“That’s exactly what he did to E!” I say. “He sabotaged him. Every time SS-10K touched E, the big bully transmitted some kind of computer virus that made E go nutso.”
“In that case,” says Trip, “how exactly is this football game idea going to work?”
“We just have to make sure our bots never touch SS-10K.”
“What? It’s football, Sammy. Even the kind kindergartners play is called ‘touch football.’ So how are you going to stop SS-10K from scrambling everybody’s circuits again?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I’m kind of hoping Mom can come up with some sort of special anti-electronic padding or something. Maybe a force field.”
“Seriously?”
“The game’s not till Sunday.”
“So she has two days to invent a force field generator?”
“Or the padding.”
“Right.”
Now we’re both just nodding and not saying anything.
Oh boy.
I need Mom’s help.
Big-time!
Trip wishes me luck as he heads home and I head into Mom’s workshop.
E is slumped on the worktable. He has one arm. No legs. He also looks like he’s in sleep mode. Mom is tapping the “end call” icon on her smartphone.
“Sammy?” says Mom, swiveling around in her chair. “Did you go to Notre Dame today instead of going to school?”
“Yes, Mom,” I say bravely. “I most certainly did.”
“And did you talk Dean Schilpp into changing the terms of her robotic football game to a ridiculous contest between my robots and Dr. Ingalls’s?”
This time, I stiffen my spine a little. “Yes, Mom. I most certainly did. But I wouldn’t call it ‘ridiculous.’”
“I would. What on earth were you thinking, Samuel Hayes-Rodriguez?”
Okay, have you ever seen the movies Rocky or Rudy? If so, please start humming the heroic sound track in your head. I know I am.
“What was I thinking?” I say, clasping my hands behind my back and pacing back and forth in front of Mom, the way I’ve seen football coaches do when they give the big speech at halftime that fires up their team. “I was thinking that it’s time to fight for what’s right.”
“What?”
“Tell me, Mom, is it right that Maddie can’t go to school because of SS-10K?”
“Maddie can’t go to school because of what E did.”
I stop pacing. Look my mother square in the eye. “You mean what E did after SS-10K messed him up!”
“Sammy, you keep saying that, but…”
“It’s true,” says E, his head snapping up.
“I thought I powered you down,” says Mom.
“Actually, Professor Hayes, you put me in sleep mode. But what Sammy is saying is too important for me to snooze through. He is correct. SS-10K infected my circuits with a rogue virus.”
Mom shakes her head. “Impossible.”
“Impossible?” I say. “Impossible? Aren’t you the one who always tells me that with science, anything is possible? That if I can dream it, I can do it?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Well, some scientists have bad dreams, Mom. They dream up horrible, evil stuff. And they’ll keep on dreaming it up until someone comes along to stop them. We need to fight for what’s right!”
Yep, this time, it’s me giving Mom the lecture.
And from the look on her face, I can tell it’s working!
Put me in, Coach!” says E.
“B-b-but,” Mom stammers.
“What’ve we got to lose?” I say.
“Nothing, I guess,” says Mom.
“And if we win this game, you keep your job, E’s slate is wiped clean, and, best of all, Dr. Icky Ingalls goes away while Maddie goes back to the third grade. You just have to protect E from SS-10K’s electronic shenanigans.”
Mom turns to E. “How exactly does this other robot interfere with your operational integrity?”
Good. She’s talking techno mumbo jumbo. She’s in it to win it!
E explains how he goes whackaloon whenever SS-10K touches him. I tell Mom how I saw the same thing happen with a toy robot.
“So, somehow we have to block SS-10K’s electronic invasion of your circuitry,” Mom mumbles, as her pen hovers over a sketchpad. “We need to shield your sensors.…”
“You have two days, Mom,” I say, cheering her (and her brain) on. “Sure, you would’ve had a lot more time if you had listened to me sooner. But that’s water under the bridge. Nothing we can do about your bad decision now. So, Dr. Elizabeth Hayes, best robotics brain in the whole entire universe, I really only have one question.” I wait for a second. “Can you do this thing?”
