Robofootball: Doublespin
Chapter 65

“Reynolds! Hope you can hear me man, that bastard of a linebacker tried to take my leg off!” Antwan’s voice command scrolled across the bottom of Reynolds’ screen.

“How?”

“In the pile up, he tugged on it man, but I kicked him off.”

“Bastards,” Reynolds typed in. The Tin Cans had already been flagged for a late hit on Ichiro’s #22 running back model. Despite the gelling of Jess and Antwan as the #1 quarterback and receiver combo, the Tin Cans considered the running back as Michigan’s most valuable and talented player. The #22 starter model was already out late in the first quarter with a leg problem, and Reynolds suspected some dirty under pile play after his exchange with Antwan. Ichiro and Doc Holliday at Kettering had put a second one together, #21, that was virtually identical to the first. As he and Rudy watched more closely, it appeared to them that the Texas tacklers seemed a bit might slow getting up after a play with occasional extracurricular activity. Two could play at that game thought Reynolds, and though he was not a Verlucci by blood, he had cajonas like a Sicilian and would not tolerate disrespect without giving a little back in return.

It was a tight 14-14 game at the half with a lot of good defense and a few more injuries to the players than normal. The preliminary diagnosis by Yuri, Doc Holliday, and Ichiro was that the leg where it connected to the knee joint to the ankle swivel had been grabbed and bent as if on purpose like Antwan and Reynolds suspected. The engineers believed that it had taken two robot hands to grab and bend it which was virtually impossible in their minds from an ordinary tackle. They reviewed the film but the pile effectively blocked the cameras from seeing what was going on at the bottom. One tight end and another receiver were down too with mysterious leg injuries, but not Antwan. Jess had taken some fairly minor hits but was pulled aside with Antwan by Reynolds to warn them to be extra cautious. Reynolds told Jess to do no heavy scrambling, absolutely no runs, and to dump the ball at all costs if no one was open.

Reynolds next pulled Dino aside for a quick halftime confab too, “Go after his throwing shoulder, the bastard’s are playing dirty.”

“The QB?” Dino said, “Even at the risk of a penalty?”

“Yeah,” said Reynolds, “But if we’re going to get a 15-yarder, make it count. You know those throwing modules are weak and the Jappers are having trouble getting the material to make more. If we can take out their QB, we can win this thing. The bastards damaged our running back and 2 receivers on purpose, okay Dino?”

“Got it boss, I’ll go talk to my boys.”

“Okay Dino, show them a little carrot, one G for whatever thumb jockey knocks him out.”

Dino gave a toothy reptilian grin, “You got it boss.”

The Tin Cans received the 2nd half kickoff and the game started to get ugly. Two late hits on the Texas quarterback got the home crowd booing, but neither one disabled the Gen 3 QB as Reynolds desired. With a 28 yard kickoff return from the goal line, a couple of runs, a nice pass, and the two 15-yard penalties, the Tin Cans were already in the Red Zone and scored a TD two plays later to take a 21-14 lead.

Two big blows came to the Robocats in their first possession of the 2nd half. Ichiro’s second running back danced for several yards and then had its free arm, the one not carrying the ball, grabbed by a linebacker who was strong enough to hold and stop the body of the smaller model, but the Texas controller did not purposefully finish the tackle, just held Ichiro’s #21 up on purpose waiting for help. Another linebacker then hit the joint near the shoulder while the other held and twisted the arm. As a result, the arm was nearly torn completely off, only still dangling by a loose internal wire.

“Whatcha-fucky! Whatcha-fucky!” Reynolds could hear Ichiro cussing in back of the control room, but his player still had not gone down.

“Run damn it! Run!” Reynolds yelled back.

Ichiro ran nearly 20 yards before a quick corner put him down, but the human refs on the sidelines called an official timeout to review the play.

To Reynolds’ dismay and growing anger, they ruled #21 down where his arm was broken, ruling that it qualified as a detached limb which was considered a tackle. Reynolds was livid with a red Irish face that resembled that of a blushing drunk with a vein popping out of his forehead. He got on the line with their rep on the sideline, “God Damn bloody refs, didn’t they see what they did to the player?”

“Yeah boss, but they’re calling him down.” The sideline team rep on the field did little more than confer with the refs on penalty acceptance which in this case, there was no penalty. The actual decisions on penalties came from Reynolds or one of his coordinators. The sideline reps spent most of their time directing the sweepers on and off the field. Of course, the crowd was cheering wildly this time as the black & white penguin-like robo ref on the field was ordered to march the ball back 20 yards. Usually 2 running backs had been enough, a starter and a backup, but now the Robocats were left with a couple of Kettering designed fullbacks that were built more for blocking than running. They also had an old Gen 1 backup running back left from last year that had only been used sparingly during the blowout games along with the one at Seattle where Reynolds had to stay within the 21 point spread as dictated by his uncle. As a result, the running game tanked as the Tin Cans, with a vast field of shiny Gen 3 players, concentrated more on the pass as their 4 defensive linemen and a single linebacker were more than adequate for stopping the run now that Ichiro’s creations had been neutralized. The Robocats were stopped, punted, and Texas came back driving again.

