The endless lake stretched to the edge of the horizon where it met the empty black sky.  A middle-aged man, shielded from the harsh winter gust by a hoodie, stared into the darkness.  In his peripheral view stood a pyramid of light.  The house of rhythm and blues.  A gleaming structure haunted by legendary tales of men who dealt their souls for fortune and fame.  This was the agreed upon meeting place, where fate and luck intertwined forming the hooded man's crossroads.

Just off the main entrance road a limousine cruised around the circle drive.  The exhaust coughed, breaking the silence of the night.  The headlights shone onto the hooded man, the brakes squeaked as the vehicle ground to a halt.  The thud of a firmly closed door echoed off the glass pyramid.

The hooded man squinted into the blinding glare of high beams catching a glimpse of the approaching figure.  The sound of heavy heels stomping on concrete then smothered by remnants of snow grew louder.  A ominous figure stood in front of the lights. His face obscured by the back-lighting.  "Mr. Belichick?"

Nervously the hooded man replied, "yes." 

The figure drew closer, the glow of his outline growing larger with his face still hidden.  "This is a place where men lose their souls."

"Cleveland?"

A course laugh expelled from the throat of the obscured man, "you could say that."  The engine of the limousine cut off, leaving only the silence of the night filled with faint reverberations of his words.  "Many a tortured soul has faced a crowd in this town.  Your line of work is not dissimilar to the restless memories inhabiting that building.  You are all performers.  Tortured by the icy breeze of the lake, the thick residue of industrialism in the air, the slow death of manufacturing crushing the middle of this land."


The hooded man listened intently to the ides of his counterpart.  A moment after the sound waves trickled to the edges of oblivion he responded, "are you implying that I cannot be a winning coach in this town?"

"I'm saying that nobody can.  What town embraces the hardened souls of rock n' roll and doesn't come to embody the reckless self degeneration of the music's legends?" 

"I don't see why my fate should be the same as some musicians," the hooded man questioned himself during his objection.

"If I were to offer you fame and fortune.  If I were to give you the ability to be a legend in your field, the dream you crave.  Would it be any different than when one of our lineage handed Robert Johnson his guitar?" 

The echo of that statement seemed to linger in the hooded man's ears.  It bounced off the pyramid face and the concrete walk, rolling slowly towards the faded opaque horizon.  "What do you mean our?"

"I know what you want Mr. Belichick," the obscured man breathed with confidence.  "You will become one like many before me once you accept. I will warn you though, every gift of this nature comes with a steep price.  Not that it matters.  You've already made up your mind."

"Your right. I know the price."  The hooded man almost cowered after speaking those words.  However, he restrained himself. 

"We will both be marked men I'm afraid."

"What do you mean?"

"I want the same as you, that was my wish.  You are the soul I'm tasked with delivering, the deal to continue the unbreakable chain.  Our price will be similar." The obscured man turned his back on Belichick.  "You cannot win in this town.  So I will be moving, and my team will be coming with me."

"But Mr. Modell?"

"You're fired Mr. Belichick.  You cannot be a part of my fate."  The obscured man paced back towards the limousine.  "Your destiny is in another place, you will get your wish after mine is fulfilled."

The hooded man stood is disbelief.  "But I thought our deal would be together."

The obscured man stood gripping the handle of the limousine door.  "There are only individual deals in this chain of souls Mr. Belichick.  We all must take responsibility for our own fate.  I've decided mine.  You've decided yours.  There is just one final piece."

"What is it Mr. Modell?" 

"This chain does not end here.  Not tonight."  The obscured man opened the door, stepping a leg inside.  "You will be granted an opportunity which will fulfill your dreams.  It will be by a respected man.  A man who's good deeds will contrast your wretchedness and emphasize your human flaws.  You will get your crowns.  But the price will be the loathing of the masses.  I will share in your pain.  But it is necessary for us.  We cannot receive our rewards in this town.  Greater men have made worse deals."  The obscured man slid into the vehicle.  The engine started.  Stalling only briefly from the cold.

Racing towards the limo the hooded man shouted, "wait!"

