Fergus spent most of Tuesday’s history lesson thinking about how to ask Andrew McKenzie whether he should start strength training, which was unfortunate because Mr Campbell was apparently saying something important about the Scottish Wars of Independence.
He realised this when the teacher asked him a question.
“Robertson.” Fergus looked up from the page he’d been pretending to read.
“Sir?” Several people around him immediately smiled.
Mr Campbell stood near the front of the classroom with one hand resting against his desk.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell us why the Declaration of Arbroath was significant.” Fergus stared at him.
He knew they had covered it.
He could remember writing the heading less than ten minutes earlier, and somewhere beneath the repeated thoughts of whether asking McKenzie about strength training would sound stupid, there had definitely been information about Robert the Bruce and Scottish independence.
Unfortunately, very little of it had survived.
“It was…
declaring something?” Arthur made a strangled noise two seats away.
Mr Campbell’s expression remained painfully neutral.
“An astonishing deduction from the title.” A few people laughed.
Fergus felt his face warming.
“It was about Scottish independence from England,” he tried.
“Better.
Perhaps if you listen for the remainder of the lesson, you’ll discover slightly more.” “Yes, sir.” Mr Campbell moved on, and Fergus lowered his eyes towards his notebook.
Arthur waited approximately three seconds before whispering, “Declaring something.” “Shut up.” “Historian.” Fergus nudged his bag with one foot.
He genuinely had meant to pay attention.
Schoolwork remained part of the agreement allowing him to spend so much time on basketball, and his parents had been clear that poor marks would lead to conversations Fergus didn’t want to have.
His problem wasn’t a sudden lack of interest in school so much as an inability to stop rehearsing something that should have been simple.
Coach, can I ask you about getting stronger?
That sounded all right.
Coach, do you think I should start strength training?
Better.
Coach, I’m really skinny, and everyone knocks me around.
Absolutely not.
By lunchtime, Fergus had decided he was overthinking it.
By the end of the school day, he had resumed overthinking it.
Practice at least gave him something else to concentrate on.
McKenzie didn’t allow much room for wandering thoughts once the team stepped onto the court.
Wallace had moved to 2 – 1 after beating St Cuthbert’s, but the mood around training hadn’t suddenly become relaxed because of it.
If anything, McKenzie seemed determined to prevent the game-winner from becoming an excuse for everyone to spend a week congratulating themselves.
“Two wins don’t qualify you for anything,” he reminded them before warm-ups.
“Neither does one nice shot at the buzzer.
Friday’s finished.
Move.” Arthur glanced towards Fergus.
Fergus knew exactly what was coming.
“One nice shot.” “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” Arthur grinned and jogged away.
Once practice properly began, Fergus found himself enjoying it more than he’d expected.
The soreness from Friday had mostly disappeared, and Pick Dodger was beginning to settle into his defensive habits in ways that felt less obvious than a sudden improvement and more like having additional details available whenever he needed them.
Screens still worked on him.
Merrick proved that within the first ten minutes.
Fergus followed Arthur too closely through one action, recognised Merrick’s screen a fraction too late and caught enough of the big centre’s shoulder to be knocked several feet away.
Arthur came around cleanly and buried the jumper before Fergus recovered.
“Too late,” McKenzie called.
Fergus nodded.
The difference was that those moments were becoming less frequent.
On the next repetition, he saw Merrick shifting into position before Arthur reached him.
Rather than charging directly towards the screen, Fergus adjusted his angle, slipped over Merrick’s upper shoulder and stayed close enough that Arthur couldn’t turn the corner comfortably.
Arthur tried accelerating anyway, but Fergus remained beside him and eventually forced the ball towards the sideline.
McKenzie gave a short nod.
“Better.” That was enough.
Fergus didn’t need the System to tell him that something had changed.
A week earlier, every screen had felt like a separate problem requiring conscious thought.
Now he was beginning to recognise the signs earlier: the way a ball-handler changed pace while waiting for the screener, the direction a teammate’s body approached from and the space Fergus needed to preserve if he wanted to get over rather than underneath.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was improving.
The stranger moment came later during a half-court scrimmage.
Fergus was guarding Finn when Jaime received the ball on the opposite wing.
William had been matched against him initially, but a switch left Jaime attacking towards the middle with enough room to accelerate.
Fergus saw the lane opening.
Normally, his first thought would have been helping towards the ball while trying not to completely abandon Finn.
This time something else registered alongside it.
Jaime had committed to the drive.
William was trailing.
The path towards the basket was predictable.
Fergus moved.
He didn’t consciously think about Charge Champion.
There wasn’t time to open a menu or mentally consult a description.
The understanding simply gave structure to what he was seeing.
If he arrived late, Jaime would already be moving around him.
If Fergus drifted sideways during contact, he risked being called for the foul himself.
If he reached the correct position early enough, Jaime would have to avoid him or go through him.
Fergus planted himself.
Jaime looked up.
His expression changed.
