Robofootball: Doublespin

It was Sunday, October 18, 2020 when Jess’s first thoughts were dream-like. He was watching his body from afar, as if he indeed were sleeping. His arms and legs were moving as if their own free will, a ball was in his hands, no, more specifically, a football, he was in the pocket, the ball raised, and he threw it, a nice clean crisp release, a spiral that was caught by #7, a lucky number. Everything felt heavy, his suit, padding, complete head gear, and even the ball, his eyelids too, but he also felt strong. Little did he know that his body weight rang in several pounds on the tough side of 200 with another 80 pounds of gear that outfitted him from head to toe like some medieval knight or the tough U.S. marine who has to carry the .50 caliber strings of ammo criss-cross about his shoulders.

Sounds filled the air, but they were strange in and of themselves. No human voices or grunts or taunts or play calling or trash talking, just a lot of bashing and clanging like the theater play, ‘Stomp’. Where had he seen that? Was it with a girl? There were no girls here, no boys either except him and the #7 receiver that he did not know; in fact, he did not know anything, not people or connections. He knew sensory information, touch, feel, sight, maybe taste; those he could recall, and football too. That surreal feeling struck him again, as he stepped back into the pocket, caught the ball from center, and then pitched it to a little running machine with a pair of painted 2’s. Its moves seemed mechanical, robot-like, and Jess observed with fascination as the little guy spun every which way, running 12 yards in circles it seemed to gain 2. The ferocious clanging and clashing seemed louder now as if he was observing the actions from the sidelines rather than an upper end zone corner.

Next, he was running off the field, somewhere in the distance like the tolling of some old mission bell to honor the dead, a loudspeaker chirped that it was 4th and 3 and the Robocats would have to punt. His legs were moving, a slow jog to the sideline with a few other noisy players. It sounded like some weird party that only Dr. Seuss could dream up. There was a bench, a designated spot for him that he found familiar as his body was made to languish there, at least until they got the ball back.

It was a tough game against the New York Numbskulls, one of the current 3 unbeaten teams along with Chicago and Texas, all sporting 4-0 records going into the 5th game of the season. All 3 had been part of the 4 playoff teams in 2019 too along with Baltimore. Like Texas, New York had deep pockets as the two fought hand-in-hand to acquire the most Gen 3’s, including a steady flow of supporting replacement parts and modules, the same items that would became more scarce and valuable as the season progressed. Since it was still in the first half of the season, that issue would not be a problem for the time being. Both New York and Texas had a long history of success in sports whether it was the Giants or the Cowboys in the old NFL, or the Yankees in baseball. Of course, there were the Mets and the Jets who constantly tortured their fans much like the Texas Rangers; yet, both catered to big markets like California, and plenty of revenue to boot.

Another area the states shared was a cutthroat business mentality from those who built the Empire State to the oil barons who were born the day Spindle Top blew up like a hydrogen bomb. Both were quite adept at providing generous bribes as was the Japanese way of doing business. Since each and every new RFL team could dress 50 high tech models for game day so to speak with 10 non-starting backups, it still became a challenge week after week to field that many. It not only affected the poor teams who had trouble paying for replacement parts, but the rich teams too given the newness of the Gen 3’s. Everybody wanted them who could afford them, but not everyone who could afford them could get them. As the season would progress, it became a bigger challenge week after week to make the players not only road worthy, but to pass inspection too. Any number of things could go wrong. Minor issues like bumps and creases might increase height. If 4 limbs did not operate, a player could be disqualified. An armor repair could nudge a player over the 300 pound maximum limit.

What was expected of a good coaching staff was to review endless hours of film, and then find weaknesses, holes, and tendencies in the other team. Reaction was vital, but most coaches were able to adapt after being fooled once, and then stopping the opposition from going to the well too often. Half time adjustments were very important too. Good coaches came up with good schemes, but great ones utilized the specific talents of their individuals and then made special plays tailored to the talent rather than forcing square pegs into round holes.

The Numbskulls had the early advantage in coaching. They had found tendencies in both the linebacker and secondary play of the Robocats and scored 2 TD’s with their Gen 3 QB & receivers before Dino “the Dinosaur” Maroni nearly popped a vein out of his forehead cursing his defensive controllers to adjust. Reynolds thought for an instant that the old man might have a stroke or heart attack, but he was old school and Reynolds could support that. A good kick in the ass now and then kept the help from getting too complacent.

Reynolds was on the hot seat too as Mr. Verlucci had demanded a winner given the multi-million dollar investment. Dano Verlucci never lost his cool, it was just business to him, but like a pressure cooker that had been on the stove a few minutes too long, when the lid blew, bodies ended up anchored to lake bottoms. It was business, nothing more. Like the old rough-skinned pit-complexioned dinosaur, Reynolds was not happy either being down 14-0 late in the 1st quarter, especially at home to a 4-0 team. If he was ever going to put a winning team together, you had to beat the best, and the Numbskulls had won the Eastern Division last year, but lost to Texas in the semis.

