Mr Hook's Big Black Box

Marco Schmidt: Cause for Concern

I first heard about the Box earlier in the day, before it was moved to our room. I didn't have any maths lectures, I was on a more practical course, so I didn't get tipped off by someone on Societies Council. But after a really boring morning of memorising lists of muscle groups, I got a call to come in and see Nigel Hawthorne. He's one of the instructors on our course, but he's a really nice guy, asks all his students to call him Nigel. Did you meet him? I can't remember. Ferrari probably did, he volunteered to be on the society committee. To take part in sporting tournaments you need an honorary staff member to sign a declaration to Societies Council saying all the insurance is right, just a token thing. And when we wanted to do the kendo tournament against Prestwich, Nigel said he'd sit in and sign the forms with our entrants.

Anyway, Nigel called me into his office, and to tell the truth I was glad, because the alternative was another hour learning lists of Latin muscle names. I don't know why doctors use so many of them, most of them have modern names as well, but trainers and doctors call them by different names. Now, Nigel's classes were just as much theory, but he was teaching me something that was really different. How people think, and how we second guess everybody's motives. See, Nigel was the Sports Psychology guy, and at the start of the second year I'd thought that was all crap. But he was so passionate about it, he talks about competitive urges, about killer instinct, and you know he's not just throwing in buzzwords, he's talking about actual things that mean something. Like how your performance is different if you're just behind the leader or a couple of seconds behind. How footballers get more motivated to pass to teammates when they're one-nil down, but get the urge to show off and try to do it themselves when they're ahead.

Nigel's a smart guy, like I said. I didn't know what he'd be calling on me for, but I was sure it would be something interesting. I knocked on the office door, and I waited. Maybe it was just a minute, maybe it was two, but I'm sure it felt like longer. I was starting to worry, to try to figure out what I've got wrong, even though I had no reason to believe I was in trouble. Guess my instincts managed to jump to a conclusion even without the evidence. He called from inside the office, told me to come in. That was a little strange, normally he'd come to the door himself, but I didn't pay too much attention at the time.

Nigel was sitting behind his desk, a heavy polished thing that he said was made of rosewood. It had been a gift from his grandad, who had also been a tutor here many years before, and had decided to pass it down rather than go to the trouble of transporting the heavy desk home on his retirement. His office looked like everything a teacher's room should be, the walls lined with bookcases and a desk covered with paperwork. But he was a real person too, and every shelf had a space set aside for some trophy or piece of memorabilia. Boxing gloves, a baseball mitt, a cricket bat, the sheer number of sports Nigel had been into at some point was awe-inspiring. There was even an oar mounted above the window, in the space that might be more normally occupied by a curtain rail. From his student days, he'd told me once, the actual oar he'd used when winning a championship race against another college.

"Marco," he greeted me, "Good to see you. I wish we didn't have to have this meeting, though."

"Is something wrong?" I asked, but then wished I could take back the words. He'd just told me something was wrong, and I was worried I'd sound like an idiot.

"It's your minor module grades," he got straight to the point, "Mr Jerrard, Mr Tyson, and Mr Werner have reported that you aren't doing so well in their classes. Now, I'm sure you are aware that some parts of your course are academic abstractions with no connection to real sports, inserted only because one licensing body or another requires it. When constructing the course, we wanted to make it possible for graduates to go into first aid or coaching in as many different sports, cups, and leagues as possible, so of course we end up with the situation where not every module is applicable to every student's career path. Some of them are dump modules, that you don't need to worry about failing unless you are looking for a career related to certain sporting bodies for whom it is relevant." I nodded. I already knew that. I was a runner, really, and there were so many things that might be important for other sports but weren't relevant to the track I'd set myself on.

Technically, Nigel's classes were a dump module for me. But I did my best in them, because he had this way of making the subject come alive. His enthusiasm was infectious, really.

"But," he spoke harshly, "the college has unnecessarily byzantine rules about the number and type of modules you are permitted to fail, and somehow you seem to be heading for the wrong side of the line. In order to pass this year, you will need to complete at least one module worth nine or more Standard Credits, with a final grade-equivalent ranking of seventeen points or more."

"I'm not going to fail, am I?" I couldn't believe it. Sometimes, the college rules seemed like the complex systems of inter-league rankings and playoffs in certain sports, but a hundred times more complex. But I had never suspected that letting my grades drop in a handful of classes could have such a large impact. "I mean, I'm going to average enough points for a 2:1 at this rate."

"Sadly, the average isn't everything. And because you have already handed in some sub-par coursework for most of the outstanding modules, the only one you could get the required grade in now would be Tyson's course. History of Cheating and the Referee's Role, I believe." I nodded. I knew the lectures well, and had fallen asleep during every single one until I gave up attending. It was the only module I was doing this year that would be graded entirely based on the final exam, rather than on work through the year. It wasn't one I expected to do particularly well in.

"There is, however, one other option," he pulled a small piece of folded paper out from one desk drawer. A couple of sheets from a pad of lined paper, with notes on and then neatly folded down the middle. I wondered what it might be, now that all official paperwork was printed out. "There is a special research project being undertaken by a number of graduate students, which has, through peer pressure, misunderstanding, and the unforeseen consequences of certain wording in a contract, quite taken on a life of its own. If you would be willing to help us regain control of this project, then you could consider this an additional module. I am sure that in the circumstances, it would meet both the required number of credits and the required score to bring you back within the desired range for this year."

"What would I have to do? I can't study some new deep theory, I need to be revising for..."

"No, no, I quite understand," Nigel beamed, "It is just that what started out as an experiment has become almost a literal sport. Have you heard the tale of Mr Hook's Big Box?" I didn't want to look like a fool, and I doubted I could bluff the master of strategy, so I told him I didn't know what that was. And then he began to tell the tale in all its glory.