“I want that damn quarterback out!” Reynolds shouted to offensive and defensive controllers alike when Dino exchanged places with Rudy at the helm or head of the room. He would get his chance when the Tin Can running back fumbled.

“Don’t get the ball! Don’t get the ball!” Reynolds was screaming out of control. “Get the quarterback! Get the quarterback! Break the fucker’s shoulder!”

One of his controllers, a Kettering student who was playing outside linebacker, had cheated up to the line correctly anticipating a run play, and happened to be on the opposite side of the field away from the fumble during the mad scramble for the ball that followed; nevertheless, the Gen 3 QB’s back was in his sights and he slammed his joystick forward full speed to gain all out escape velocity. He maneuvered his directional pad with one hand and lowered his player’s shoulder, the strongest part of this particular model. Luckily, the Tin Can QB controller was coached to stay out of the melee as well given the expense and value of the quarterback. As luck would have it, the Tin Can QB was backing up slightly when the Kettering controller launched his linebacker directly into what would have been the upper rear right shoulder of a human being. There was an awesome satisfying crack that Reynolds swore that he heard, like a freight train hitting a bus that had stalled midway on its tracks. Years of staying indoors and playing countless hours of video games had paid off for the Kettering student.

Reynolds pumped his fist twice in the air, “Thattaboy!” as most everyone was still more concerned and focused on the fumble. The quarterback lay immobile, and when it was determined that the Tin Cans had gotten the ball back, Reynolds’ attention was still firmly planted on the opposing QB. The quarterback got up but the throwing shoulder was shot! It was not disconnected, but it hung limply, and was not moving at all except for an internal vibration that Reynolds could not detect on screen. A little steam was coming off of it too from some fried inner wiring.

“Who did that?” Said Reynolds, “Who’s controlling #58?”

“I am sir,” came a girly voice from some skinny freckle-faced pasty 19-year old kid in the 2nd row from the back.

“Raise your hand son,” Reynolds commanded. The student did so.

Reynolds nearly ran back and clapped the kid on the back hard-like that nearly cut the wimpy boy in half. Reynolds could see that the kid’s upper arms had about the same diameter as a paper towel roll without any paper. “Nice work kid!” There was a little delay as the sweepers were generally inordinately busy after a play like a fumble. Reynolds would have cheered even more to see that 3 additional Tin Can offensive units were disabled and swept away after the clean-up; instead, he whipped open his wallet and laid ten $100 bills on the kid’s desk and left, enough to buy 2, maybe 3 college books.

Not even Texas could bribe their way into owning two Gen 3 quarterbacks when there was only a handful present throughout the league. They did have a Gen 2 which was the same basic model as Jess’s clone and what Jess looked like too in armored uniform, at least from the outside. The Tin Cans managed to add a field goal on the drive with 4 and a half minutes left in the 3rd to increase their lead by ten, 24-14, but the gloves were off now.

Reynolds gained some measure of composure as his worries turned to Jess and Antwan. He had more to lose than just a few machines. Robot heads in Rock-’em Sock’em Robots could be pressed back down unlike severed human spines. The Tin Cans came after Jess. He could hear Rudy talking quietly to Jess, telling him to throw, pitch, and get out of way, or throw it away. Down by 10, the running game hurting, and some of the starting receivers out, it was all down to Jess and Antwan now. The two were honing their skills, nearly reaching the uber comfort level between quarterback and receiver, where one knew what the other was thinking, or about to do, but they still weren’t quite at their peak just yet. Antwan was getting double teamed and Jess was being blitzed, but some innovative audibles called by Jess found Antwan on some hitch and goes that could only work between the minds of 2 humans. Rudy would relay the quick fire changes to the controllers that Jess spoke into his mike. It was not uncommon for Rudy to call his own instant changes based on what formations he might see on the monitor. The controllers had to be on their toes at snap time.