She jumps out of her chair. “Yes, I can!”
“Good,” I say. “Now get back to work!”
The next day, while Mom tinkers with E, Trip and I help her assistant Joshua Chun install digital tackle-sensor gizmos on all our other players.
“The games are usually eight on eight,” says Joshua as he continues going over the rules of Collegiate Mechatronic Football. “But the folks at IRAT want to keep this simpler. Five on five.”
“Okay,” I say.
“But,” says Trip, “what if E isn’t ready in time?”
“He will be.”
“But what if he isn’t, Sammy? The game’s tomorrow. At three.”
“And,” adds Joshua, “Dr. Hayes told me she still hasn’t found a way to effectively block SS-10K’s electronic interference. And even if she did, she wouldn’t have time to install it on any of our other robots.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “All we need is for E to be able to play defense. Come on. We need to practice with the players who aren’t on the disabled list.”
Since E isn’t cleared to play, we put Hayseed into the quarterback position. Blitzen and Geoffrey the butler will be his linemen. I want Drone Malone to be our primary receiver, but Joshua tells me that “flying” robots are against the rules.
“All bots must be in contact with the gym floor at all times.”
“Unless they get tackled,” says Trip. “Right?”
“Actually,” I say, “they’re even more ‘in contact with the floor’ when that happens.”
So we put Mr. Moppenshine in as wide receiver. The guy’s got three arms and three legs. Our running back is McFetch.
He can clamp the ball between his jaws, and once he does, nobody is tearing it out of his mouth. He’s very doggish that way. He’s also a very speedy and tricky runner. I once chased him around and around the couch for like an hour without catching him.
“All right, huddle up,” says Hayseed, kneeling on the lawn and scratching out a play in the dirt. “We’re gonna run us the famous Breadbasket Blubber Belly play.”
“I beg your pardon?” says Geoffrey.
“It’s a classic,” says Hayseed. “Right up there with the Statue of Liberty and Flea Flicker and them other trick plays. I fake a handoff to McFetch. Blitzen? You and butler-boy pretend like you’re blockin’ for the dog. Meanwhile, Mr. Moppenshine runs downfield and starts in to twirling his dust mop and vacuum cleaner and shoutin’, ‘Yoo-hoo, throw me the ball.’
“While the other team is distracted,” Hayseed continues, “I hide the football under the bib of my overalls and pretend like I just had me a big lunch. I pat my stomach and say, ‘Shoo-wee, I ate so much, I gotta go lie down.’ Then I just waddle down the field and score a touchdown.”
“Seriously?” I say.
“Heck yeah, Coach. Works all the time.”
“But robots don’t eat lunch. They don’t eat food at all.”
“Well, I’m countin’ on the other team not knowin’ that.”
“They’re robots, too.”
“Oh. Right. Okay. I got me another trick play. Call it the Hook and Ladder. We’re gonna need us a hook and a ladder.…”
I look over to Mom’s workshop and say a silent prayer.
We really, really,
really need E.
Sunday comes sooner than I want it to.
Mom’s still in her workshop, tinkering away on E.
“I think I’ve finally figured out a way to shield E from SS-10K,” she says.
“And,” says Dad, who’s in there helping, “I drew up the design!”
“Your family is so awesome, Sammy,” says Trip.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“I mean, everybody works together. Like peanut butter and bananas.”
Even Maddie is in the workshop (well, virtually) as our head cheerleader.
“E, did you get all those plays I downloaded to your hard drive?” Maddie asks from an iPad propped on the workbench.
“I certainly did,” says E, sounding super chipper again.
“You guys?” I say. “It’s two thirty! Kickoff is in thirty minutes!”
“Just need a little more time to reinforce these shields,” says Mom. “You go on, Sammy. Start the game without E.”
