A Dedication

Quite an overwhelming scent, that of burning machine oil. Indeed, pleasure of any one particular sensory organ is rarely found in the basement of the Pope John rectory during the first two months of the New Year. Dust, shavings, discarded motors, and other odd findings can be seen lying about on tables and chairs. A cacophony of grinding, shearing, screeching and whining can be heard from behind the two-inch-thick triple bolted door with the fogged window. To touch any conceivable object in sight invariably results in a heavy coating of oil, muck, and other unlabeled lubricants, pastes and fluxes. It is the smell, however, that truly pervades one’s mind. Burnt sulfur and phosphorus flood the room. Thick enough to taste, the pungency is often met with swiftly wrought retribution onto the poor, unsuspecting freshman inexperienced enough to overuse cutting oil on a heated mill bit.
The repulsiveness of the basement during the months of January and February is unmatched by any place on Pope John grounds, yet there is no place in the world I would prefer to find myself during this period. Somehow, amid the sensory discomfort, I find wonder and excitement. The aforementioned door is black not by nature but by the quantity of oil coatings it has encountered over the past seven years. Initially something to be avoided, gingerly touched only when something inside is absolutely required, much more can be seen on this door. If one takes the time to look, it is not difficult to make out the letters on the door that read “Coco.” They are written in a combination of axel grease and the blood, sweat and tears of a devoted team member. The machine shop has come under the control of many, but none who treated so reverently as one Edward Yu. Looking closer, one can see other names on the door: Mike, Chris, Tom and Adam, to list a few. Names unforgotten in Team Lionheart history. In these names, one begins to see the passion and dedication inherent to the team.
Of course, the words Team Lionheart would often fall on deaf ears and blank stares nowadays. The legendary days of Sabrina Varanelli and dreaded scissor lifts have passed to allow a new generation. Revolution Robotics, we call ourselves now.
The bonds of work and accomplishment will exist on any team, however. Robotics involves taking the mundane and creating the extraordinary. Nowhere else can a simple conveyor system combined with a pneumatic controlled drop-gate emblazoned with the motto “We’re Fine ‘09” bring the sixth-ranked team in the nation to its knees. Nowhere else can a high powered torque system built to elevate 240 lbs be constructed from some metal and the ideas of ten high school kids.
The real prize, of course, lies in Atlanta, Georgia and the FIRST Championships. Early mornings walking to the football dome and late nights of poker on the balcony of the Marriot Marquis’s 57th floor define time spent there. Fireworks shows designed by the most knowledgeable engineers on the planet and trips to the Coca-Cola Factory make Atlanta the holy grail of the robotics season.
Not even this, however, truly embodies the robotics program. Waves of nostalgia wash over me as I open an old document: the room arrangements drawn up that we insisted were randomized, in order to avoid confrontation. A simple list of names draws back the epic adventures we shared as a team: Mike’s squeaks of terror at the clanging of a fallen piece of metal, the wonder of Josh’s precise ball handling (until he throws it at you), and the shouts of another Mike, “There’s so much poultry!” These moments are why we do what we do, and this is why I am proud to be a part of it.