West Lafayette, we are here.

            This new thing with Mrs. DuMont has got to come to an end. I've been trying to make some actual money, clear some cases or get something to eat when she calls, or shows up, or sends the Boys over to pick me up. I should ask her why I don't get a ride in the Beemer.

            The boys darkened my door, again. I was persuaded to follow them down to the big car and got a ride to the compound. Buttons got pushed, gates opened and I was led to a small room with a floor-to-ceiling dry-erase board on one side, a desk with a monitor in the corner and a series of video monitors mounted on the wall opposite the dry-erase board. The room was bright, well-lit, and had a sense of ultimate climate control. It felt like the perfect 65 degrees and the air seemed like they had put a humidifier and a de-humidifier in the room and let them fight it out.

            I was ushered into the room, the Boys waited outside. I was told not to touch anything. It's like they know me, or something. Mrs. Dumont showed up looking like she was on her way to the country club, or bridge, or megalomaniacs anonymous. "So, what do you think?" she asked, proud as clucking hen.

            "I haven't seen this kind of set up since 'The Thousand Eyes of Dr. Mabuse,'" I said. "Who does your interior decorating, Fritz Lang?"

            "It's funny that you should mention him. I met him when I was in college. His best work was behind him, and that monocle of his was just for show. He did like to chase after us young girls--not that he ever had a chance, with me."

            I suddenly imagined grainy, 8mm footage from a pool party in the Hills, circa 1950's. Unfortunately, my mind conjured up present-day Mrs. DuMont, in a bikini, playing splashy-splashy. I shook my head. I'd rather try to tackle Mike Rozier in his prime, one-on-one, without pads.

            "What's the set up?" I asked. "Video conferencing? Getting the gang in-line, like SPECTRE? What?"

            "You will see, in just a moment." She smiled at me, patiently. She reminded me of a cat stalking a bird. A man walked into the room. He looked to be mid-forties, beard, long-ish, not well-maintained hair. He was wearing grey slacks, a grey, button-down shirt, a blazer with elbow patches, glasses, and a bow-tie. It was like they had called central casting and asked for a 'nerdy professor' to appear in a bit part. he barely noted me as he went over to the desk, pulled out a tablet device and started tapping.

            One by one, the monitors flickered to life. Out of 24 screens, 8 activated. I didn't know who all of them were, but the two I recognized are on the football team, and are on the two-deep.

            "Good afternoon, gentlemen," the professor greeted the screens. "Who would like to go first?"

            "I would," said one the players I recognized. "I've got Doc Maz for U.S. Military History. I need to turn in a paper on whether or not we should have nuked Japan."

            'The Professor' started tapping and swiping on the tablet. "Ah, yes. Ok. Yes. Ok. Excellent. Yes, for Maz, stress the importance of the casualty figures, downplay the 'scare the Russians' aspect, cite the Rhoades work as a major source, and debunk the revisionist line of argument. Got that?"

            "Yeah," the player said and his screen blinked off.

            Mrs. DuMont motioned me out of the room. In the hallway, out of earshot, she gave me the low-down. "This is what educational support is really all about. The 'tutors' the university provides are really nothing more than 'hook-up' opportunities. This way, student-athletes, not just football players, can gain insight to their professors, based on past results. We don't give them the answers, but we point them in the right direction."

            "It sounds quite noble, if a bit shady at the same time," I said. "How do they know to come to you? What if the University finds out? what if the NCAA finds out?"

            "You have been paying attention, haven't you?" she admonished me. "We have connections, everywhere. We know if an athlete is struggling with schoolwork before the University does. We initiate contact and give the player an opportunity to do better. That keeps more of them eligible, which makes the University happy and the NCAA is so back-logged and tail-chasing, that they won't investigate a school where the players are passing classes at a great higher than the overall student body."

            I heard a familiar voice ask a question about Dr. Renee's 20th Century Feminist Literature class. Poor guy. "So, the professor is...?" I asked.

            "Someone we are giving a second chance to." Mrs. Dumont said. "Just because one has to leave a job because the words 'sexual', and 'misconduct' come uncomfortably close together, doesn't mean they aren't very good as an educator."

