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."