“We’ll join you as soon as we can,” adds Dad.
Trip and I take off for Notre Dame with Joshua, who’s been waiting in the driveway for us with his motor running.
“Where’s your mom and E?” he asks.
“Still suiting up for the game,” I say. “Let’s roll!”
Tires squealing, we take off. Fortunately, the gym at the Stepan Center is only a five-minute drive from our house.
“The game will be sixty minutes long,” Joshua explains from behind the wheel. “Four fifteen-minute quarters. There’s a robot band at halftime. They mostly play techno.”
“Will Max Riley and all the other bigwigs be there?” I ask.
“Front row. Right behind the IRAT bench.”
All righty-o. I guess we know which team Mr. Riley is rooting for.
At exactly three PM, the game starts—without our star player.
Mr. Moppenshine uses all three of his dust-mop legs to kick off.
SS-10K catches the ball at the goal line.
“Flying V formation!” he calls out.
The four other bots on the IRAT team ZHISH-WHIRR-ZHISH into an angled-wedge configuration in front of SS-10K. They lock arms, shift into forward drive, and proceed to bulldoze their way up the floor like a snowplow on the front end of a locomotive.
They quickly shove Geoffrey the butler out of their way. Blitzen can’t ram through their ranks, even though he plays bumper cars like crazy with them. McFetch starts yapping at the ankles of the robot at the tip of the wedge. The big galoot reaches down and pats the robo-pooch on his head. The whole crowd packed into the gym goes, “Awwww,” and several hundred smartphones capture another cute-puppy video clip.
But when the robot is done petting McFetch, the mechanical dog spins around like a crazy windup toy. The kind with swirling swivel wheels. McFetch isn’t foaming at the mouth like mad dogs usually do, but his snout is definitely sparking.
Yep. Team IRAT just short-circuited another one of Mom’s creations.
SS-10K rumbles untouched all the way to the goal line. Indiana Robotics and Automaton Tech score the first points of the Robot Bowl.
“Put me in, Coach!” shrieks Brittney 13, the robot bursting with all the feelings of a teenage girl. Right now, I think she’s running her “I hate all of you” emotional program, because I have never seen her look so mad. All her LEDs are blinking red.
I send her in to replace McFetch, who’s definitely going on the twenty-one-day disabled list (maybe for the rest of his life).
Trip puts our wounded canine warrior in a doggy carrier. It bounces around like a self-propelled basketball.
The poor guy’s circuits have been deep-fried to a crackly crunch.
“Referee?” drones SS-10K. He’s pointing at Brittney 13. “Her red LEDs are blinking!”
According to the rule book, those sensors we had to install on all our bots makes them blink red if they’ve been officially tackled. When that happens, they have to remain “immobile” for two seconds. But even though Brittney hasn’t even had a chance to play, she’s so mad that her red LEDs started throbbing. In her cheeks, her ears, and her eyeballs.
The referee blows a whistle. “According to your sensors, you’ve been tackled, like, five hundred times. We’re putting your motor drive on lockdown. You’re officially out of the game!”
“You heard the referee!” shouts Dr. Ingalls. “Pull her off the field.”
Blitzen does the honors. He sort of shoves Brittney to the sidelines.
“You’ll be sorry you did that, Icky!” Brittney screams. “Super sorry!” Then she sits down on the bench and pouts.
We’re down to four fully functioning players.
Drone Malone hovers down the bench to beep at me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I can’t put you in the game. The rules say no flying.”
“Don’t worry, Coach,” says Blitzen. “Even with just four players, we can take these guys.”
“We’ll mop the floor with them,” says (you guessed it) Mr. Moppenshine.
“Indubitably!” adds Geoffrey.
I just nod.
And stare at the door.
And pray that E shows up.
Soon!
With two minutes left in the second quarter, the score is Indiana Robotics and Automaton Tech 49, Notre Dame Robotics Club 00.
IRAT calls a time-out. They’ve scored so many points, they all need a quick lube job.
