the Big Time (2010) by Tim Green Page A

right?” Troy asked.
    â€œGot a condo in Lake Point Tower,” his father said.
    Troy gave him a confused look.
    â€œIt’s the top place in Chicago,” his father explained. “Downtown high-rise, right on the lake. I can walk to my law office. You’ll come see it.”
    â€œThere’s a train that Tate calls the Midnight Express,” Troy said, pointing to the other side of the trestle and the tracks that extended as far as they could see. “Atlanta to Chicago. I hear it sometimes at night and I’d always think of you, even though I didn’t know you.”
    His father seemed to consider the northbound tracks but didn’t say anything.
    â€œAnd you played football, right?” Troy said.
    â€œPretty well, too,” his father said with a chuckle, “until I broke my neck. Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I got lucky, actually. They said another eighth of an inch and I wouldn’t be walking. They fused two vertebrae together, and it healed pretty good—but not in time for anything in the pros. I missed my train, so to speak. A lot of people do.”
    â€œThat’s what I want to do,” Troy said. “Make it to the NFL.”
    â€œMaybe you will,” his father said. “I’m actually in the Auburn record books myself, so you got the genes, the speed, the athleticism. Now all you need is a little luck. Tell me about this genius thing.”
    â€œMy gramps told me you were a math major,” Troy said. “Kind of weird for a football player. I was wondering if you can kind of do what I can do. I can’t really explain it, but Seth says it’s about probabilities based on the variables in the game. That sounds like math to me.”
    His father turned his head and studied Troy’s face in the dim light. “Seth, huh?”
    â€œHe’s been pretty good to me,” Troy said.
    â€œLike a father?”
    â€œNo, more like a friend,” Troy said.
    â€œGood,” Drew said, his teeth showing in his smile. “It’s funny you said that about how you can’t really explain it. That’s how math was for me. I really wasn’t big when it came to school. I never really applied myself until law school. But I could take these advanced math classes and just…know it. I didn’t even really like math. It all just made sense to me: the formulas, the theorems, the way numbers can predict not just lines but curves, even waves, even across three dimensions. Are you good in math?”
    â€œNope,” Troy said. “My mom says I’m a savant. Pretty normal except when it comes to football. That’swhy they say ‘football genius.’”
    â€œA prodigious savant,” his father said as if to himself.
    â€œWhat?” Troy asked.
    â€œNot a savant, really,” his father said, reaching out and putting a strong hand on Troy’s shoulder. “I mean, you are, but you’re more. It’s savant syndrome, and almost everyone who has it also has a developmental disability—autism lots of times—except for one narrow area where they’re so smart, they’re off the charts. A prodigious savant is extremely rare. That’s a person who’s normal in every other way—no disability, no brain injury, nothing; just a prodigy. ‘Genius’ is a good name for it—in some narrow area. Wow.”
    â€œAnd it’s a good thing, right?” Troy asked.
    â€œHa!” his father said, shaking his head. “Good? It’s great. Look at you: a normal kid, but you can predict plays in an NFL game? Troy, my biggest concern is that no one takes advantage of you.”
    â€œWho’d do that?” Troy asked.
    His father sighed and shook his head, the wind ruffling his shaggy brown hair, the strong bones in his face carving out shadows even in the weak starlight. “The world is a vicious place, Troy. Trust me. The things I’ve seen.”
    â€œBut