CHAPTER 1
Could the clock really move that slowly? It's Monday and onlyfifteen minutes into algebra, and it feels like time is standing still!Why did a decent guy like Coach Hunter—or Coach H. as the guyscall him—ever decide to teach algebra anyway? Here he is thecoach of the high school baseball team, and he chose a geekysubject like math to teach. Why not something like PE thateveryone could respect?
"Davis!"
Ouch. Where did that come from? Coach H. has a way withchalk erasers. If you aren't "in the game," as he calls it, you'll likelycatch an eraser upside the head.
"Sorry, Coach," I mumble as I check for blood where theeraser hit the top of my head. Coach H. played baseball in collegefor a couple years. That was before he tore a rotator cuff anddecided to teach math instead. He still throws a mean fastballthough—or eraser, in this case. He won't stand for anyone dozingoff or daydreaming in class. For some strange reason that no onecan quite figure out, he is crazy about math—well, more specificallyalgebra.
"Listen, Davis. You've gotta get in the game. You missorder of operations, and you'll be treadin' water for the next sixmonths. What's come over you lately? You've gotta focus."
"I know, I know. I'll do better," I say as I rub the bumpthat is forming on the top of my head.
The truth is, I'm having a hard time focusing on anythinglately. Between work, school, basketball, and girls, nothing seems tobe going right. I'd better not start on that now; gotta get back inthe game.
"Okay class, back to order of operations," Coach H.continues. "Who can tell me which comes first when solving anequation: addition or multiplication?"
Of course Samantha Wilmington would raise her hand.
"Multiplication."
"That's right, Samantha. Good job. Now, how aboutsubtraction or division?"
No one jumps at this one, not even Samantha. Another ofthe great mysteries of the universe—even more puzzling thanCoach H.'s obsession with algebra—is how did a cute girl likeSamantha Wilmington get so good at math? She even seems to likeit. Seriously, who likes math? And how is Samantha ever supposedto dig a kid like me who barely passed geometry in the ninth grade?
"Come on, guys. Somebody give it a shot," Coach H.prods.
What the heck.
"How about division?" I guess timidly.
"Is that a question or an answer, Davis? You've got to say itlike you mean it: division!" Coach H. says as he pounds on hisdesk. "That's right. Division."
"You've got to remember three key rules," he continues."First, anything within parentheses happens first. Second,multiplication and division always happen before addition andsubtraction. Finally, once the first two rules have been satisfied, youwork from left to right—just like reading a book."
How am I ever going to use this in real life, I think as I lean backin my chair and stretch my legs out under my desk. I can see how Imight use the things I am learning in English, my first class of theday. I'll surely need to write and communicate clearly. Auto body,my second class, is a fun class and has always been intriguing tome. My third class of the day, PE, is at least fun if not useful forlife. After algebra, my fourth class, I have Spanish and art. Giventhe huge population of Hispanics in our small town, Spanish isinvaluable. Art, like auto body, is another hobby I really enjoy. Allof the classes are at least potentially useful if not fun—all butalgebra. It just doesn't connect in my mind how I can ever use allof these letters, numbers, and rules in life to help me accomplishanything.
Okay, I've gotta get back in the game.
Coach H. is going on about the order of operations.
"Let's do a practice problem guys," he says as I mentallyjoin them again.
He writes on the board as he talks:
A × (B + C) - D = E
A = 4
B = 3
C = 2
D = 6
"What does E equal?" Coach asks as he finishes. This is hisroutine. He explains a concept, writes up a problem and then letsus try it out.
Now what did he say comes first? Oh yeah, multiplication.A times B would be 12. Then, going left to right: 12 plus 2 minus 6equals 8. So E equals 8. I raise my hand.
Samantha, of course, already has her hand up. Coach H.calls on her, and she says "Fourteen."
"That's right, Samantha." Coach H. smiles.
Now, how in the world did she get 14?
Coach H. explains as I look back through my notes.
"Remember the rules: first, parentheses; second,multiplication and division; and third, left to right."
Oh yeah, parentheses first.
The rest of the class is a blur as Coach H. writes problemson the board and we work through them together. If this is all wehave to do, I think I can handle it. Of course, we're only a fewweeks into the semester, so chances are it's only getting tougher.
I look back over at Samantha and see her workingfeverishly as Coach H. writes another equation on the board. We'vebeen in the same classes since elementary school—though I'm notsure she knows that I exist—and for some reason, she's always hada way with math. I, on the other hand, just get by in math, at leastpassing so I can play sports but usually not much better. She willprobably go on to be some famous scientist or mathematician. Idon't aspire to anything like that. I guess I've decided that businesswould suit me better. I'm pretty good with people and enjoy sellingthings. We'll see. For now, I need to figure out a way to passalgebra so I can finish out the basketball season.
The bell finally rings, and I pack up my books to head forthe door. As I make my way through the desks, Coach H. catchesup with me.
"Davis!"
"Yeah, Coach?"
"Can you swing by after school today?" he asks. "We needto talk."
"Sure," I say as I head out the door.
Great, just what I need—another pep talk from the mathteacher. It's the same every year. About a week or two into class,the teacher pulls me aside and gives me the same "You know, ifyou applied yourself ..." speech. It's not that I'm a bad student; Ijust don't really care for math.
CHAPTER 2
Spanish and art creep by like an old freight train headed for a brickwall. Any time a teacher asks you to come talk after school ... well,let's just say there are things I'd rather do with my afternoon. Asthe hallways clear out, I make my way back toward the math room.I have to wait outside for a minute while Coach H. finishes talkingto another poor soul, probably practicing his speech for me.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, it's my turn.Preparing for the worst, I knock on his office door.
"Coach, you wanted to talk to me?" I stick my head in thedoor as he cleans a few books off his desk.
"Yeah, come on in Davis," he says, and he points to a chair.
"Thanks," I mumble.
"So, how is the basketball season going this year? I came tothe game last week. You played well, but you guys sure got lickedby old Skyline," he says with a grin. He grins because he can. Lastspring, the baseball team took state, beating "old" Skyline in thedivision championship.
"Yeah, it's been hit-and-miss this year. We've had a couplegood games and then ... well, a couple of games like last week. Nottoo consistent yet, but we're working on it."
It's the truth. We play well occasionally, but we can't do...