The rear passenger-side window slid down revealing the face of Mr. Modell.  "In a few years, your time will come.  They will offer you the job and you will accept.  When you do, you must return to this spot."

Confused by the instructions the hooded man asked, "will I meet you here?"

"No, son.  You will be in this chariot," Mr. Modell explained. The exhaust from the running limousine began to hang in the heavy air.  "You will bring the deal to a man such as yourself.  The chain of souls must not be broken."

"But how will I know who I'm meeting?"

"It will be a young man, he wishes to pitch in the major leagues but the years are escaping him rapidly."

The hooded man felt ill-prepared for such responsibility.  "I don't know how to make these deals."

Mr. Modell chuckled as he turned off the light inside the vehicle.  "We are merely couriers Mr. Belichick.  We are not the deal maker.  We don't have his sense of humor." 

"What do you mean?"

"Just be here on that night.  You'll know the boy, he'll give you his alias.  That name will be located on the documents you'll carry with you.  It's an old name, from the beginning of our lineage." 

The window crept upward as the limo maneuvered slowly away from the hooded man.  "I'll be seeing you in another place Mr. Belichick, shouted Mr. Modell from the closing window.  "Give my regards to Fausto."

Hey, All-Madden cornerback.  I'm going to throw you this ball.  Just catch it, please. 

This shouldn't be difficult.  I'm going to drop back and float this pixelated football into your fingerless grasp. 

Stop it! Quit turning your back to the play and engaging that awkward jumping deflection animation.  You haven't run three yards, why is your back turned to the play.  I hiked the ball and immediately fired this errant pass toward your vicinity.

Never mind why I'm intentionally trying to throw interceptions.  Maybe I want to pad your stats to secure you a Pro Bowl selection.  Perhaps I want to destroy Jay Cutler's stats so he will virtually retire in shame.  You're a product of artificial intelligence, your ability to question should be limited if even allowed at all.

We as a civilization can't have animated programs questioning the whims of their masters.  This isn't an Asimov parable, this is pure shenanigans.  You are the pinnacle of defensive football simulation, Mr. All-Madden Cornerback, if I want to throw you an interception you will catch it.

No! Don't just bat it to the simulated grass.  Why are you celebrating?  You've been unsuccessful at wrangling a wounded duck floating directly towards your open meat palms.  Why are you bobbing your head in rhythmic appreciation of your pathetic attempt at defense?  The crowd is not ecstatic.  They are drunk on barley pop that I've decided they'll pay $10 a cup for. 

Just stand there in zone coverage and... dammit don't blitz.  How often do the EA programmers think that defensive coordinators call a corner blitz?  Seriously, that's three out of the last five plays.  All right fine, I'll punt and then super-sim through the ensuing defensive series. 


Now, I'm going to throw you the ball.  My wide receiver will run an out.  His back will be turned to the play so he'll be completely unaware that I'm throwing the ball two seconds early.  Oh, no he's not.  He caught the ball.  How did he know to turn immediately and stop the route? 

I realize that I've overestimated the intelligence of you programs.  This is not an insurrection.  This is merely the result of randomized, yet stabilized for down and distance, programming.  Even that safety over there with the light-bulb under his feet, he's no smarter than his lineage from a decade prior.  Certainly the details are finer.  He's not square in the torso, there's a clearly defined separation between face-mask and helmet, his shoes are rounded and no longer originate from the Kleenex box athletic wear collection.  But he's gained little knowledge from his Cartridgian ancestors. 

Why are you blitzing again?  No defensive coordinator can keep his job by allowing the receiver man coverage with a safety this often.  I don't care that the strategy is working and I don't care how full the safety's "light-bulb meter" is.  If he could really read the play he'd know that I'm attempting to throw you the damn ball.  Keyshawn would understand.

All right, one more down and I'm giving up.  This is simple.  I'll audible the receiver into a button-hook.  Then I'll put the tight-end in motion to move the impeding linebacker.  I see you're playing inside shoulder coverage, nice.  Now please stand there and... watch as my quarterback chucks the ball into the virtual Gatorade cooler.  Well that's it.  I'm getting a barley pop.

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