Robofootball: Doublespin

In early 2020, Antwan Randall Jackson was doing physical therapy with his good left arm. He had a few shrapnel scars there, but the vein was jutting out of his bicep as prevalent as ever. After months upon months of long grueling physical rehabilitation, he was going to be fitted with some new prosthetics as opposed to the motorized wheelchair that he had been puttering around in. He had a good deal of thigh muscle left which would make it easier to attach legs. The right arm was going to be more of a challenge given that he had lost it all. Funny thing, some slick white guy with expensive greased back light brown hair that hid any sign of gray well, and a fancy designer suit and shoes to match showed up to see him specifically.

“Mr. Jackson?”

“Who wants to know?” Antwan replied suspiciously. His grandmother or gramma as he called her and his general upbringing in the Detroit Hood immediately put up deflector shields and red warning lights.

“My name is Gabriel Reynolds and I have a proposition for you.”

Antwan sat up the best he could in his bed and said, “I don’t think so, I don’t know you man.”

“Just hear me out, it’s about your legs, and arm too.”

“What about ’em?”

“I’d like to try and buy you some good ones.”

“I’m being fitted here,”

“Yeah with that cheap shit.”

“So the fuck what?”

“I can get you some better shit, mind if I sit down?” Reynolds added.

“What’s the catch?”

“Mind if I sit?”

“All right,” Antwan conceded.

“You’re a marine for one.”

“Yeah, semper-fuckin’I,” Antwan said sarcastically.

“My family has an interest in a company called Human Assisted Limbotics or just HAL.”

“HAL? Like that fucked up computer in that 2001 space movie?” That’s kind of funny Antwan thought who always up for a good joke. Even with his injuries, he never lost his sense of human or ability to joke.

“Yeah we get that a lot,” Reynolds smiled like a shark. “We’ve got some new stuff, in the prototype stage you might say.”

“And you need a guinea pig?”

Reynolds sighed, “Yeah, I guess that’s part of it.”

“There’s always more.”

“Yes, yes there is, but it could pay quite well for you, and maybe your grandmother too.”

“What the fuck you know about my gramma?” Antwan became both defensive and protective.

“That she’s about all you got man and that she’s not that well off.”

“I can take care of her just fine.” Antwan had sent her some of his military pay when he was in the service, but now disability pay was far less than active duty.

“Sure, but everyone could use a little more. I’m talking about things that could help you both, maybe we can fix up her house, put some wider hallways in for a wheelchair, you know, shit like that.”

“I’m getting new prosthetics, don’t plan on using one.”

“Okay then, maybe a new bathroom to accommodate you.”

Antwan thought a moment, “Come on man, what’s your name again, Gabriel?”

“You can call me Reynolds.”

“Okay Reynolds, I’m goin’ to ask you one last time man, what’s the catch?”

Reynolds sighed, “All right, I’ll give it you straight, have you heard of the Robo Football League?”

“Of course, who hasn’t?”

“Me and my partners now have a controlling interest in the Michigan Robocats.”

“Yeah, they stink, 0-12 right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’m building a new team and I’m recruiting players.”

“But it’s for machines only.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

Antwan was never quite as slow as Willy J, but he paused as it sunk in, “You want me to play?”

“Maybe, if we could suit you up properly like a Gen 2 clone, make you look like a robot, hell, your arm and legs wouldn’t be much different. You’d get the finest prosthetics in the world, wouldn’t need much more than a little body armor and a full helmet to look like the others. We could pay you quite nicely, how does a 100 large sound?”

“A hundred K?” Antwan sat back on his bed. That would be triple, maybe even quadruple of what he was getting under the Veteran’s Disability Fund.

“It’s only a 12-game season too unless we make the playoffs.”

“Isn’t that, uh, illegal?”

“Maybe, maybe not, we certainly wouldn’t get arrested, maybe disqualified and thrown out of the league if we were busted. Sure it bends the rules some but there is no specific rule against it. We’d probably face some sort of fine after fighting it out in the courts. The rules would be changed then you and me would be out of a job.”

“How do you get past the coaches, and don’t they test the players too? You know for weight and stuff. Human parts could never pass a scan.”

“First of all, you’re looking at the new head coach and general manager too. We don’t need a lot of traditional coaches, at least those that sit on the bench or hang out in the locker room. There’s only one guy outdoors who we talk too, and he just lets the refs know about what we’re doing with penalties. We use thumb jockeys to control the players, we’d need one less in your case, but I would handle that, a fake board probably. I’d just have to sneak you away from the repair guys is all. We’ll clone your body suit, make you an identical twin so to speak, one that can pass inspection. It would be capable of playing, a Gen 2 model, mostly as your backup if I have my way.”

