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.

Eagles make it a little too close

            I had managed to maintain contact with the blonde in the Beemer for about a half hour until she was able to weave through traffic and hit the lights in such a way that I got stonewalled like a fullback on a 21 Dive. I really shouldn't be too proud of my accomplishment, the first 20 minutes of tailing her was getting through the construction on 27th. I don't think she made me, but those little Kraut roadsters got some speed, and I was in the grey murderwagon.

            I trundled back to the office and typed up my findings for Mrs. DuMont. I didn't have a lot to work with. I noted the times that Hubby arrived at the Country Club, and when he left and a description of the girl (what little I saw) and the vehicle. I thought about calling my friend at the DMV; yes, it's true, you can't even apply for the P.I. license unless you have one. I decided against it, and wrote down the Husker vanity plate, 'ZZZIP'. I figured i would decide later if it was clever or not. Right then, I was miffed, tired, a little put out, needed a snack and had a powerful thirst.

            "Where's Jake's?" I asked the empty office. "Right down there," I replied. Not unusual for me to converse with myself, I usually call it thinking aloud. It's never a problem unless I start arguing with myself. Then stuff gets thrown, regrettable things get said and tears flow.

            It was a game day, so I knew Lloyd would have a table and place to sit. I snagged a sammich from one of the dozen sammich concerns in a two block radius and slid into the booth across from Lloyd. Melissa noticed my arrival and slid into the booth as I began unwrapping my sammich. "So, what do you think pairs nicely with a sandwich?" she asked, eyes glinting with the shrouded lights.

            "Bourbon," I said. "Always bourbon. I got an All-American Club, so Jefferson's would be ideal."

Freeeeeedooom!!!

                                           

            "Club," Lloyd said, resignedly. "You always get the club. Why not some variety?"

            "It's the only sandwich named after a weapon," I said, and Took a bite.

            "So," Melissa probed, "If there was a sandwich named after a gun, you'd get that?"

            I nodded as I forced down the mouthful. "Yep. I've already thought of that. Instead of Italian meat trio or whatever they call it, I'd name it a Baretta. If somebody made one called a '1911A1' and it was loaded with meat and cheese, I'd be all over it."

            "OK, you have to explain, that one," Melissa said, still smiling, though.

            I started to say something, I paid brief homage to the kraken, who was lurking beneath a scarlet tank top with 'Huskers' emblazoned across it. "It would feel heavy in the hand and would have great stopping power," Lloyd interrupted.

            Melissa laughed. I don't know if it was at my joke, or Lloyd's delivery. Either way she absconded to get my bourbon, shaking her head. I get that a lot.

            I resumed attacking my sammich. I gestured at Lloyd. "How'd you do, today. Nebraska won, right?"

            Lloyd sighed a big sigh. I braced myself. "Up 22-0 at the half, should have been at least 38-0, 34-0 would have been reasonable. Had to settle for four field goals after getting into the Red Zone. The offense moved the ball well, just kind of lacked something inside the 20. The defense actually did well, in the first half. Southern Miss had six possessions in the first half, three 3&Outs, a punt, a fumble and a missed field goal. So, at halftime, Nebraska looked completely in control. Drew Brown even hit a 50-yarder, he was 5-for-5 by halftime. Things looked awesome."

            "So, what happened?" I asked as I started in on the second half of my sammich, and Melissa dropped off my bourbon and gave my shoulder a little bump with her hip. The saucy minx.

            "First possession," Lloyd explained, "Tommy throws a pick, not a bad pick, and a good play by the USM linebacker, after the return, they are set up at the 16 of Nebraska. Two plays later, touchdown, it is 22-7. No panic. Things like that happen, it's fine."

            "Then what?"

The Little Red Roadster

            "In a nutshell," Lloyd said, "Nebraska had one of those quarters. 2nd quarter against BYU, 1st quarter against Miami, and now, 3rd quarter against Southern Miss. Nebraska had four possessions that resulted in two turnovers, a missed field goal and finally, a touchdown. So, at the end of the third, Nebraska still had a 22-point lead, because the defense made some stops when it had to."