If the defense gave Antwan too much cushion, Jess hit him with short passes. If they crowded him, Antwan would fake the short step, freeze for a split second to make the defender commit, and then sprint down the sideline either to an open spot or where the ball was hitting him in full stride more and more on a regular basis ever since the big win in the game against Chicago. It was getting tougher with Ichiro’s players out. In the later NFL days, it had become too pass happy with rules that handcuffed the defenders. There was a time in the glory days before big money ruined the sport, when the run and pass complimented each other, and a team could not win regularly without success in both. The RFL was more like Old School NFL where QB’s were not routinely racking up 400 yard passing games and 5,000 yard seasons. Jess and Antwan squeezed into the edge of the Red Zone a yard at the Texas 19 when the Tin Cans got to Jess and knocked him out of the game.

Jess missed the handoff to the lumbering Gen 1 running back who for some reason seemed to malfunction and could not hold on to the ball. Frustrated, Jess was able to pull the ball back before it fumbled to the ground, but then realized that there was a problem with the ball and not the running back. The balls had a thin metal alloy inner skin that was magnetized beneath the traditional leather covering simply to enable the sensor pods on the player hands to better grasp it, but to Jess, it was as if the magnetism within the ball spiked from nonexistent waves to heavy ones. He had a little metal in his own thin driver-like gloves, and when he pulled the ball back to prevent a fumble, the magnetism jolted in the red and stuck to his hand like that of an octopus suction cup on glass.

“Just throw it away kid!” Rudy’s voice filled his ears from within his head piece.

“I can’t!” He shouted back, “It’s stuck!”

“Go for the sideline! Run out of bounds!”

But it was too late. The nose tackle was on his legs before Jess could try one of his old patented spin moves and the linebacker set up for the run was coming at him full speed. Jess tried to purposefully fall when the Texas controller lowered the head of the linebacker and managed a fairly clean blow to the side of Jess’s head gear that put him down. Luckily, it was more of a glancing blow and not an illegal one either since head-to-head contact was not only legal, but encouraged in the RFL for the benefit of the fans. Part of the appeal had been to purposefully incorporate harder hitting with more violence than possible in the old NFL.

“Fuck,” said Rudy.

“Shit,” said Reynolds. “Call him in, get the sweepers with the cart out there.” No one really noticed in the heat of battle that Reynolds left his control board unoccupied while his #7 player, Antwan, continued to play. There was always auto pilot mode as an answer.

“Damn, the kid’s not moving,” were the last words that scrolled across Reynolds’ monitor, but he missed them as he was already on his way to the locker room. The Robocats managed a field goal to cut the lead down to seven, 24-17 in favor of the Tin Cans. Unfortunately for Michigan, the score would be the final one. With so many players out on both teams, especially on offense at about a 2 to 1 ratio, the defenses ruled the rest of the game as no one scored in the 4th.

Jess’s brain did a very odd thing. There were stories about kids who hit their heads and went cross-eyed, then hit them again or got kicked by a mule or what have you, and the eyes magically righted themselves. Antwan had several jokes about it in his repertoire. Jess went black as the lights popped out, but only for an instant. Then they seemed to come back on only brighter than ever before. Unbeknownst to him, Dr, Hobson had been able to stimulate his brain, repair and even recreate neural pathways, only to silence, darken, or hide them with memory suppression sensors, but those sensors had been gone now for weeks, and had even malfunctioned prior to that. Jess lay on his back not moving. Robo sweepers picked him up none too gently, dropped him on a cart, and whisked him away. Jess’s pupils however were flying around like he was in REM sleep, and his brain was lighting up like that only experienced by an intense orgasm or a heavy dose of LSD.

His mind floated back to his childhood and began streaming chronologically from there. He was at a birthday party, his own, he was young, in a highchair, and he was so excited and the stimulus overload from those around him was so great, that he face planted himself into his slice of cake and ice cream that was on a plate on his tray. Uncle Larry was there in front of him laughing his ass off trying to take pictures. The images were flying now, faster than the climax of 2001: A Space Odyssey. He was riding a bicycle, the training wheels off, motoring like crazy as fast as his stubby little legs could pump, then he hit a curb, upended over a prickly bush, got scratched all to hell, and slid his head across an eye hook on his neighbor’s mail box, the one that was used to hold a newspaper enclosed in a plastic bag. He had a few stitches and a Tetanus shot, and subconsciously moved his gloved hand to his head as he contacted his head gear instead, trying to feel for a tiny scar that was now hidden under his left eyebrow.

Next, he was throwing balls with his dad. Playing catch with dad, mitt to mitt, nice soft easy lobs, he could do that all day. It was Thanksgiving, and both dad and Uncle Larry were throwing a football around, but at 13, he could throw tighter spirals than either of them. Funny, Uncle Larry was the only actual name he could remember in his daze, but he would lose it when he awoke. The three of them shot some hoops too, but now it was hot and sunny. Funny again, it seemed that he had long forgotten that his dad did this stuff with him, even when he wasn’t suffering from memory problems. Images of his dad, unkept, unshaven, dirty, and passed out on the sofa with empty bottles of beer, wine, and later, the hard stuff piling up around him, brought frown lines to Jess’s unseen forehead. He could faintly hear some voice calling to him, sounded like Reynolds, but Jess wasn’t focusing all that well just yet.

