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3003, the ultimate salary
A football coach's dream come true By Richard Linde, 6 May 2002 For a moment, he was terrified. The room seemed naked, cast in a brilliant white light. How long had he been unconscious? He remembered the agonizing chest pains that had gripped his chest like a vice. They were gone, and he was alive and well. Arising from the bed, he walked over to the lone window
in the room and peered through. Not short of breath--a good sign. The surrounding buildings rose thousands of feet
in the air, shrouding the building he was in like a redwood forest. Down below he could see a myriad of automobiles
speeding along elevated ramps, traveling at high speed. Some were floating in
the air, others rising straight up--so far down they looked like drops of water
spewing from a geyser--and then thrusting forward
at high speed. He must have been dreaming, maybe hallucinating from the
drugs they had given him. His senses intact, he felt hungry, famished, but not weak
feeling. How long had it been since he’d eaten?
There was a button on one of the walls with a sign over it that read,
“FOOD.” He pressed the button and waited. Seconds later, a beautiful woman with ravishing, shoulder length hair entered the the room. She came through the wall, as if it were transparent, and carried a tray of food. Smiling, she set the tray on the table and in a sultry, lyrical voice said, “Steak cooked rare, salad, dessert, wine and an after-dinner cigar.” "Thanks," he muttered, hating himself for being laconic. His gruff ways seemed to follow him everywhere, and sometimes at the wrong time. Brushing her soft, black hair aside, she smiled, “ My name is Consuella. Anything else?” Drawn into the darkness of her eyes as if mesmerized, he noticed that they sparkled like black diamonds. He couldn’t avert her gaze, as much as he tried. Control yourself, he thought. “Er ah, no. That will be
fine.” "Did I displease you?" "No, senorita." Tongue-tied idiot, he thought of himself! Could have said "ma'am," which would have been worse. Consuella left the room as she came, piercing the thick wall in a vapor-like form. He ate the food with zest, and then lit the cigar,
Havana’s best according to the wrapper. Food had never tasted as good. Still smoking the cigar, he walked over to the door,
opened it and was confronted with a long hallway that must have stretched one
hundred yards or more. “It’s time to explore,” he muttered to himself. He
finished the cigar and then decided to enter the hallway. As he walked along the corridor, a strange noise emanated
from the walls, slowly building into a crescendo of loud applause that
captivated his senses. Someone shouted, “Tequila,” and the purple and gold
walls of the hallway rippled like the smooth waves in a shallow pond that had
been energized by a small pebble. He stopped at the first door, checked himself over and
knocked. He was wearing a purple and gold jump suit, much too gaudy
for his liking. He drew a deep breath before entering and noticed he wasn’t
breathing after that. Something was desperately wrong. Checking his pulse, he
detected a normal rhythm. Seconds later, a short, round man with a ruddy face opened
the door. “Mr. Gilmour Dobie, what a surprise. You weren’t supposed to be
cognitive until tomorrow. I apologize” For a moment, he relaxed. “Are you a doctor?” “Yes, of sorts.” “Where am I?” “You are in a hospital, so to speak. I’m Doctor
Hudson.” “Those chest pains were awful. But I’m not
breathing—I mean unless I try to. It’s not reflexive. Is that normal? Am I
going to die?” Although he was frightened, his voice sounded gruff, deep
throated, as if he’d been yelling his whole life and had damaged his larynx. “It’s not as you think, Mr. Dobie. You…you…have
been dead for quite some time. Come on in and sit down” The room was dark and foreboding, with little visible
light. He sat down in a leather chair and stared at the doctor, who took a seat
in front of him. “Am I in hell?” “No,” Hudson laughed. Actually, you expired a thousand
years ago. We’ve brought you back to life.” “What day is it?” “Monday, July 1st, 3003.” “So, I’m not in heaven?” “Neither heaven nor purgatory. You are still on Earth,
but it is a far different world than you once knew.” “I guess I wasn’t hallucinating. It’s certainly a
different world out there,” he said, thinking of the view from his room. “I’ll cut to the chase. We live in a utopia, driven by
total automation and infinite energy. There is no need for money, since plenty
abounds. Of course, no one has to work, excepting a few specialists, and Mr.
