The rain had been pelting down for some time. I was trying to ignore the yelling dude in the next booth, over. I couldn't tell what he was yelling about, he needed his volume controlled. I wanted to walk up to him, get in his face and whisper 'indoor voice', but decided he was doing a good enough job embarrassing himself in front of the young ladies trying oh so hard to look savvy and sophisticated. He didn't need my help.
     Side-bar. If you're trying to look sophisticated and grown-up, don't tuck a t-shirt into your skirt, girly.
     The traffic lights were glowing in little pools on the streets. Bikes in their racks were preparing to give their owners wet butt on the way home. Refuse from the streets washed into the storm drain while the human refuse hunched closer to their buildings, embracing cornerstones.
     A gust of wind rattled the window as Lloyd blew in.
     "Lloyd, my man," I called to him. "Come on over grab a seat and let me buy you something to warm your very core."
     He squished into the booth opposite me. Droplets of rain stowing away on his coat. "I'll take some Devil's Cut and a Coke to chase it," he said, a bit distractedly.
     "You've been processing, haven't you?" I asked. He had all the usual signs. Hands in his pockets, head slightly down, leaning forward, brow furrowed. He hadn't even wiped the rain from his glasses.
     "Yep," he answered, slightly defensively. "I have been looking at the data and a bit at the games and there is one thing that has me worried."
     "And that is....."
     "Speed, man, speed," he intoned. "I'm not talking about Bennies or Dexys, I'm talking about the raw ability of one player to go faster than another."
     "Did you see something you didn't like?"
     "AND THEN I WAS LIKE, 'DUDE' YOU ARE SO GOING TO PAY FOR THAT," from the next booth, Loud Guy was slapping the table for emphasis while blond wine drinking girl next to him looked nervous.
     Lloyd took a breath and carried on. "Their receiver, Phillip Dorsett has some wheels. He had over 200 yards in receptions last week."
     "But that was Arkansas State. I'm betting they don't have anyone on their track team that has that kind of speed. Plus, he's only 5-10, so Mitchell will be on a guy who doesn't have a huge height advantage, for once."
     Lloyd nodded, sipping his whiskey. It is interesting stuff, it is made from the alcohol extracted from the barrel. The alcohol that evaporated in the aging process is called the 'Angel's Share', the alcohol absorbed by the wood, the 'Devil's Cut'. "Duke Johnson is a good running back," he resumed. "He is slightly heavier than Ameer, same height, better take-off speed, but not as shifty, and I'm not sure he's as durable as Ameer. He can stretch a defense on eat-west runs and cut back."
     "I AM SOOOO FUCKING PSYCHED FOR THIS WEEKEND. THIS GAME IS HUUUUUUGE." The PBR in front of him sweated along with the rest of his booth denizens. It wasn't hot.
     Lloyd took a swig of the whiskey and a chased it with his Coke like RG4 on an outside blitz. "Their quarterback is the key to the game," he said, thoughtfully. "He is a drop-back passer, the kind that the Bo-fense usually does really well against. He won't hurt you with his legs, though, which is good. He's a Freshman and has never been in a setting with 91,000 fans baying for blood. I know history is irrelevant to the players, but the crowd will focus their hatred and resentment for all those Orange Bowl losses on the field. They remember the failed two-point conversion. They remember the beat-down in the Rose Bowl. They remember seeing the option get throttled by speed."
     "Hopefully they'll remember Cory Schlesinger and the trap dive," I retorted, just a little playfully. "And Warren Sapp kneeling on the sideline after getting punched in the balls--at least, that's his story."
      "Yep, he's a talented quarterback, but I'm betting there have been cover schemes and blitz packages that JP has been keeping under wraps, just for this game," Lloyd said, repeating his whiskey and Coke maneuver. "Randy will be his worst nightmare."
     "And Randy will elevate the play of the whole d-line against the fat, slow, Miami, o-line. They are not athletic," I contributed. I like adding my bit, every now and then. "What about the Miami defense?"
     "They are quick, too," Lloyd said. "I have a feeling Nebraska will have to wear them down. I have a feeling we wont see many 'explosive' plays. No 70-yard touchdown passes on a third-and-eight play. Tommy will have to be patient, and the running backs will have to attack in waves. Two and three and four yard drives by Ameer, Imani and Terrence in the first half, will be six and seven and eight yard gashes in the fourth quarter."
     "I LOVE BOOBIES," Loud Guy, yet again. "THEY ARE MY FAVORITE THING. NOT TOO BIG, NOT TOO SMALL. BOOBIES!"
     Three girls in the booth. Two flushed. I couldn't see the face of the third. For as loud as Loud Guy was, the girls were piercingly silent.
     Lloyd took a long draw of the whiskey. He didn't chase it down. I could see the glow set in.
     "Do you think special teams will be a big factor?" I asked.
      "I think De'Morney Pierson-El will have at least one big return," Lloyd replied. "It may not go all the way, but it will set up a short field in a key possession."
     "So, big picture," I said. What will the outcome be, after processing all your data?"
     "The latest line has Nebraska by 7.5," he said. "I think that is about right. It will be hard to make a decision on that point-five. I think it will be 24-17, or 28-21, something like that. It will tick me off if I take Miami, and Nebraska wins 28-20. Not really. The win will allow me to cheerfully watch the cash go away."
     "So, Huskers win?" I asked. "Just to be clear."
     "Yes. Final score, 24-17."
     "SHOW ME YOUR TITS. I LOVE YOUR TITS. TITS ARE AWESOME," Loud Guy, yet again.
     Lloyd had had enough. He got up, walked right over to loud guy, bent down and whispered right into his ear. No yelling. It didn't take that long, either. Loud Guy turned white. The blood drained from his face like an elevator with a cut cable. Lloyd pivoted and walked out the door, into the rain. He stood on the sidewalk, letting the rain bead up on his coat. Loud Guy unsteadily got to his feet, dropped a couple bills on the table, and headed for the other door. The one Lloyd was not standing by. He drifted off into the sopping night, nearly stumbled over one of the refugees and disappeared into the darkness.
     I have no idea what Lloyd said. I never ask. I can only handle my own monsters, I don't want to get a glimpse of his.