Names were still not coming to him, not his dad’s or mom’s. Where was mom? Oh yeah, she was there cheering him on loudly and proudly, even if it was just practice, his #1 fan, always in the stands, never missing a game. But there were problems with her. She was somewhat tall for a woman but apple-shaped, wide everywhere until the bitter end. All of a sudden, she was thin, pale, and sickly. A few odd wigs had replaced her one vanity point, her long thick dark hair, all part of the cruel price paid for chemotherapy, and then she was gone, like a thin wisp of white smoke on a hot sunny day. Of course, his girl friend had been curvy, but not tall or fat like mom. Wait! Girl friend? Curves? Oh my God! Those sumptuous breasts, nipples as ripe as red tomatoes….”

“Damn it kid, wake up!”

Jess flashed on, “What? Where….?”

“Thank god, just breathe kid, here’s a little water, sit up.”

Jess looked around at the drab sickly pool table green walls in Reynolds’ visitor office. There was nothing on them, not even a crappy picture or unframed poster. He noticed too that his full diver-like head gear and upper body armor had been removed and that he was a little wet.

“Sorry about that kid, thought you were overheating.” Reynolds had splashed him with the contents of a 1-liter water bottle, but then provided him with a new one that was full.

“It was hot out there,” Jess managed to say after a couple of swallows. It was as if he awoke from a vivid dream, but like most dreams, it was fading as fast as the residual lights from a single fireworks explosion.

“Only 2 games left,” Reynolds said more to himself. Right then and there, he decided that there probably wouldn’t be a next year for him or the kid. Even if they did make the playoffs, the stress was nearly unbearable. It wasn’t enough that he had his uncle on his back, but two civilians or humans, playing against machines just couldn’t last. All it would take was a little blood spill, or worse, a hand or arm severed, or the absolute nadir point, a decapitation. He was maybe exaggerating a little but couldn’t quell the visions of Jess’s or Antwan’s bloody head rolling on the field like some cruel beheading ritual ordered by Ivan the Terrible.

Then there would most definitely be some serious inquiry and the buck stopped with him. His coordinators could still deny it, Hobson too maybe now that he had distanced himself somewhat from the team. Jess had given him a scare, and Reynolds thought that he would never hear himself say or think it, but at this particular moment, he missed the surly little arrogant doctor. Hobson had at least been in charge of Jess, catered to the kid as far as injuries were concerned, checked his vitals, or in short, Jess had been Hobson’s responsibility, but not any longer. The kid had given him a big scare today and he found out, almost the hard way that he was ill prepared for a medical emergency.

“Yeah, regular season,” Jess finally answered, “What about the playoffs?”

“Yeah, you’re right kid, either we make them or I’m out of here, really out of here,” Reynolds gave an abrupt laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. “How’s your noggin kid?”

“Not bad, that damn football stuck to my hand.”

“Yeah, Rudy relayed it to me, bad break, but shit happens.”

“Yeah,” Jess said forgetting about his dream-like memory recall for the moment.

In a little while, Antwan strode in cussing up a storm, “I hope we get another shot at those bastards. Oh hey kid, how ya doin’?” Reynolds was on the line with Rudy and got the bad news on the final score.

“Damn ball just stuck to my hand,” repeated Jess for Antwan’s benefit.

“Yeah, I knowed somethin’ was wrong,” said Antwan.

“Shit,” Reynolds said as he hung up the phone.

“What is it boss?” Antwan asked.

“Just got the word, the damn Choppers won today, means we’re a game behind them.

Reynolds stormed out of the office into the general locker room, and to add insult to injury, the place resembled a sick bay on a starship during a full planetary epidemic. It was time to motivate the team to pack up the box cars and get their collective asses, and arms and legs too by the looks of things back to Michigan. The 7-3 Baltimore Blockheads would be coming to town and the Robocats needed to get healthy, and fast.

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, Won 35-24

11/01/2020 BYE WEEK

11/08/2020 Michigan at Arkansas. Won 63-7

11/15/2020 Chicago at Michigan, Won 35-31

11/22/2020 Daytona at Michigan, Won 49-0

11/29/2020 Michigan at Texas, Lost 17-24

12/06/2020 Baltimore at Michigan

12/13/2020 Michigan at Wichita

“I’d run over my own mother to win the Super bowl.”

Joe Jacoby

“To win, I’d run over Joe’s mom too.”

Matt Millen

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