            "So why all the gloom and doom?" I asked. "The vibe around town is like if the Huskers had lost."

            "From an objective, entertainment standpoint, the fourth quarter was awesome. For the back end of the Nebraska defense, 1t was 15 minutes of hell."

            "How was it entertaining?"

            "On top of four touchdowns," Lloyd explained, "we got to see a successful surprise on-side kick, a fake punt attempt, a blocked field goal attempt and a desperation drive at the end of the game."

            "That would be cool...if I didn't have a specific, rooting interest. How about the Hell side?"

            "Starting from the 0:27 mark of the third, Nick Mullins, the USM quarterback, completed 15 of 19 passes for 269 yards and 2 touchdowns. 8 of his 15 completions were for greater than 10 yards. Toss in the ticky-tackiest interference call I've seen in a long time, and the secondary was getting abused like a party girl at a rally full of bikers on poppers."

            I let that image sink in. I was done with my sammich.

            "Mullins threw for 447 yards, against Nebraska. 60% of that was in the fourth quarter," Lloyd finished.

            "So, Huskerfan is mad," I asked, "because they never trailed, and Southern Miss never got closer than eight point?"

            "They should have never gotten that close," Lloyd said, as if explaining a math problem to a kid who'd rather be playing outside, or in the basement, or video games. "It was almost a McNeese State. Confidence level, right now, is at, don't worry about winning the conference, don't worry about winning the division, finishing at .500 would be nice."

            I sat back in the booth, mulling over Lloyd's words. I stared into my bourbon, watching the amber oils swirl and intertwine. My thoughts bipped from Beemers, to cover schemes to krakens. Always with the krakens.