To make matters worse, Penelope Pettigrew, in a cheesy cheerleader costume she probably wore for Halloween, is over with Eddie Ingalls and all the very important alumni eager to fire Mom.
“And,” says Mr. Riley, the mega-donor to the College of Engineering, “three cheers for our new department head, Dr. Ignatius Ingalls!”
There’s a lot of “hip-hip-hooraying” from the IRAT bleachers.
This isn’t a football game.
This is, basically, Mom’s professional funeral.
“Not to worry,” says Geoffrey, sliding over to me and Trip. “Keep a stiff upper lip, lads.”
“Easy for you to say,” mumbles Trip. “You’re made out of metal. Both your lips are stiff!”
“Easy, kid,” says Blitzen. “We’re a team. A team doesn’t turn on itself, even when the chips are down. Remember my motto: Get knocked down seven times, stand up eight.”
“But you’ve been knocked down fifteen times! At least!”
“And I’m still getting up. Because you give one hundred percent in the first half of the game, and if that isn’t enough, in the second half you give what’s left.”
I’m hoping for a miracle. Because E may never show up. Maybe he was damaged beyond repair. Maybe Mom decided to call it quits. Maybe I was nuts to think we could ever pull this thing off and beat Dr. Ingalls at his own game.
The ref blows his whistle, and our four remaining robots hobble onto the field.
After the snap, SS-10K drops back to pass, probably another long bomb.
But Blitzen blitzes. He zooms past all the IRAT blockers and slams into SS-10K’s foot, tripping him up enough to force a fumble. In the confusion, Blitzen scoops up the ball and races down the sideline, his tank treads rolling so fast, he’s smoking up the floor.
I’m jumping up and down for joy. I turn to “woo-hoo” with Trip.
And over his shoulder, I see Dr. Ingalls tap a shiny shamrock lapel pin.
Out on the field, Blitzen is in the clear. There’s not a tackler in sight. He’s at the twenty. The fifteen.
He’s going to score!
No.
He’s not.
He stops.
Right on the five-yard line.
He pivots around. Does a 180.
“Turn back around!” I holler.
But Blitzen zips upfield. In the wrong direction.
He runs ninety yards in nine seconds. When he gets near the goal line at the opposite end of the field, he tosses the ball to SS-10K, who is waiting patiently at the one-yard line.
SS-10K sl
ips across the goal line.
Thanks to Blitzen, IRAT scores again.
After the extra kick, I hear a whistle, a boat horn, and a whole bunch of techno.
It’s halftime.
The score?
Indiana Robotics and Automaton Tech 56, Notre Dame Robotics Club 00.
The marching robot band takes the field.
They’re pretty good. They even do a Shamrock formation. I sort of wish some of the band members could play on my football team, because I’ve pretty much run out of robots.
Blitzen’s circuits have been blitzed and blotched and KA-BLOOIED.
Mad Dog McFetch is still thrashing around in his pet carrier.
Brittney 13 is still flashing red with anger, rage, and resentment.
The only players we have left are Hayseed, Geoffrey, Mr. Moppenshine, and the grounded Drone Malone.
“We need to go home and see why it’s taking so long to fix E,” I say to Joshua. “They’re not answering their phones.”
“What about the game?” he asks.
“Trip can coach what’s left of our team until we get back.”
“Can I have Hayseed try that blubber belly breadbasket ball-hiding thingie?” Trip asks.
“Try anything you want, Trip. We’ll be back as soon as we can. And, hopefully, E will be with us!”
Joshua and I race toward the door, which means we have to run past the IRAT cheering section.
“Where you going, Sammy?” sneers Eddie Ingalls.
“Are you forfeiting the game?” asks Dean Schilpp.
“None of us would blame you if you quit, kid,” adds Max Riley.
“We’re not quitting,” I shout as I keep running. “We’re just getting warmed up!”
Robots Go Wild! Page 9