            I nodded in apparent agreement. I listened to a few more questions and my mind started to wander. I knew she was going to ask me about the game, she always did. I don't know why, after this week, she would even bother. It was a negative-13 point swing from my prediction to the reality. I haven't been that far off, in a while.

            "I know this is a lot to digest," she said in a voice that I suspected she thought was kindly. "let's get you back on to more familiar ground, and we can talk about just how intertwined we are with the Athletic Department. Tell me your thoughts on Purdue."

  

              "When it comes to Purdue," I said,  "I just have to shrug and say, 'I think we should win this one.' Should is the operative word. I don't think in terms of 'will' in this one, or any of the remaining games."

            "Nebraska should beat Purdue," I continued. " Purdue is terrible. Purdue got trucked by Minnesota. Purdue got suffocated by Wisconsin. Purdue's only win was against Indiana State. Purdue also played Sparta to within three points, after a -3 turnover ratio, so if you let them hang around, they can scare you."

            "How do you think Nebraska will respond to last week's loss?" she asked. "I think they will be fine. I'm starting to think they play better on the road, than at home. they seem more relaxed, the Illinois game, notwithstanding. Purdue plays for a fan base that hasn't given a rat's ass since Drew Brees was there. The energy level will be low, the interest level will be low. Tommy is out. Huge opportunity for Ryker Fyfe. He isn't as athletic as Tommy, but he seems to know the system as well as anybody. Maybe they'll lean on the running backs, more. Maybe this is good, in that Purdue has been scouting Tommy, the whole time, and have nothing on Fyfe."

            "When you boil it down, what do you get?" Mrs. Dumont asked.

            I thought about it for a good, long while before answering. "I'm going off the rez, on this one. Ryker has an outstanding game. Comfortable win, starting a quarterback controversy, just in time for Michigan State. Final score, Nebraska 31-Purdue 14."

Post Northwestern

            I was sitting in my office, contemplating the nature of 'Hafgufa', or kraken, or octopuses. The sky was clear and the leaves, performing their annual death-march, were a riot of reds and browns , gradually giving up their holds and yielding to gravity's inevitable embrace.

            Hafgufa intruded into my thoughts as I gradually pieced together memories from my last couple of encounters with Mrs. DuMont. In addition to the 'morale, welfare, and recreation' division of the group, she had explained how their highly capable team of legal gunslingers was on call, at a moment's notice, to aid a player in legal trouble.

            "Some things are inevitably going to make it into the papers," he explained to me. "With as much scrutiny as the athletes are under, we can't contain 100% of the issues that arise, but we can mitigate, or even erase some of them."

            "Really?" I asked, incredulously. "The stuff like the Peters brothers, the gun in the coach's desk, and Lawrence Phillips happen and your group 'handles it'. Sorry if I'm not buying in on that one, your Ladyship."

            "Lawrence Phillips was the reason our legal branch came into being. The series of unfortunate incidents that led to players getting into trouble, giving the team and the University a black eye, is why we now have a legal branch. When was the last time you heard about a player getting into serious trouble?"

            "What was it? Last year, the two that got busted stealing bikes?"

            "That's right. Penny-ante misdemeanor theft. Spin a nice, 'good deed goes punished' story for the media and the public quickly moves on. You have to give them something, to distract them from the real efforts to keep the kids out of trouble."

            "I don't get it," I said. "just how did you keep those two out of trouble?"

            Mrs. DuMont smiled a genuine, though slightly disturbing, smile. "We didn't. If you want a clearer example of our work, look at the beginning of this season. Five players suspended, one player for two games, for 'violation of team rules'. Without completely unraveling the work of our excellent men and women in suits, a couple of those guys would be facing time in courts and jail, had we not intervened."

            "Are you telling me, that you've got the juice to make criminal acts fade into the woodwork as team discipline issues?"

            "That's exactly what I'm telling you. We even have the juice, as you put it, to make issues disappear completely."

            I must have looked confused and at a loss for words, which doesn't happen too often, since Mrs. Dumont laughed at me and said, "Don't strain yourself, Deary. It's true, and it can boggle the mind, but it is just one of the services we provide for the student-athlete. One last thing, please note how rarely, if ever, any of the girls get into trouble. They commit acts of villainy, too, but you never, ever, hear about them."