In the meantime, Jess did not know if he was dreaming that he was a man playing football or if he was actually there in the real world. There was this weird buzzing noise, a low hum like a honey bee moving from dandelion to dandelion when they all had burst out in their yellow sunshiny glory, an endless buffet, too many to pick from, except for the lawns where they were annihilated by chemicals. There was a vibration in his head, it intensified when he realized that he was being forced to move. He didn’t know his name or anyone for that matter. Though the memory suppression sensors had malfunctioned, he was still recovering from a coma, and a terrible sense of amnesia set in.

He forced his head to turn slightly left and right while on the bench. It was hard like waking up Monday morning to an early alarm clock, set 30 minutes before the usual time after a heavy weekend. As a result, he had that extra drowsy feeling, awakening from a deep, deep sleep. The head was turning ever so slowly overriding the commands that were dormant. Since the Robocats were on defense, Dr. Hobson’s control board remained on stand-by or saver mode. Jess stared down at his hands through a thin visor that reminded him of dark sunglasses. His hands were covered in some fairly thin protective malleable silvery metallic-like material, like thin driving gloves only strong. A few seconds later, he was rudely jolted upward, and moving back to the field. Strange electric-like impulses coursed through his muscles and the buzzing in his head intensified to the point that hundreds of bees at the hive in one incessant drone like too much energy being transmitted through a power line to the point of overload. He mentally fought against it which slowed his gate. In the control room Hobson applied more pressure to his joysticks as the force feedback built into them suddenly increased heavily on his end.

“What’s the matter Doc?” Reynolds could not help but observe Hobson’s growing frustration since he sat right next to him.

“The controls are sluggish,” Hobson commented as he felt a sudden urge to pound them.

“Call a running play Rudy,” Reynolds commanded. Rudy sat at the podium in front of Reynolds and Hobson just off to the side so as not to block the big play screen n front of the control room.

“Sure thing boss, FASTTRACK RIGHT 41!” Rudy bellowed out like a silverback pounding his chest. The command was heard by all in the room as it instantly showed up on the big screen and on each individual monitor with a schematic no less of what role each individual player was to fill. But then all hell broke loose. Hobson’s commands to Jess went unheeded as Jess’s mind awakened to the point that he overrode Hobson’s efforts. The brain is only a soft 3-pound mass of gray gelatinous matter, but when it is functioning, humans have the capability of rocket science and beyond.

The center pitched the ball to Jess, who in turn was supposed to make 3 strides to his right like an option play, and then underhand the ball to #22, the running back controlled by Ichiro, but Jess did not move at all until an agile Gen 3 linebacker came straight for him. On instinct alone, Jess spun clockwise in a full circle avoiding the tackle. In a split second later, the nose guard had broken loose and Jess spun counterclockwise avoiding the hit as well. Double spin. On instinct again, he burst through the hole vacated by the nose guard and ran 12 yards for a 1st down before a safety tripped him up. Reactions came from all quarters.

“Holy cow!” Said Carly from the stands to her dad, “That’s just what Jess used to do.”

“Wow, did you see that?” Isabelle was lightly extending her elbow into Lenny’s ribs within the private viewing suite.

“Never seen a quarterback do that before,” Lenny answered honestly.

“Watcha-fucky” Ichiro could be heard in the back of the war room.

“Nice moves Doc,” Reynolds was saying, “But you’re supposed to pitch the ball.”

“Something is wrong, better pull him in,” Hobson mumbled quietly that Reynolds didn’t quite catch. His immediate problem was that Jess was back in the huddle, working his limbs left and right, stretching his neck, and the buzzing seemed to have disappeared, overridden by his own thoughts.

“What was that Doc?”

“FLYWHEEL FLANKER 7!” Rudy launched his deep baritone voice that drowned out Hobson.

“We need to pull him in,” Hobson was saying urgently.

“What?” Reynolds said as he automatically punched in the command to Antwan.

Too late for Hobson, Jess stood back 5 feet from center. It seemed like he was always in this position and recent memories were coming back, even if they were just the ones from his football playing over the past 4 weeks; after all, this was the most time that he had spent outside of his stasis chamber. It was Hobson’s field testing so to speak.