Down and Out in Corvallis, part 1

     Eichorst sent a minion to retain us. Well, me, and I elected to bring Lloyd along. I knew I was going to need back-up and probably a level head in order to get the payment that had been offered. I won't go into details, but I now understand how much fun you can have when your athletic budget is 83 million dollars. Yep, 83 mega, and that's only good enough for 7th in the Big Ten, but I digress.
     We were tasked with securing a location out of the way, but in public, in Corvallis Oregon, with a candidate for the head coaching gig, so Eichorst could conduct a Skype interview with him. We were given a laptop computer with built-in web cam, externally secured and password protected. The minion said that the password word be texted to us, when the meet was a go. Lloyd guessed the password on the way out there, but that's another story.
     Getting to Corvallis is hard, really hard. It reminded me of Marlowe trying to Find Kurtz in "Heart of Darkness". Maybe not quite that bad. I proposed pulling a D.B. Cooper and parachuting into the town square. Lloyd said no.
     I proposed renting a helicopter in Eugene and swooping in blaring 'Ride of the Valkyries' a la "Apocalypse Now".
     Again, Lloyd said no.
     We flew into Minneapolis, first, then Salt Lake City, then Eugene and rented a car. I don't know why the smoke watchers think they can divine anything from trying to track private plane movements to determine where someone might be going to conduct interviews. If I was an AD and wanted to stay invisible, I'd fly commercial. From the air, the University of Oregon campus looks like a giant 'swoosh', but again, I digress.
     It was raining. Big surprise. The rain gave everything that freshly scrubbed look, but was cold. Everyone had on hats and rain jackets. People in Corvallis wear rain jackets the same way people in Chicago wear North Face gear. It's like there's an ordinance or something.
     I felt like I would have been quite at home wearing a trench coat and fedora, smoking, letting the rain drip off the brim of my hat. I would have stood out, unfortunately. Nobody smokes in Corvallis.
     My phone buzzed and I checked the minion-sent text. It was just a number, a 541 area code. I called it. "Hello," said a quiet, measured voice on the other end.
     "Hi," I said. "I'm calling to set up that meeting."
     "Oh. I see," said the quiet voice. "I have a place in mind. I have to bike over, so it will take me about a half hour to get there."
     "Just give me an address, and we'll find it."
     The Snug Bar was our location. We could see the Trysting Tree golf course across the river. I'll give Corvallis props for creative naming.
     Lloyd and I settled into a booth in the basement of a building really close to the river. So close that Lloyd was nervously checking the wall for condensation. I texted the minion to tell him that the meet was on. He texted back to let him know when the contact was in place.
     Lloyd leaned forward, "You know, this is a lot of elaborate maneuvers to set up a meeting with...Scott," Lloyd caught himself.
     "I know. Think about it though. Everyone back home is assuming it's going to be Tressel, who is not coaching, right now, because he got busted. If we want him, than winning truly has become the most important thing."
     "Agreed," Lloyd said. "It's like DUI's. Multiply the number of times you've been busted for it by ten, and that's the number of times you've actually done it. Busted at Ohio State, busted at Youngstown State, the NCAA would love to nail Nebraska, so no thanks, Sweatervest."
     "The other name that is popping like water in a skillet is Frosty," I said. "I fully expect the fair-haired, fair-complected lad from Wood River to come through that door, any second."
     "Do you think he's ready to have the keys to dad's Cadillac?" Lloyd asked.
     "I'm warming to the idea," I said. "He's smart, he got into Stanford and Bill Walsh thought he could handle the West-Coast offense. He handled the mental part, fine, he just didn't have the physical tools to execute it. He's played both offense and defense. He's coached both offense and defense. He's got the Osborne DNA that a lot of Huskerfans are demanding. He's only been an OC for two years, and I think that you could sit in the press box and call plays for Marcus Mariota and look pretty good doing it."
      "Then why are we here, instead of up in Nike-town?" Lloyd asked.
     "Maskirovka, baby," I replied. "Oregon probably wants to retain him, and would start a bidding war, if they found out. Plus the fish-wrappers would want to break the 'scoop'."
     "Oh," I exclaimed. "What's your guess for the super-secret password? Any inclination?"
     "The first one I'm going to try is 'NOMOBO408'."
     I looked up to see an older dude, well, not that much older than me, but older, slowly approaching the booth. I tilted my head at him, questioningly. He was about six foot, lantern shaped jaw, kind of weathered. He wore water resistant track pants that had water and mud splattered on them, like he had been biking. His eyes were dark but lively. He vibed, nicest dude...ever. I was uncomfortable. I'm used to dealing with the sleazy, the criminal and the nutjobs. This was a strange experience.
     "What can I do for you...sir?" I felt like I had to add the 'sir'.
     "Well, I hope you are the right fellas, I'm here to talk to someone about a job."
     "A job in Lincoln, Nebraska?" Lloyd asked.
     "Yep. I'm Mike Riley, and I'm supposed to talk to someone about the Nebraska football job."
     More to come.