            I was forcible evicted from my memory stroll by Lloyd crashing into my office. I had to feel for the poor guy, the season was really wearing on him. He was starting to doubt himself and his loyalty to the team.

            "Hey man," I said to him. "Grab a seat, take a load off. I've got coffee, or the desk bottle is here if you need it."

            He slumped into ratty-assed old couch I have along one wall. It doesn't look like much, but it's great for comforting distraught clients, grabbing a nap when time permits, and every once in a while, building a fort.

            "I'm so close to being done," he said, quietly. "Losing in the last minute? Fine. You had them, and you let them get away. This one, you never really had them. Sure, you had the lead, even in the fourth quarter, but you never really had them."

            I opened the desk drawer and got the bottle out. I needed it more than Lloyd. "Break it down for me. Did they get their asses just handed to them?"

            "No. Northwestern was not clearly superior."

            "Did they get out-coached?"

            "No. Not really. The offense did enough to win, and the defense, except for a few break-down type big plays, did well enough."

            "Then it comes down to making the plays. Did they make more of the plays that counted?"

            "Yes, or rather we didn't make the plays we needed to. Too many dropped passes. Too many missed assignments. Too many injuries to overcome the horrible lack of depth, we have."

            "And don't forget", I said, "How that pick-6 by Tommy just sucked the life out of the stadium."

            "Arrrgh. Don't I know it," Lloyd fumed. "You're down by 2, driving pretty well. It's third down, the play breaks down, and Tommy forces a bad pass. A lot of people say Tommy had bad mechanics. I say the worst of his mechanics start between his ears."

            "Ouch," I mock winced. "The juice just stopped. After that pick, the crowd just kind of sat there, the rest of the game. Every time the crowd got an opportunity to get back in it, Northwestern would get a big play that sucked the air out, again."

            "Exactly. Score a touchdown cut it to 14-12, right before the half, and you get the ball the start the second half. 20 seconds left, back on their own 40, what happens? Big run by the Q-B, all the way to inside the five. Should have scored a touchdown, we got lucky and they had to settle for a field goal, 17-12, the damage was done, though."

            "Yep," I agreed. Even after taking the lead, late in the game, the crowd was dead, anxious, apprehensive."

            "As well they should be!" Lloyd exclaimed. "There is zero confidence in this team, right now. Even last week, against Minnesota, up by 20 in the fourth quarter, the mumblers were mumbling about how they were going to 'piss another one away'. A one-possession game in the fourth quarter? No way is this team winning that."

            I wanted to still urge patience to Lloyd, but I knew he wouldn't listen. I keep waiting for the team to find the string to the basement light bulb, but they keep flailing away, none of the parts meshing as they should. About the only positive is that they are still flailing for the string, not curled up in a ball, sobbing, waiting for daylight to make it all end.

Northwestern pre-game

            My last conversation with Lloyd had kind of disturbed me. I had been experiencing lots of the weird little flashes, and I had the odd sensation that I knew things that I had no way of knowing.

            One of the flashes involved a conversation with Mrs. DuMont. The memory was difficult to get a hold of. It was like one of those dreams that seem so vivid when it is playing out on your subconscious silver screen, but once you wake up, the details disperse like kids at a house party when the cops show up.

            I kept at it, trying to solidify the signal my brain was sending me, while at the same time trying to overcome the obvious barrier that had been placed in its way. I'm not sure if it was physical, chemical, or psychological, but there was definitely  something spoofing my mind.

            The best I was able to come up with, was Mrs. Dumont explaining how their organization was beneficial to the kids, I'm sorry, student athletes who compute for the University. It wasn't a booster club; booster clubs have to register and follow rules and make signs and appear at functions, etc. My brain flashed a picture of her waving her hand in an idle, dismissive way. No, her group on a much more, sub-rosa, behind the scenes sort of way.

            I asked her to give me an example, because I'm really not all that switched on, and I definitely don't get organized power structures. She did seem to like how I had picked up on the idea that she seemed to be the one in charge of everything.

            I have my moments.