“Hutt Hutt!” Jess tried to speak in a gargling, coughing voice. It had been nearly two years since he last spoke and his vocal chords were somewhat frozen. It didn’t matter, the ball came anyway and instinct took over again. No one was open, so he scrambled! His armor was heavy like a ball and chain but his muscles were big and somehow compensated. The steroid and adrenaline injections combined with a forced exercise regiment had done the trick. He moved left, spun right, moved left again when a defensive lineman slipped on by. Out of the corner of his eye he spied #7 breaking loose behind the secondary and heaved a 40-yard pass while on the run. Antwan skied with the maximum 3-foot kick allowed in his prosthetic legs and hauled the ball in with his good human left hand, the one that the robotic right would never match in adeptness and flexibility. The crowd roared as Antwan scampered another 24 yards into the end zone for a touchdown. Uncharacteristic of a robot player, Jess ran down the field with his hand stretched out to high five Antwan.

“Nice catch,” he managed to grunt when he caught up to Antwan.

“Jaysus Christ, Holy Fuckin’ Shit, man, dude, Reynolds! The kid’s talking!” Antwan had not been this explosively shocked since the day his Hummer blew up.

“Get him to the locker room, my office, now!” Reynolds wanted to scream but typed it furiously instead. Good thing they had scored a touchdown since the logical thing to do for Jess was to run off the field.

“Come with me kid,” Antwan said after pressing his own head gear directly against Jess’s.

“Where are we going?”

“Locker room.”

“Why? Shouldn’t we go back to the bench?”

“No, just follow me and keep quiet, orders from the coach.”

“Okay.”

Antwan sighed with relief and led the way. Jess followed dutifully to the relief of Reynolds and Hobson, who were also headed to the same place. The game went on without the two key Robocat players though the crowd would not know it as another #18 and another #7 would come in and take their respective places once they got the ball back on offense. The Kettering models were every bit as competitive as the Japanese Gen 3’s; nevertheless, the outcome was decided primarily by the play of the quarterback. The Gen 3 playing for New York simply put up better numbers than the Gen 2 backup for Michigan and were proving to be extremely valuable to the teams that possessed them. The loss dropped the Robocats to 2-3 which prompted a call from Mr. Verlucci’s office requesting a personal meeting with Reynolds the following day.

Meanwhile, Jess was whisked into the mini lab attached to Reynolds’ office within the guts of the Silverdome. Reynolds quickly locked them in and then began the armor removal process ritual for both Antwan and Jess. The clones would be released a few minutes later to the sideline as New York was on offense.

“Wha….arm…..eyes,” Jess gurgled as his head gear was being removed and he was maneuvered to the gurney-like cart. There were tubes in his nose for his air supply that went down his throat that served as a slight obstacle to his voice function though Antwan had heard him clearly on the field. A little of the adrenaline was wearing off too as Dr. Hobson hooked up a new IV with additional fluids spiked with a sedative.

“You’re okay kid, just lie still,” Antwan tried to calm Jess down as the younger man became more agitated.. Antwan at least had a little experience with doctors, trauma, and dealing with injured soldiers on occasion until a medic was rounded up.

“I, I, …,” Jess mumbled and then left the world of consciousness as the sedative poured through his veins. With Jess asleep, the room went strangely silent for a minute or two as no one spoke.

Finally Reynolds gave in, “What happened Doc?”

“Apparently, young Mr. Robinson woke up.”

“Woke up? From his coma? I thought….,” Reynolds was cut off.

“Always a possibility,” interrupted Hobson who was now checking vitals, peering into Jess’s eyes, and so forth.

“What about the memory stopper thing or…” Reynolds was thinking aloud.

“Yes, I did have memory suppression sensors that appear to be offline, but that may have had little to do with his waking. You do realize that this has been highly experimental all along. I have gone further into the brain than anyone before me.” Hell, Hobson thought to himself, repairing the brain of a coma patient should’ve earned him a serious commendation in the medical community, a nice journal article, speaking appearances and fees of course, maybe even a Nobel Prize if he wrote it up correctly.

“What’re we going to do with him?” Antwan chipped in.

“Doc?” Reynolds inquired.

“I guess that’s up to you to decide. From what I can see, I think he can probably function on his own with a little rehabilitation, but I’ll know more when I get him back to the lab. There will likely be some complications.”

“Like what?” Reynolds’ own mind was racing; after all, the kid was going to be his star quarterback or ace-in-the-hole.”

“Memory for one. There’s only so much I was able to do for him.”

“Did you see that pass he threw?” Antwan said.

“Yeah, right on the money,” Reynolds answered. “Did he talk to you?”

“Yeah man, I told you that, first thing he said, ‘nice catch’.”

“Apparently, he does have some memory of football,” Hobson commented, “Young Mr. Robinson did manage to override my controls.”

“Can he still play Doc?” Reynolds asked somewhat selfishly.

“Perhaps, but I can only foresee two options.”

“What are they?”

“To keep him the way he is, he’d have to be drugged constantly, maybe placed or induced back into a coma, and then more sensors would be needed too, perhaps an additional implant,” Hobson was thinking. It would be much more difficult or challenging to work with a conscious mind as opposed to one that had been dormant for so long. It would be a lot of work and experimentation, and the ethics boundary would be extended further than it already had.