Nebraska 38, Northwestern 17

     From the files of Lloyd.
     18 Oct., 2014
     Chicago, IL
     The Kirkwood Bar.
     There is a really cool bar, in North Chicago. They proudly display their Husker pride with flags, drink specials, and lots of fans. If you're in the area, stay in Chicago to watch the game. Evanston is a nice, quaint little town, grafted onto the north end of a major metropolis like an experiment gone awry. Snooty, smarty pants, rich kids go to Northwestern, surrounded by a town that that prides itself on its blue collar history and attitude. Chicagoans feel that Northwestern doesn't quite fit in, doesn't quite make the cut. Northwestern has soft hands from counting money all its life.
     Except when it comes to football. NU is way better than Illinois. Northern Illinois has had some recent success, but the bandwagoners are far too obvious. So, for a few months each year, Chicago puts aside its issues with the smart kids, the tax-free status of lakefront property, and enjoys some decent football.
     Northwestern looks at Chicago like the dude trying desperately to fit in. He's trying, but a clip-on tie and short-sleeved button-down shirt does not belie sophistication and urbanity.
     1800
     The game is about to start. It has been a long day of waiting. I got to the bar when it opened in order to get a good seat. I've been pacing myself and I have a deal with Jenny, the waitress, that she will stand guard over my table when I have to go pee. She indulges me. The extra dollar I give her whenever she brings my drink is a small inducement, but inducement, nonetheless.
     1835
     Kickoff, finally. Ryan field is about half-red. The other half is purple, so it looks like some old ladies' book club gathering, but not as loud.
     Huskers get the ball first. Northwestern loads the box to stop Ameer, just like MSU. Tommy connects with Kenny a couple of times. Drive sputters, a couple of drops kills it. Foltz puts the punt inside the 20. Lets see what the defense can do.
     I'm starting to think we need to make a deal with opposing teams. We spot you seven points and in return we get the ball twice and run 3:00 off the clock. Had them on their initial third down. Missed a tackle, leaky yards. Northwestern has a freshman, Justin Jackson, that will be awesome in a couple of years. He's good, now, but bulk him up a little bit and get him some experience and he will be a threat. The Wildcats go 89 yards in 15 plays, converting twice on 3rd down.
     Huskers get the ball back. Ameer is still struggling to get going. Wet grass, that may have been left to get a bit longer seems to be bothering Nebraska more than Northwestern. Decent drive, 8 plays, 47 yards, but Kenny whiffed on a third down pass. Field goal has the distance but is wide. Still 7-0 and game is beginning to feel like MSU part deux.
     After an exchange of 3 & Outs, Northwestern almost seized control of the game. Husker pressure forced Siemien out of the pocket, he tried to slide under Zaire. Zaire lowered his head. No flag. Next play, make-up call. Nathan Gerry gets flag for a ticky-tack unnecessary roughness call.  It wouldn't have drawn a flag if Northwestern had man-sized receivers. Northwestern goes for the kill. Deep throw into triple coverage, Gerry comes up with the pick in the end zone. Crisis averted. The offense needs to find a spark.
     Local boy, Jordan Westerkamp, sparks the drive, 23 yard reception. Ameer gets going. A penalty helps, Tommy takes it down to the one. Ameer surges in. After the kick. New game, please.
     The punters duel for the next four possessions. Huskers keep getting the ball in good field position, but cant do anything. Wildcats get the ball in bad field position and ipso-ipso.
     Justin Jackson goes off. Wildcats do everything right. Jackson has runs of 11, 11, 12 and 5 yards. The 5-yarder goes into the endzone with a spin move that MItchell is still trying to figure out. NU up 14-7. Just over two minutes left in the half.
     De'Mornay Pierson-El goes to Texas. Tommy throws to P-El for 46 yards. Then Tommy throws to Ameer for 11. On first down, Tommy gets the 'Texas' call. Tommy hands to Newby, who sweeps left while P-El, reverses right. Newby pitches to P-El. P-El lofts a floater to a wide open Tommy, who catches it, and dances into the end zone. 14-up. New game, again.
     Northwestern isn't quite finished, yet. Passes and penalties bring the Cats inside the 20. The defense makes a stand, forces a field goal. Wildcats up 17-14 as capering Pat Fitzgerald cheerleads his team into the locker room.
     The murmuring. The hushed tones. Funerary atmosphere. 'We've always been a second half team'. 'I hope the coaches can adjust'. 'After a bye week. Really?' 'Didn't we used to blow teams like this out?'
     Patience, Huskerfan, patience. Old Man Lloyd, here has seen a lot of Husker ball games. He can cite numerous examples of a first half not quite living to expectations. Halftime is when the coaches do adjust and have done so. The other team adjusts, too, though. A team 'like this'. What does that even mean? If we're talking Northwestern circa 1983, when the students had a cheer that went, 'that's all right, that's ok, you will work for us one day,' every time the opposition scored, then yes. This Northwestern isn't that Northwestern, and hasn't been for about 20 years. The Northwestern coach, Pat Fitzgerald, played in a Rose Bowl, while at Northwestern. We're 2-1 against them since joining the B1G. All three of those games coming down to the last minute. They're a good opponent, don't kid yourself.
     18 Oct. 2014
     2045
     The second half gets going.
     The defense finds its groove. More pressure. Better pursuit. Justin Jackson not finding as much room. Wildcats go 3 & Out. Nebraska moves. Tommy throws a near pick that the DB drops. Instead Huskers get to punt. Cats still lead 17-14. Time is slipping away.
     Another 3 & Out for the D. Tommy gets it going. 55 yard drive on eleven plays. Three third down conversions, all with Tommy in the mix. Two passes on third and long and a run to pick up the first down when no-one was open. Ameer punches it in from the one. Huskers lead for the first time 21-17. Ryan field gets a bit quieter. History has shown that it is far from over. We should have a wild finish.
     The Wildcats try to respond. They get a first down and get to midfield before the door gets slammed, again. Another punt, the third of the quarter, sets up the final act.
     Moral crusher. Back breaker. Life stealer. 77 yards in seven plays will do that. The big one has Ameer breaking free for a 50-yard run. He punches it in on the next play. The Wildcat defense has been unhinged, worn down, eroded. it is now 28-17, in the fourth. Northwestern must respond or it is over.
     They don't. Another 3 & Out and The Huskers get the ball back before the Wildcat defense has a chance to catch it's breath. It shows. Nebraska goes old school. Nine plays, 55 yards. All on the ground. Tommy leaping from the five and getting the ball across the plane. The refs disagree. They want to see Ameer score his fourth TD, instead. 35-17. It is done, but time remains.
     Another 3 & O for the Cats. A punt and P-El returns it to the 19. A less than stellar drive results in a field goal. Huskers up 38-17.
   The clock winds down in garbage time. Nebraska gets backups in. Pat Fitzgerald looks sad. Ryan field is half empty. The half full crowd is chanting 'Go Big Red' over and over. A tough win and a good win for Nebraska. The bad taste of the MSU loss kind of wiped away. 6-1, now.
     Looking ahead, Nebraska has to play Rutgers, Purdue, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa. None of them a particularly scary. None are exactly pushovers, either. All are winnable. Wisconsin has the best threat in Melvin Gordon, but Northwestern held them to 14 points. Minnesota is on a roll, but they have to come to Lincoln and won a squeaker with Purdue. The stage is set for a re-match with MSU, so I have to go for Sparta to win out, too.
     Time to melt into the night before things start to freeze.

