test we give people,” he said, as they found a quiet table near the personal trainers’ bullpen. He handed Tom a pen and a booklet marked “Wonderlic”. “You have twelve minutes. There are 50 questions. Try to answer them all.”
Tom grabbed the pen and turned his hand to be able to write. After 12 minutes, he handed the booklet back to Flanagan, who snapped open an answer guide and started marking.
“Huh. 14. 15 if I’m generous on this last one. You said you’re a lawyer?”
“I was, I guess.”
“I… think maybe something got lost in the transfer. Because a score like this translates to an IQ of about 88 or 90.”
Tom blinked. “Oh.”
“It doesn’t matter, son. You have what it takes. And if you improve as much as most men improve in our program, and you perform anywhere near the way your donor did at Southside, you may be looking at a career in the NFL. So… full ride it is, with stipend. Take this paperwork home and read it over. Call me tomorrow morning. If you decide to come to Syracuse, we’ll set up a signing ceremony and get you kitted out in your first Orangemen jersey.”
Matt came running over, his eyes suspiciously moist. “Dad! I can’t believe it! I finally have someone to talk about football with! To work out with! I know I’ll never be as big as you are now, but we can spend time together! In the gym! Or watching games!” He threw his arms as far around the budding football star as he could.
Tom was lost in his own world. Was he now… kind of dumb? Was that why he couldn’t think quickly? Why his legal knowledge abandoned him? Was he now a giant dumb jock? He made a mental note to call Dr. … Dr. Whatzisname in the morning.