“How long?” Reynolds asked.

“Several months.”

“Shit,” said Reynolds, “What’s behind door #2?”

Hobson sighed realizing that his guinea pig could be gone, “Take it all out – the tubes, the IV’s, sensors, colostomy bag, CPU, catheter, …”

“How long?” Reynolds interjected. Antwan was paying very close attention to the exchange.

“Back at the lab, it’d take a few hours, but there would be some recovery issues and acclimation time.”

“How long?”

Reynolds was sounding like a broken record to Hobson who was growing annoyed, “Two maybe three weeks.”

“And then he could be back on the field?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Without complications.”

“What sort of complications?”

“The body has many systems, circulatory for one, it hasn’t been proven yet that he can breathe adequately on his own. I’ll have to remove the CPU along with the antenna and lithium cell implanted at the upper base of his cranium. A few stitches should do but it’ll be a soft spot for a week or two. Then there are bodily waste functions, we’ve been collecting his urine through a catheter, and…”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Reynolds. “Let’s just do it, what do you think Antwan?” It was rare for Reynolds to gather someone else’s opinion; nevertheless, aside from Hobson, Antwan was the only other one who knew, and Reynolds had been forced to place his trust in him.

“Say he comes outta this, where’s he gonna live? If he don’t remember shit about his family and friends and stuff, what’s he gonna do?”

“I haven’t thought that far, but I guess we’ll have to find him a place,” said Reynolds who was scratching his head right in the center where it was beginning to thin out. In a few more years, he’d be wearing hats outdoors to prevent sunburn until he invested in some professional hair implants. He suddenly felt the need to live up to his stereotypical Irish heritage, and that was to go on a bender, not a shot or two, but a whole damn bottle of JB or something like a 30-year old scotch. His mind was working overtime as he was thinking of the possibility of getting Jess back on the field in maybe 3 weeks. Next week there was a game with lowly Seattle, who, next to Arkansas and Daytona, was one of the worst teams in the league. They’d be 1-4 after today after beating basement-dweller Arkansas. After Seattle, the entire RFL took a bye week at the halfway point. Then game 7 was against Arkansas, the team they had crushed 56-7 in the 2nd game of the season.

2020 Michigan Robocat Schedule

09/20/2020 Michigan at Chicago, Lost 28-49

09/27/2020 Arkansas at Michigan, Won 56-7

10/04/2020 Michigan at Boston, Lost 14-17

10/11/2020 Wichita at Michigan, Won 34-17

10/18/2020 New York at Michigan, Lost 31-42

10/25/2020 Michigan at Seattle

11/01/2020 BYE WEEK

11/08/2020 Michigan at Arkansas

11/15/2020 Chicago at Michigan

11/22/2020 Daytona at Michigan

11/29/2020 Michigan at Texas

12/06/2020 Baltimore at Michigan

12/13/2020 Michigan at Wichita

“I’ve got a spare room, why don’t you let me take him in?” Antwan suggested.

“You’d do that?”

“Sure, he’s my quarterback, I could watch out for the kid. Me and my gramma have a 4-bedroom house now, so we’ve got some extra rooms.”

“That may be jumping the gun some,” Hobson chimed in. “He may need some extra care and help with certain things.”

“Like what?”

“Memory is complicated,” Hobson was getting even more irritated. “He might be able to throw a football but not tie his shoelaces. It might be little things like shaving, combing his hair, brushing his teeth, cutting his nails, ….”

“I get the picture,” Reynolds held up his hand. “Just get him back to the lab and get this shit out of him, then we’ll see.”

Antwan laughed, “That’s funny Reynolds. Speaking of shit, did I ever tell you ’bout the brotha who had to take a dump in the park?”

“No,” said Reynolds who was silently groaning.

“Well da bathrooms was all locked up, vandalized and scandalized ya know, so my old pal Willy J runs off in the trees, the brotha had to go #2 real bad. When he’s all done he hollas back, ‘Antwan, I got nuttin’ to wipe my ass wit’! I say you nasty Willy J, just you some leaves or somethin’ on the ground. He hollas back that their ain’t no leaves, it’s all pine needles, so I says just use a dollar.”

“Oh god,” said Reynolds.

“Yeah, Willy J comes back with dukey all over his hands, and I say wassup wit dat? Willy J says ‘you ever try wiping yo ass with 3 quarters, 2 dimes, and a nickel’?” Antwan had a big shitty grin on his face. Reynolds shook his head but laughed just the same. Hobson was not amused as he was packing up and unhooking Jess’s IV.

“All right, go with them Antwan, I guess you’re now Jess’s keeper or guardian once the doc here gets done with him.”

“Do I get a raise boss?”

“Just keep it quiet and I’ll see what I can do.”

“The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.”

Francis William Bourdillon, Light