            She took me to a room. A guy sat at a desk with three computer monitors on it. Mrs. DuMont said that morale was a very important element of an athlete's performance. Sometimes. a nice, little surprise would just magically appear for them. "Let's say, a player can't afford to take his girlfriend out on a date. A movie and pizza, let's say. We have the ability to get gift cards into the hands of the players for the theater and any of several pizza places, downtown. Let's say one of the volleyball players needs some car repairs, we take care of it. Let's say a player is going through a rough break up, we provide an opportunity for him to forget the old girlfriend with a new one."

            "Doesn't that violate just about every NCAA rule in the book?" I asked, in disbelief.

            "Well, if you're going to be poopy about it," she shook her head. "The NCAA is mainly concerned with the school following the rules. That's why Nebraska self-reports the tiniest little infractions. It's so cute and quaint."

            "Other places have gotten into trouble for providing, what is the term, extra benefits to athletes," I countered.

            "Again, that is for the registered booster clubs, and stupid assistant coaches looking to make a name for themselves. We, on the other hand, operate through layers and connections so convoluted, that it makes the mafia look like a linear flow chart. We're more like the Pentagon, we take money in at one end, we rattle it around a bit, and it comes out the other end in a completely unrecognizable form."

            "So, how does all of this pertain to me?" I asked.

            "We have picked you to see if you fit in to our organization on a probationary basis. You have been quite impressive, thus far, and we want to see if you can maintain your momentum."

            I was really getting twisted around. It was obvious that I had been lured into this situation, but I couldn't figure out why they wanted me. I don't have the money to play with the big kids. My job doesn't really run up against law enforcement or legal aspects, too often, more like the moral turpitude realm. "What do want with me?"

            "I'd like to hear what you think of the upcoming Nebraska-Northwestern game. You have been quite astute, lately, and you seem to approach things in a manner, that we can appreciate."

            I tried to give her a hard stare, but the opportunity to get deeper into just what the hell was going on had presented itself, so I jumped in. "Momentum is huge in football, both within an individual game and during a season. Nebraska has been steadily building momentum. I'm not talking straight-up wins and losses, I'm talking about 'getting it', and they are rolling. Northwestern, on the other hand has skidded, if not stopped, completely. The team that started the season at 5-0 is gone, poof, in two games. Both Iowa and Michigan play good defense, and the combined score was 78-10."

            "Go on," Mrs. DuMont said.

            "Their quarterback, Thorson, has a cool name, but is barely a 50% passer on the season, and he was less than that in the last two weeks. Both Iowa and Michigan ran on them for 200+ yards, which tells me they're vulnerable up front. On the flip side, Justin Jackson couldn't get it going against defenses that aren't as good against the run as Nebraska."

            "What else have you got?"

            "Lincoln, honoring the '95 team, with all that concentrated mojo flowing. Add in that the Huskers will be wearing their alternate unis, and coming off a good win, last week. The kids are amped, they're excited, and they get a chance to pop the smart kids in the mouth."

            "So, what is your final score, prediction?"

            I thought about it for a minute. "I love our run defense, but I'm still not sold on the secondary. We get Freedom back, and we're healthier than we have been in a long time. I want to send a statement that we are as good as Iowa and Michigan, whether or not that's actually true. I think we can score 38 on them, but we'll give up 17."

            "I like those kinds of numbers," Mrs. Dumont said.

The Big Click

           Apologies for the delay in publishing.

           Sometimes you wake up on a pool table. The light is dim, the felt is soft, but the eight-ball is digging into the small of your back. Other times, you wake up under the pool table, where the rats play lightsaber duels with cigarette butts and you reluctantly check the nearby viscous fluid  to make sure it's not your blood.

            Other times, you just kind of snap awake, like someone switched on a TV in the middle of a movie, and you have to try to piece together what's going on, what you missed, and why anyone would really care who or what 'Rosebud" is.

            I had one of those moments at Jake's. When I snapped on, Lloyd was bubbling away like a freshman who just got asked to the homecoming dance by the dreamiest senior on the football team. Unless that's a sexiest re-enforcement of a gender bias, in which case he was like a comic geek who just found Amazing Spider-Man #14 in his grandma's attic.

            Either way I thought he was in danger of wetting himself.