MIchigan State, part 1 (of 2?)

From the Files of Lloyd.
4 Oct. 2014
     Hyped for this one. This is the biggest game of the year. Win this one, and Nebraska can stake a claim for the top 10. Win this one, and maybe some of those voices about 'mediocrity' and 'lack talent' and 'average' shut the hell up.
     The weather is not conducive. It is raining with a howling wind. Cross-fire hurricane. Cold, but not too cold, just cold enough to be another distraction for a team trying to find itself. One team knows what it is. There are cool trophies that there are color pictures of. OK, that's not fair. One team has pictures of trophies that they didn't have to send off to the Foto-Hut to develop.
     I'm sitting in a 'Blues' bar in East Lansing. I have no idea why they call themselves a blues bar. There aren't even pictures on the wall of any of the biggies. No Muddy, no Lightning, no Blind Lemon, no Mr. Wolf. The game is on, but on a screen mounted above the bar. I'm trying to watch but some shit-ass cover band called Avon Bomb is on stage, torturing animals. Not accurate. Torturing the fools who came in here expecting a good live act.
     Two guys and two girls who just refuse to give up that dream of pop stardom. You just keep reaching, kids. Kids? All four are pushing 40 and denial in a death grip around the throat. Keep playing. Keep singing. Maybe an A&R man will just happen to be in Lansing on a bet or a dare. Yes, the Love Shack is where it's at. Do what you did to 'Shook Me All Night Long' to 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' you'll have a gas-gas-gas all over your ass-ass-ass.
     Anyway, the sound track enhances my overall disposition toward barely controlled homicidal rage. Brilliant start to the game. RG4 snags a tipped ball for an INT. Then bupkus. The wind howling into Drews face is enough to make Bo think twice. Punt instead of FG attempt. Um, ok. Gain what, 15 yards of field position with the wind at their backs. OK. That's why your pulling down the 7-figures. Next possession. Defense holds, forces a punt. Very well. What the Fuck call of the night #1. Pierson-El is back to receive the punt. It's coming in hot, P-El is calling off the dogs. Peterpeterpeter, waving his arms in front of him. The ball bounces, seeks love and affection from P-El, nestles into his arms like a forever home. P-El starts to run, he has a lane, if he lights the jets, he will run so fast into the wind, he will achieve lift.
     Whistle whistle whistle. Ref: We thought he was calling for a fair catch. Really? Then where's the flag. It is a penalty to signal a fair catch and then run with it. Quite unsportsman-like. Don't worry MSU, the offense has your back. We'll only move the ball a little bit, and then commit a stupid penalty. We're young. We're raw, this is only our 50th game since middle school.
     Spartans treating Ameer like Xerxes.
     Then the little niggly-ass nit-noy little things that decide games kicks in. Starting corner, Daniel Davie, gets hurt. These things happen. Sparty has a smart coaching staff. Sparty smells blood. Sparty calls a 'go' route right at the newbie who is in for his first play. He has probably heard the coaches tell him, 'they will test you' and 'be ready'. He probably heard them, he probably even listened and comprehended the sage advice of his leaders. It didn't help. Cook throws one of his satellite-guided small-diameter bombs over the top and it's big play city. 7-0 Sparta.
    
