As the audience chants “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the opponents square off across from one another, as light floods the arena; first red, then blue. The audience is silent. Then, a signal flashes yellow: once, twice. When the light turns green, the fighters fly toward the center, but stop before colliding.
Weapons buzz furiously as they stalk one another then, probing for vulnerabilities. Spotting an opening, one of the fighters attacks, and with its blade, digs a deep gouge into the side of the opponent. The crowd roars its approval. For the remainder of the three-minute match, sparks fly as, thrust after thrust, weapon hits weapon, and the fighters are flung into the air, and across the arena.
This is BattleBots, my favorite television show.
Every week, teams of engineers, hobbyists, and garage mechanics compete one-on-one in mechanized mayhem. The robots themselves come in many configurations. In no particular order, there are the full body spinners, coffee-table-sized contraptions, rimmed with razor-sharp blades, and whirling Dervish-like across the floor. One hit can rip off a wheel, or slice through the heavy steel armor of a competitor.
There are the horizontal spinners—like Tombstone—that resembles its namesake, laid flat. On the front, whirling at two hundred miles per hour, is a hardened steel blade that weighs sixty pounds or so. When the end of that blade connects, the competing robot is sometimes demolished, or might skitter across the “battle box,” shedding parts, or tumble into the augur-like blades along the edge.
Vertical spinners—such as Upper Cut—pummel their opponent with a similarly destructive blade. Each of the robots weighs about 250 pounds, and a blow from the fist-shaped end of Upper Cut’s blade can rip a competing bot to shreds, or send it flying.
Then, there are the lifter bots, such as Duck, which charge their opponents with a low-lying wedge. Once in position underneath, their operator activates the lifting mechanism, which in a fraction of a second delivers enough force to hurl the other bot tens of feet into the air. Gravity—and the steel surface of the fighting floor--does the rest.
Various forms of scorpion-like stinger bots, such as Bite Force, puncture the tops of their opponents with fearsome spikes or drills. Some hold their opponent in a vice-like grip and blast it with two-thousand-degree flames, with the intention of cooking the sophisticated electronics inside. Companion harrier bots—still within the total weight limit—sometimes zip about the arena. It’s usually a distraction, but sometimes the mini-robots hover overhead, raining fire.
This is not just a hobbyist’s diversion, either. Teams compete from all over the U.S., and also from India, Brazil, Australia, and Europe. Their prize? The coveted “Giant Nut,” which is exactly that: a large nut of polished steel, on a pedestal.
The giant nut might also describe the fanaticism and good humor of the competing teams, who appear in whimsical costumes: witch doctors, frogs, pirates, sharks, and wizards, to name a few.
Despite the whimsy, though, the engineering and science that goes into each bot is serious. With build costs as high as $50,000, most of the competitors have corporate sponsors, which provide financial support, as well as high-powered motors, batteries, computerized design services, and specialized components.
However, sponsorship isn’t universal. In BattleBots’ fifth season, a farmer, David Eaton, brought Rusty, a hammer bot. It resembles a steam locomotive crossed with a stand-mixer, and, at a cost of four thousand dollars, was assembled from components Eaton found in his parents’ barn. Miraculously, Rusty won its match, vanquishing a bot that cost upwards of tens of thousands of dollars.
To be sure, gladiatorial violence is the draw, and the breathless ringside commentary and post-fight analysis is informative and entertaining. But the enthusiasm and expertise of the human participants is equally engaging. This season, teams from MIT compete, as do teams from a community college, led by their snarling, over-the-top boastful teacher. Woman builders—Witchdoctor most prominent among them—participate on equal footing, as do people of all ages, races, and genders.
In a time of racial animus and cultural division, the diversity of the show is refreshing, but doubly so thanks to the talents on display. Knowledgeable of science, physics, electronics, and mechanics, these are people not often recognized in a public way, let alone cheered. Here, they are celebrities, with trademark costumes, gestures, and slogans. Some are legendary for their driving prowess, their design skill, or their competitive spirit. As they wheel their robots to the fighting floor, or savor a victory, they bask in a level of adulation typically reserved for top athletes or movie stars.
What I find most heartening, though, is the good sportsmanship of all concerned. If a bot is severely disabled, the opposing driver will pull back and wait, rarely inflicting more damage than necessary. In the post-match interview, winners are invariably humble, and respectful of their opponents’ skill. Defeated owners—who devote not only money and skill, but a huge amount of time to the enterprise—universally take the loss with grace and maturity. Generally, their expressed attitude is, “Well, it was a good match, and we learned a lot, so we’ll come back stronger next time.”
Watching BattleBots, one is reassured that people still know that a loss is not a declaration of unworthiness from the universe, to be met with petulance, blame, and denial. Failure in any undertaking is, in fact, an opportunity to examine one’s actions, to learn, and to improve. I can name at least one person—until January 20, 2021, a resident of Washington D.C.--who, had he learned this simple lesson in childhood, would have saved the nation a great deal of fear, anguish, and damage.