            I adjusted to my surroundings, noticed the still full measure of whiskey in front of me. I couldn't have been here that long. I had no idea of what Lloyd was talking about, so I nodded and smiled and tried to do my best to catch up to his gabbing.

            "...And then Pierson-El tipped the ball to himself. It was awesome. It was like, 'that ball is mine, bitches. Can't catch it the first time. Too easy. So, tap and snag. Touchdown', the words buzzed out of Lloyd's mouth like an A-10 on a attack run.

            I slammed the whiskey, which may or may not have been the right thing to do. The burn flowed through me and brief flashes of recent history popped in my head like isolated images from a strobe-lit room. "so, you were happy with the receivers, then?" I asked, hoping it didn't sound as stupid out loud as it did in my head.

            Lloyd looked at me, strangely, which meant that it must have sounded stupid. "What is your deal, man? First you come in here, saying, 'Haguffa' or 'hafgufa' or something that Jess thought was a new whiskey. Then you sit there, just nodding and mumbling as I tell you about the game. What is up?"

            I shook my head. "It's cool, man. Let's just cut to the chase. Offense looked good. Defense looked good. Special teams. was ok, right?"

            Lloyd was still giving me the eye. "Yeah. A couple of good punt returns by D-P-El kind of undercut by a missed short-range field goal, but Drew knocked in 12 points, so I guess we'll keep him."

            An image from the house involving a graph superimposed over Mike Riley's face flashed through my head. "Oh, yeah," I said. "Has the Fire Riley battlewagon gotten any lighter?"

            Lloyd eyed me, warily. "Maybe a little lighter."

            "Funny how wins do that, isn't it?" I asked

            "It's not like he saved himself with a win over Minnesota."

            "No. But he didn't hurt himself, and he put down a lot of the negatives that 'fans' have been dogpiling him with. Minnesota's not Ohio State, but they have a good defense, and Nebraska moved the ball effectively on the ground and in the air. Best part of the game? The 99-yard drive in the third quarter. Sure, a lightning strike like Newby's 69-yard run is cool, and it gets the points, but nothing is more demoralizing and exhausting to a defense than having the other team backed up, and getting punched in the face, over and over again, as the offense rams the ball down your throat. Beauty."

            "They're still not even bowl eligible. They have to win three out of the last five games to do that, and even if they only do that, they finish 6-6, maybe 7-6 with a bowl win."

            "After the Minnesota game," I said. "I heard the 'click'. The click of the offense getting on the same page, and not only understanding what they are supposed to do and why. That click made me feel a lot better about the Northwestern game, at home. Purdue and Rutgers, while both on the road, I feel better about. We get Iowa, at home, who is tough, but might be a MASH unit by the end of the year, with the way they have been hit by injuries. The only game I'm still looking at as a no-way game is Sparty."

It's back where it belongs

           Lloyd looked thoughtful for a moment. "Northwestern is reeling, right now. They have been outscored 78-10, in their last two games. I'll give you Purdue and Rutgers--"

            "That's six," I interrupted.

            "Fine. I think you're a nut if you think Nebraska beats both Iowa and Michigan State."

            "I am a nut, and I didn't say both," I said. "But, just imagine, Sparty's luck running out, they haven't exactly been crushing the opposition. Let's say we get the Mojo flip and get one we don't deserve to win. Then, can you imagine the crowd, if undefeated Iowa, thinking they are one win away from the B1G championship, rolls into here. Nebraska, on a five-game hot streak, with nothing to play for, nothing to lose, can play a balls out, dick, swinging in the wind kind of game that even if they lose would be entertaining as hell."

            "You are nuts."

            "Probably. I keep having these weird flashes. It's like seeing snippets of film, but they are always football related. It's like there is an influence, not on the outcome of a game, per se, but on things that can affect the outcome."

            "That sounds like point-shaving," Lloyd said, ominously.

            "No, not like that," I said, waving the accusation away. "It's almost as if someone outside of the AD's office got a hold of Riley and his staff, and told them, 'Relax. Have fun. You're safe. Let the team know to do that, too."

            Lloyd gave me a good, long stare. "Where were you, on Saturday? I couldn't get a hold of you, all day. I figured you were on a case, but now, I don't know."

            I laughed, briefly. "You know what? I don't really know."