Dobie you are a specialist.” “Is that why you transmogrified me?” “Yes.” “So, what do you want of me? But first of all, how did
you bring me back?” “This is somewhat recondite. You’re not going to
understand all of this, considering the period of time that you were alive.” Trying to smile, “Well, take your best shot, Doc.” “Simply put and in short, we found a blue print of your
body by digging up your remains. We used space/time travel to capture your
spirit, if you will, capturing your memories, emotions, feelings--all that
comprise your essence--that is, those quintessential things that make up your
identity, your uniqueness as an individual.” “My spirit?” “Yes, for the want of a better word. This data was
entered into our mainframe computer and then entered into the computer chips
that are inside the shell of your body.” “You make me sound like a robot.” “Precisely.” “I’m a robot? I don’t feel like one. I have skin and
all my senses.” “You are a robot Mr. Dobie, and we promise you eternal
life if you will accept this task.” “And if I don’t.” “Again I’ll be succinct. We will be forced to reset
your body to a null state, zero out the DNA encoding in the mainframe computer,
erase the backups and burn the remains we used for the encoding. In other
words, your opportunity for eternal life will be lost. You have the opportunity
to live for as long as this universe lasts and for as long as other ones last, assuming
they are found. If you should accept the deal and fail, you still get the
ultimate salary.” Taken aback and wanting to buy time, Dobie stood up and
walked over to a mirror affixed to one of the walls. “Here, I’ll turn on the light.” Dobie gasped at his appearance, for it was much different
now. He was a 25-year old man,
tall, lean, blond, with piercing blue eyes. “You could have bent my nose a
bit more crooked, made me look like a rogue, a swashbuckler.” “We couldn’t. A crooked nose isn’t in your gene
pattern.” “Just a joke,” he muttered thickly. “So what’s the
task at hand? Do you mind if I smoke a stogie?” He stared at the humidor on
the desk behind Hudson. “Certainly, but not now. There’ll be plenty of them
for you if you accept the job.” Dobie sat down, with a disappointed look on his face. What
would the fun of being alive be if you couldn’t smoke a stogie when you felt
like it? “Let me finish. I represent the University of Washington
football team, as its athletic director. Since your death, the team has won 150
national championships. Over the last fifty years, it has barely broken even in
the won/lost column. Fans are disgusted. “Yeah, I told Suzzallo that would happen.” “We’ve brought back Jim Owens, Don James, Rick
Neuheisel, Jim Phelan, Jim Lambright, Enoch Bagshaw, and Whitey Lundberg.
Lundberg won ten straight national titles before his death in 2351. But none of
these former coaches could right our sinking ship. You are our last hope. We
want you to coach the Huskies. After all, you never lost a game when you coached
at Washington. The players have gotten too soft and we need someone who will
instill the fear of God in them.” “I don’t want the job. I’m finished with coaching.
But I would like to see one of my quarterbacks, Wee Coyle. I need to tell him
something. Can you bring him back?” Smiling, almost smirking, Hudson continued, “Oh, yes,
Wee Coyle. Well, we resurrected him as well. He turned us down--the opportunity
for eternal life--gambling on whether he could get into the domain beyond this
existence.” “Then reset my body to a null state. I don’t want your
job. I’ve got to see Coyle. I’ll take the gamble, too.” “In your case, I wouldn’t. Although our scientists are
fairly certain there is an afterlife, inside of a domain that is
timeless--otherwise, the whole universe would collapse--a complicated
mathematical function determines whether your spirit is eligible for entry, so
to speak. You’re sitting on the bubble, Mr. Dobie. Mr. Coyle was not. Your
SAT/ACT scores just aren’t there, Mr. Dobie. Possibly you could get in as a
partial qualifier, but I wouldn’t take that chance if I were you.” “I need to see Wee Coyle. I’ve got to see him,
there’s something I need to say to him.” Dobie’s face was pained,
tormented. He squirmed nervously in his chair, fidgeting about, his voice
choked with emotion. Apparently oblivious to his discomfort, Doctor Hudson
looked straight-ahead, staring through him, as if he were not in the room. “Coyle chose the other path. After we restored him, he
was dissatisfied with being a robot. He chose to take the ultimate gamble,
betting on the existence of a heaven and a God inside the domain I spoke of. We
burned his remains, so there are no traces of his DNA left on Earth, zeroed out
his spirit--his memory, emotions, feelings, as stored in our mainframe--and
then reset his body to a null state. He can never be restored or be
resurrected again.” “So, he’s in a better place.” “Don’t make Coyle’s mistake. We need you, Mr. Dobie.