     The Huskers get the ball back. Ameer still being treated like Xerxes. Huskers attack the perimeter. Husker move well. Good drive going. Hey, lets use play-action to keep Sparty honest. Good idea. Let's have Tommy throw a deep sideline pattern into the wind. Are we sure about this? What could go wrong? Tommy throws a pick. Not so terribly surprised.
     Connor Cook, the Sparty QB, needs to pretend that every down is third down. Most of the night, he looks terrible, but on 3rd down, he channels Joe Montana. He's probably got better arm strength than Montana. Time and again he hits tough passes on third down. The defense is there, but Cook keeps hitting.
     Big plays are the difference. Sparty gets a 30-yrd touchdown run. The only decent run of the night. Ameer is stymied. A cool pass to Ameer out of the diamond formation nets 12 yards. Only time we see the diamond all night. Tommy is harassed by the Sparty D, every time he drops back, the Sparty D-ends are on him. One kid, appropriately named Rush beats both Sterrup and Lewis like cheap, garage sale drums. The wind is nullifying his passing game. Then when it cant seem to get any worse, the center, the coach's nephew, decides that his climb from the depths of walk-on drudgery to starting center, must not have any more rungs on the ladder. He's missing line-calls, he's snapping before Tommy is ready, he's falling victim to alleged shenanigans of Sparty clapping to induce movement before the snap. On a night where the entire o-line looked like death on a hot day, Marky-P stood out. Not in a good way.
     At the half, Sparta leads 17-0. Opportunities squandered, Ameer checked, Tommy looking wild-eyed, Kenny on the sideline after crushing his nuts. Second half should be better, right? Right?
     
     Defense plays ok, then gives up a big play. The big one in the third is a touchdown on a double reverse that is executed perfectly by Sparta. Textbook. Almost military drill precision.
     Weird play #2 happens in the third. Tommy drops back, Tommy gets hit while throwing. Ball hits the ground, Smart Spartan scoops it and starts to run. Whistle whistle whistle. Play is dead. Incomplete. Let's review, shall, we, lads. Conference. Upon further review, our bad, actually a fumble, MSU ball. What fresh hell is this? Defense stands, forces a field goal.
     Huskers get a field goal to preserve their dignity and hide their shame. 27-3 at the end of three. Stadium starts emptying out. There is hot food, burning booze and scorching women, elsewhere.
     Fourth quarter. Gut-check time. Tommy the gunslinger steps out. Tommy throws it all over. Life appears. Tommy gets it close. Ameer goes in for the score. Marky P screws up the snap on the 2-PAT. 27-9 less disgusting. Defense holds. P-El almost breaks one. Huskers drive. Tommy gets hurt. Ryker Fife, the walk-on from G.I. gets some time. He fires high, adrenaline. Gets close, again, Ameer, again. Failed 2-PAT, again. 27-15. Is there hope? Yes, there, is. Remaining crowd begins to murmur.
     Huskers kick. Sparty has about four minutes to kill. Huskers have three time outs. Sparty runs and Bo stops clock three times. Sparty has to punt. The punt to P-El. P-El makes a man miss. P-El finds a lane. P-El kicks in the afterburner, torches the punter. Kick the PAT. 27-22, time for the onside kick.
    Sparty covers the kick. Sparty tries to kill clock. On third down, Sparty runs out of bounds. Bad move. Field goal attempt wouldn't quite put the game out of reach, but would make it tougher. Field goal is up, field goal goes clang-clang-clang off the upright. Still 27-22 with enough time to complete the most epic comeback in Husker history. Tommy starts big. Hits Alonzo Moore down the sideline. Big gain. Huskerfan is up and psyched. Sparta is nervous. Oh, no, not again  nervous. Tommy throws a pass that should have been a pick, but somehow gets through to Westerkamp. Under a minute. Husker ball at the Sparty 36. Tommy drops back. Tommy heaves it. He's got a receiver in the end zone. Zo, again. Zo has it. Zo goes to the ground. Zo is sliding on his back. Zo must maintain control through the completion of the action. Don't we all? Zo can't. Ball pops out. So close, Zo.
     Still time. Get a little closer, spike it. Three beats to the end-zone bar and let fortune decide your fate. Tommy drops back. Receivers get tangled up on a crossing pattern. It's a timing play and the timing is off. Tommy throws one final pick.
     Sparta is relieved. They get to return with their shields. Huskers defeated, but not beaten. The thoughts of could-haves and should haves as numerous as the raindrops that keep coming down.
     Re-match in December, indoors, at a neutral site, bitches.