“Oh, fu…” The collision knocked Fergus onto his back.
A whistle sounded.
“Charge!” For half a second, nobody moved.
Arthur’s mouth fell open.
Fergus remained on the floor, more surprised by the whistle than the impact.
Arthur looked from him to McKenzie and then back again.
“What the hell?” Jaime stood several feet away with his hands on his hips.
“You’ve got to be joking.” McKenzie pointed towards the other end.
“Grey ball.” Jaime muttered something under his breath that Fergus was fairly certain shouldn’t be repeated around his mother.
Arthur finally approached and stared down at Fergus.
“You just took a charge.” Fergus accepted the offered hand.
“I noticed.” “You?” “Apparently.” Arthur shook his head as he pulled him upright.
“Who are you?” “Reid,” McKenzie called, “if you’ve finished interviewing him, we’re still practising.” Arthur immediately turned away.
“Yes, Coach.” Fergus rubbed his chest.
Charge Champion hadn’t made being run into particularly pleasant.
That seemed like an important limitation.
When the scrimmage resumed, Jaime gave Fergus a suspicious look the next time he drove towards his side of the court.
Fergus couldn’t stop himself from smiling, which earned another muttered comment.
The rest of practice passed without anything equally dramatic.
Fergus attempted no miraculous steals with Cookie Thief and didn’t suddenly become impossible to screen.
He defended, ran, made simple passes and missed more outside shots than he would have liked.
Once, number seven from St Cuthbert’s came back to mind while Fergus chased Arthur over another screen, and he found himself appreciating how much easier the action felt when the screener wasn’t six feet tall.
By the time McKenzie finally blew the last whistle, Fergus’s shirt was stuck to his back, and the question he’d been rehearsing since history had returned to the front of his mind.
The team began dispersing.
Fergus didn’t.
He took longer than necessary putting away a basketball, then retied one shoe despite it not actually needing to be retied.
Arthur noticed while collecting his bottle.
“You coming?” “In a minute.” Arthur looked towards McKenzie, who was gathering cones near the sideline, then back towards Fergus.
“You in trouble?” “No.” “Did Campbell tell him about history?” Fergus stared at him.
“How would my history teacher have already told my basketball coach?” Arthur shrugged.
“Teachers communicate.” “Go home.” “See you tomorrow, historian.” Fergus watched him leave with William before finally walking towards McKenzie.
The coach noticed him approaching.
“What is it, Robertson?” There went every version Fergus had rehearsed.
“Can I ask you something?” “You just did.” Fergus paused.
McKenzie’s mouth moved slightly beneath his beard.
“Go on.” Fergus took a breath.
“I wanted to ask about getting stronger.” McKenzie stopped gathering cones.
“For basketball?” “Yeah.” McKenzie straightened.
At his full height, the conversation immediately felt slightly ridiculous.
Fergus had to tilt his head considerably just to look at him.
“What exactly are you thinking?” “I don’t really know.
That’s why I’m asking.” “Good answer.” Fergus hadn’t expected that.
He explained the conversation he’d had with his parents on Sunday, although he left out some of the more embarrassing parts.
He told McKenzie that being physically weak was becoming increasingly noticeable during games and practices, particularly when he defended stronger players or got caught by screens.
He mentioned that Hamish knew a little about lifting but didn’t want to give him the wrong advice, while Diane thought anything he did should be sensible for his age.
“Your mum’s right,” McKenzie said.
“She’ll like hearing that.” “Don’t tell her.
It’ll ruin my reputation.” Fergus smiled.
McKenzie carried the cones towards the equipment cupboard, and Fergus followed.
“How old are you?” “Thirteen.” “I know.
I’m making a point.” “Oh.” McKenzie placed the cones down.
“You’re thirteen, Robertson.
You’re not a professional athlete preparing for a forty-game season, and you’re not a grown man trying to put twenty pounds on his bench press.
You don’t need some strict weight programme.” Fergus tried not to look disappointed.
McKenzie noticed anyway.
“I didn’t say don’t get stronger.” “Oh.” “I said don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be.” That sounded considerably better.
McKenzie closed the cupboard and leaned against the wall.
“You’re still growing.
Over the next few years, assuming you eat properly and don’t do anything stupid, you’ll naturally get bigger and stronger anyway.
What you can do now is start building a foundation.” “What does that mean?” “Press-ups.
Squats.
Lunges.” Fergus waited.
McKenzie waited too.
“That’s it?” “For now?” “Yeah.” “Pretty much.” Fergus had expected something more impressive.
Perhaps not heavy barbells after his conversation with Diane, but certainly a routine complicated enough to require writing down.
McKenzie seemed amused by his reaction.
“You disappointed?” “A little.” “Why?” “I thought there’d be more.” “More isn’t automatically better.
Press-ups build useful upper-body strength.
Squats and lunges work your legs, hips and balance.
All three make you control your own body; they require no equipment, and you can do them almost anywhere.