Antwan’s jaw dropped, he started to say something, but clammed up as he was thinking it over. “Why me?” He said at last.

“I’ll give it to you straight like I have been. I had your background investigated and I think you’d be a good candidate for what I have in mind. You have little family, a juvenile record, you’re a marine, and it looks like you played a little football too, unrealized potential I read somewhere in that report I think.”

“You want me on the field with a bunch of machines?”

“Yup.”

“What position?”

“What you were born for, wide receiver or maybe tight end or maybe a little of both.”

“Why?”

“Let me put it this way. The quarterback is by far the most difficult, most expensive, and most technologically advanced player on the field. I’m working on a new one of those too. Second to that is a guy who can catch the ball. Our Gen 1 receivers couldn’t catch a pillow in a factory test. You have one good hand, the other will be attached to your new arm with all the latest sensor technology; hell, the hand and arm alone might run me into 6 figures, 20 times what they’ll give you here. From what I’ve seen with the new fingers, you’ll be able to pick up a dime off the pavement.”

“What happens if I get hurt?”

“We’ll make you an employee of HAL or MIR, one of our other companies. You’ll get medical benefits, workers compensation insurance, and even a 401k. We’ll get you life insurance too and yes, you can make your grandmother the beneficiary.”

Antwan sat silent again for several minutes thinking it over.

Reynolds was growing impatient but didn’t show on the outside except for looking at his watch. He was used to getting his way ever since Uncle Dano promoted him to capo, but this particular negotiation was delicate. “I’m looking for a warrior, a human brain against the machines. Call me sentimental, but I think that humans will always have that instinctive, creative factor that the tin cans don’t. Why don’t you take a little time to think about it? I can come back in a day or two.”

“No, no, let’s do this man, I’ve got a few conditions of my own.”

“Oh?” Reynolds secretly smiled and slicked back his hair, he knew he had him then, now it was just a matter of negotiation, a family trademark, at least the family that Reynolds had married in to.

“I want a guaranteed contract for 5 years, $100 K for the first year and 10% raised after that.”

Reynolds scratched his chin, “Five years is a long time, maybe, but with 5% raises.”

“Okay, there’s more.”

“Go on.”

“My grandmother, she needs a new place to live.”

“Probably,” said Reynolds as he mentally drew up the pictures of the rat trap that she lived in.

“You’ve seen her house?”

“Only in pictures.”

“And the hood?”

“No, but I guess it’s not the best.”

“You said that man, what can you do for her?”

“We may have some rental property that we can put her up in, does she prefer a house or an apartment?”

“Lemme talk to her, she’ll probably live with me, and I don’t have my own place at the moment. This beautiful place here has been my home.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Okay,” said Antwan, “One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me a joke; in fact, make it a racist one. I wanna hear your best black joke, I know you got one,” Antwan grinned putting Reynolds on the defensive for the first time.

“Say what?” Reynolds looked visibly uncomfortable. The “N” word for instance was only used reverently when blacks were speaking to blacks or when whites were joking with other highly trusted white friends. It was bad news when it was used in any way, shape, or form between the 2 races. In white nomenclature, there was no equivalent to the word; cracker didn’t even come close as it was no worse than calling someone a hick, hillbilly, or redneck, words that some whites took as compliments.

“It’s easy, tell me a joke, one about blacks.” Antwan smiled now as Reynolds squirmed. “I know you know some, lemme have it.”

Reynolds thought and thought, then sighed, “Okay, where do good white people go when they die?”

“Heaven?”

“Yup, what do they get when they arrive in heaven?”

“Dunno, is this going somewhere?”

“Yes, bear with me, they get wings.”

“Okay.”

“And what do they become when they get their wings?”

“Angels?”

“Right, now where do good black folks go when they die?”

“Heaven?”

“Right again, now what do they get when they arrive in heaven?”

“Wings?”

“Yes, now what do they become when they get their wings?”

“Angels?”

“No, bats.”

Antwan laughed heartily pumping his one and only fist, “Good one, you know, you’re all right Reynolds.”

Reynolds grinned in relief, “I’ll get some paperwork to you in a couple of days, welcome to the team!”

They shook hands left-handed and Reynolds left after handing him a business card, telling him to call any time. Antwan grinned to himself. It had always been his secret dream to play football and plus he got a new joke for his internal records.

“Each morning sees some task begun,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night’s repose.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Village Blacksmith