You are the winningest coach in Pac-10 history, never having lost a game.” For a moment, the recalcitrant coach reconsidered. “How
much does it pay? I was making $3500 when Henry fired me. I’d need…er
ah…at least $4000,” he teased. “Stop playing games. Eternal life is your salary, the opportunity to live forever. What more could you want? In your free time, you can study under our most erudite scientists and learn about the universe, how it came to be and why we are here. There is no need for money here on Earth. You can eat the best foods, entertain the best looking women, like Consuella, and smoke all the, er..ah, stogies you want." "Yes, she is beautiful," the coach winced, forgetting the rest of the offer for a moment. How did he know about her, he wondered? "Take an antigravity ship and see Elvis Pressley at the Interstellar Hotel on Mars. We’ve brought them all back. Mars is where it's at, featuring the hottest shows in the Galaxy. Better than any inside of Andromeda. Or catch Sinatra up there, while on a recruiting trip.” Hudson's eyes sparkled. Ready to accept the deal,
his conscious got the better of him. “I don’t want the job. I’ve
got to see Coyle. Reset me. Do away with me. Turn me into a chance happening
that never got off the ground, a sperm that never made it to an ovum. I’ll take the gamble. I’m
haunted by my past, and can’t live with it any more until I make amends.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Dobie.” He pressed a
button and a tall, thin man walked into the room.” “Mr. Gates, take Mr. Dobie to the computer laboratory
and reset him to a null state.” “You turning him down?” Mr. Gates asked. “That’s right, four eyes,” Dobie huffed gruffly. “Dead man walking,” Gates shouted, to get even with those that used the pejorative term that always followed him. They walked down the long hallway, another fifty feet, and
then entered a large room. It was filled with machinery that boggled Dobie’s
mind. All of the machines were labeled with the acronym, “LFM.” “Here lie down.” Gates pointed to a gurney. Sensing
his curiosity, he said, “LFM” means "Life Forming Machines." I own patents to
all the software that runs on them.” “And you can’t cash in on them, ” Dobie laughed. “The
joke is on you, Gates, at least in the money-less world Hudson described.” “Ah, but I’ve been given an eternal life.” The caustic coach lay down on the gurney and stared at the bright
lights above him, wondering whether he should reconsider. Unzipping the jump suit, Gates attached a cord to an
opening in Dobie’s chest. “This is your last chance? Reconsider, man. If you
didn’t get in the first time, you’ll likely not get in this time. The odds
are against you, according to our data.” Looking terrified, Dobie shouted, "Pull the damn cord. I can't go through with it." "Wise choice." Gates removed the cord, with a look of relief on his face. It had taken ten years to resurrect the redoubtable coach. In a dumb-like trance, the young man sat up on the table. In his mind's eye, he saw an image of Wee Coyle, with tears in his eyes, replaced by the face of Mel Mucklestone, that hurt look on his face, his jaw quivering. Face after face after face. The mud, the rocks, the pounding rain, the cold, icy wind whipping into those faces--and the agonizing pain. "My, God, stop! I was like a father to them and let
them down. Pushed them away from me." He lay back down on the gurney. “Reattach
me. I’ll take the chance at getting into heaven. Zero me out. Do away with me.
Anyway, I might already be there and not know it.” Gates reinserted the cord with relish. Something had gone wrong with the restorative process; he'd wipe out his mistake with a push of a button. The man was so guilt ridden he couldn't think properly. “Doubtful that your spirit is already there, foolish man. This won’t hurt. We’ve even
programmed in a near death experience--inside your circuitry--that you'll see during the zeroing
process, to ease you along the way.” Gates looked at him pitifully. "Is it a go?" "Yes." Throwing a switch, the machinery in the room began to hum
and flash. In Dobie’s mind, light turned into darkness and he had
the feeling he was falling, falling, falling. Suddenly, he was inside a long
tunnel with a bright light at its end. He could hear the sound of machinery in
the background, strange up and down noises he’d never heard before. At the
end of the tunnel he could see Wee Coyle, wearing a canvas football uniform and
leather helmet. He reached for him, but his arms went straight trough Coyle’s
transparent body. Behind Coyle was the most beautiful football field he’d
ever seen. It was a reincarnation of Denny Field, with grass, brilliant
sunlight and fans wearing purple and gold, who sat in stands that rose miles in
the air. A symmetrical vision, they flowed like waves in a sea of time,
reminding him of the hallway in Hudson's building. At the east end of the field, a hundred or more cruise ships were anchored
in a harbor. I must have made it as a partial qualifier, he thought,
then stepped out of the tunnel and walked onto the field. Looking at Coyle he said, “I’ve got to tell you
something kid. I’ve always wanted to tell you this.” “I know what you’re going to say. Don’t bother,
coach.” “Look, kid, I’ve got to tell you this. I…I’ve been
so haunted by it all. The way I treated you guys. Those nights in my room
before the games and the way I talked down to you. I…I…” “No, don’t say it. I know what you’re going to say.
It’s okay coach. Really. Oregon has beaten us five straight times up here. We
need you to coach us again.” “Oregon!! Those patsies?” Dobie was visibly angered,
his spirit glowing bright red in a celestial aura that encircled his body. Coming out of billowing nimbus that momentarily covered
the field, members of his team surrounded him: Wayne Sutton, Bevan Presley, Ted
Faulk, Maxwell Eakens, Mel Mucklestone, Ernest Murphy, Fred Tegtmeier and the
others. Tears streaming down his cheeks while trying to fashion a
stern look at the same time, Dobie addressed the players, “What kind of crap?
Sorry God…I…I…” He couldn’t stop the tears, his voice choked with
emotion. He paused, brushed away the tears and then went on. “What’s gone
wrong? Oregon whipping your butts five times in a row? I told you guys you were
no good and I was right.” “Coach, we need you,” they yelled out in unison. He mustered a weak smile. It's what he'd wanted to hear, the way he felt, too. He gathered himself up, as the crusty, outspoken coach he’d
always been and gesticulated wildly as he spoke, “Okay, you dunderheads. Listen to me. Can’t you remember
anything? Get your head out of the seat of your pants. To win in football you
got to hit ‘em and hit ‘em and hit ‘em again. You’re going to lose
again, you simpletons. I can feel it. Now line up, let’s run the Bunk Play.
Presley you center the ball, Coyle over there…” ----- Gilmour Dobie, the most successful coach in NCAA football history while at Washington (58-0-3), has been paid the ultimate salary. This story is dedicated to the memory of Curtis Williams, Number 25. May he and his jersey be retired in heaven, as he is paid the ultimate salary. |
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