"Shit, Son," Coach had said, clapping the kid on the back, "you'll be all right. Just treat this like any practice match."

He didn't think the Coach could remember what it's like to perform with them watching. How could I have guessed that once you've been through it, you never forget it?

Fate knows, they don't do anything; for all their participation, it'd be the same if they'd never been there. Nobody knows why they watch the games--even the One With All The Answers can't shed light on that issue.

But he knew that Coach was right; he couldn't let their force of High Attention put him off his form. Match or no match, judges or no judges, the auditor was watching, and that meant he'd better prove himself thoroughly professional, well beyond the amateur levels, or he'd never make the Guild.

"Contestants to the starting circuits, please," said the unisexed voice over the private address. "Contestants to your starting circuits. All judges to your monitors."

"Okay, Son," Coach said, "let's run a final habits checklist." He nodded to Coach. "Automatic responses?"

"Bypassed," he responded.

"Awareness?"

"Full body."

"Maze-brightness?"

"Moderate."

"Conscience?"

"Non-planetary."

"Attention mode?"

"Placed and directed."

"Interest level?"

"High and nonspecific." He could tell that Coach had something important he wanted to say. He had that look. You know the one.

"This is it, Son. Before you connect up, I want you to have this."

"What is it?"

"This is my circuit buffer; I wanted you to have it when you were ready. It was given to me by my Coach, and he by his.

He knew this was the same buffer that Coach used in last season's sprints. It was a new issue top-of-the-line spike buffer and multiplex. It couldn't have been passed down to him from his Coach's Coach. Doesn't matter, the sentiment of tradition is the same. "Gee, thanks," he said. "But what will you do without your buffer?"

"Look, Kid. I've taught you all I can. Either you make a good run today, or you don't. If you do, you'll jump Grade. If you don't... Well, in any case, I won't be taking on any new Sons. After this run, my Grade automatically shifts to Monitor."

"Wow, Coach," he marveled. "I knew you were good, but I never knew you were that close to the Grade of Monitor. It's hard for me to imagine being able to tolerate such small levels of involvement."

"Runners please connect circuits on my count; one, two, three."

"Honey, stop bothering your sister--and don't play with your cereal! Food is money. And your father works hard to earn that money, so we can eat, and live here in a nice house. And he doesn't want to see you waste it."

Bless the circuits, he chuckled. Now the Monitors will really see some diving!

"Sure, dear, on the way to Little League this afternoon. We'll talk in the car."

Great! A reference to timeflow and an outside environment in a single sentence!

"Can't we have one breakfast together for a change? Can't you shut CNN off for a couple of minutes?"

"Hunh?"

Partial attention-loss. Nice touch.

"I said, could you click that thing off for a few minutes while we have some nice breakfast together?"

"Sure, honey, you know I will; I always do, right after the football scores."

Unbelievable luck. Dependence and involvement.

"That's always the same time you have to leave," she accused, snapping off the set with a vicious twist of the knob.

"Dammit, honey," he groaned, "now what'll I talk about with my clients?"

"Honey," she was shaking a big stirring spoon at him now. "You want honey? Listen, big guy; we have to talk."

"Not this morning, sweetie," he apologized. A horn sounded outside and he took the opportunity. He was out the door before she could answer.

Two slips of sarcasm, emotionalism and worry not related to the space.

The disconnect notice rang and the contestants pulled out of it. He waited on the side with Coach.

The Board lit up with scores: 9.7, 9.5, 9.1, 6.3--that'd be the East German judge--9.8 and 9.9. A near-perfect dive.

"Pretty good, Kid," said Coach proudly. "Best score I ever saw."

Coulda got a 10, if I'd thought to slip in a hint of apathy to round out the form, he thought to himself. But it didn't matter. Now, he was a Pro.

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