Robot Pele was a legend.
Then, one day, Dieter Sphinxly showed up at Stamford Bridge in a rented tuxedo along with a £10 haircut and a large, black box. His tenure as Chelsea’s new manager began with the mysterious arrival of a tall, white-haired figure that never spoke and moved mechanically. And the legend intensified.
After several days with the team, it was apparent that the new recruit possessed otherworldly talent. His kit bore the simple moniker “R. Pele,” and his feet moved with a fury never before seen. He could drain a shot from midfield with ease, and his tackles and crosses were always spot-on. It wasn’t long before speculation began that he was, in fact, a robot.
But FIFA could not stop him. Nor could any defense. His one weakness – a dismal left foot – was consistently overshadowed by his all-around prowess. While the electric bills at the Bridge escalated, so did the footballer’s stamina, and his dominance continued unabated.
And the legend grew.
Sphinxly would not reveal the player’s origin, or the source of his immaculate skill. But the tabloids would reveal his training regimen: practicing “the robot” dance move for hours on end. When this came to light, other teams in the premiership became irate, insisting that no human being would be able to keep up with the pace of the league without ever touching a football on an off-day.
After a bout of tough losses, Sphinxly was sacked, and he took his player with him. Some claim to have witnessed the robot embarrassing schoolchildren in pick-up matches in rural U.S. towns, but nothing has been substantiated. The truth behind the story of Robot Pele’s arrival to, and disappearance from, professional soccer may never be fully known.