Most importantly, they’re difficult to make excuses about.” Fergus looked down at the court.
“How many?” “Can you do twenty press-ups properly?” “I think so.” “Thinking isn’t doing.” “I can try.” “Do that.
Twenty press-ups, twenty squats, twenty lunges.
You don’t need to destroy yourself.
If you’re inclined to do something every day, that’s plenty to start with.” “Twenty each every day?” McKenzie nodded.
“Provided nothing hurts, and you’re not doing them badly just to finish.
Quality matters more than the number.
If you’re exhausted after training, rest.
If something hurts in a way it shouldn’t, stop.
This isn’t punishment.” Fergus mentally calculated sixty repetitions.
That didn’t sound like much.
McKenzie apparently read his face again.
“Do twenty properly for a while before deciding it’s easy.” “What if it does get easy?” “Then you can gradually do more.
Thirty.
Forty.
If you’ve got the time and you’re still doing them properly, eventually fifty each.” “Every day?” “If you want.
But I’m not giving you homework, Robertson.
You’ve already got school, basketball practice, games and whatever extra nonsense you’re doing on your own.
Don’t sacrifice sleep because you’ve decided fifty squats at midnight will turn you into LeBron James.” Fergus laughed.
“I mean it.” “I know.” “And don’t start doing hundreds because fifty felt good.” “I won’t.” McKenzie gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced.
Fergus understood why.
“What about weights?” “Later.” “When?” “When there’s a reason for them.” That answer frustrated him slightly.
“But wouldn’t weights make me stronger faster?” “They could.
They could also give you more ways to train badly if you don’t know what you’re doing.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with supervised resistance training at your age, but you don’t need to rush into it.
Learn to control your own body first.
When that foundation is there, we can talk about adding resistance properly.” We.
Fergus noticed the word.
McKenzie continued before he could dwell on it.
“And strength isn’t going to fix everything.
You got flattened by Edric because he’s about seven inches taller than you and considerably heavier.
I could give you six months, and he’d still win that collision if you let him catch you square.” “So I still need to avoid the screen.” “Exactly.
Getting stronger doesn’t replace technique.
It gives the technique a better body to work with.” Fergus liked that.
It sounded remarkably similar to how the System worked.
Pick Dodger could improve his understanding of navigating screens, but it couldn’t make his body ignore contact.
Perimeter Pest could help him understand positioning, but knowledge alone couldn’t prevent a stronger player from displacing him.
Even Charge Champion, which had already helped him recognise the opportunity against Jaime, hadn’t stopped the collision from hurting.
Skill and body weren’t separate problems.
They supported each other.
“Do I need to eat more?” Fergus asked.
“Probably, if you’re training more, but that’s something I’d rather your parents handle than me pretending I’m your dietitian.
Eat proper meals.
Don’t skip breakfast.
Drink water.
Sleep.
Your mum’s a nurse, isn’t she?” “Yeah.” “Then she’s probably already told you all of this.” “Pretty much.” “Listen to her.” “She’ll definitely like hearing that.” McKenzie smiled.
Fergus looked around the nearly empty gym.
The conversation had been much simpler than he’d made it during history.
No complicated programme, no expensive equipment and no revelation that he needed to transform himself physically before he could become a better basketball player.
Twenty.
That was where he started.
Twenty press-ups.
Twenty squats.
Twenty lunges.
It almost seemed too simple, but Fergus was beginning to understand that simple didn’t mean useless.
Mikan drills were simple.
Form shooting was simple.
Staying low in a defensive stance was simple until his legs burned and someone tried to get past him.
The difficulty came from doing simple things properly and continuing to do them long enough for the results to matter.
“Thanks, Coach.” McKenzie nodded towards the changing rooms.
“Go home.” Fergus started walking away before McKenzie’s voice stopped him.
“And Robertson?” He turned.
“Nice charge.” Fergus smiled.
“Thanks.” “Don’t fall in love with it.
If you start standing under every drive hoping someone runs you over, you’ll spend half the game on your backside while they score.” The smile disappeared slightly.
“Right.” “Defend first.
Take it when it’s there.” Fergus nodded.
That sounded familiar too.
He left the gym a few minutes later with his bag over one shoulder and considerably less uncertainty than he’d carried into practice.
Twenty of each wasn’t going to change him tomorrow.
Probably not next week either.
Diane had talked about months.
McKenzie had talked about foundations.
Neither offered the kind of immediate improvement Fergus sometimes wished the System could provide.
Strangely, that made him more determined rather than less.
Fergus had already spent months repeating lay-ups, dribbling drills, sprints and shooting mechanics because improvement demanded repetition.
Strength would simply become another part of that process.
Twenty press-ups.
Twenty squats.
Twenty lunges.
Then, when those became comfortable, thirty.
Eventually forty.
Maybe fifty.
Fergus adjusted the strap of his bag and headed home.
For once, getting stronger didn’t feel like waiting for his body to stop being weak.
It felt like something he could begin tonight.