Nebraska 45, Illinois 14

    From the files of Lloyd.
     Game five. Illinois (IL) at Nebraska (NE).
     27 Sep. 2014 0636
     The talk all week has been a litany of otherwise in-tuned and dialed-in Huskerfan imitating Admiral Ackbar, 'It's a Trap!' Theory: It's just to give the peeps something to jaw about in order to bleed off  the impending Michigan State excitement. No one wants to say it, but this game is just a glorified practice. McNeese State be damned.
     27 Sep 2014 1458
     The pre-gaming is more sedate than last wee. The booze is flowing and the hot, young, girlies are still trying their best to look like some sort of football-themed hookers. One I saw had a too-small t-shirt that looked like it read, 'Hus ers', but the rip down the middle, revealing an embarrassing amount of decollatage. Her too-tight jean shorts and too-tall heels completed the look. A look that said, 'name your price' way before it said Go Big Red.
     Not that the lads were much better. Too many douchey hats and douchey sunglasses hung jauntily behind the head. Douchey flip-flops with basketball shorts. Almost preferable to desperately hanging on to youth guy in his replica jersey that fit really well when he was in college. Add 20 years and 40 pounds, the 11 on the chest looks like an 0, straining to complete itself.
    27 Sep. 2014 1814
     Trying to get into the mood. Just can't. Not sure what the deal is. Maybe it's the foregone conclusion nature of this game, in my mind. I do want to see how it unfolds, but it almost feels like I know how the movie ends, the book's final chapter. Maybe I'm getting too old to be wandering around through the pre-game masses. The mass among the masses. Extreme unction for the visitors granted before the last breath has left. The Host consumed by the hosts in the weekly ritual. The Host being brats and burgers. Drink of my blood, for it has ethyl alcohol. Community communion.
    27 Sep. 2014 2006
     Finally. The wait for this kickoff has been a grind. I dig that it's prime-time, but it's not, really. It's only on the BTN and even then, most of the country is getting other games. Who are we kidding? Most of the country really doesn't care about this game. Maybe a few Heisman voters want to peep in and see how FearAmeer does, but beyond that, this is really a private grudge match between a fan base that I smelling a return to glory and a fan base that is smelling the same old unwashed socks.
    27 Sep. 2014 2147
     First half is done. FearAmeer is a force to fear. 21 carries, almost 200 yards. The line is just destroying their assignments. If you thought what they did to Miami was impressive, what they did to (IL) was text-book. Chapter 1, 'How to Run-block'. Every time Ameer touches the ball, it seems like he could break it. FearAmeer opens the scoring. Weapons of environmental lethality launched. After one quarter, 127 yards rushing. Leave him in for the whole game, and he'll finish with 500+. Tommy had a rough start, 0-2 and a pick is not how you want to get things going. The pick was a bad one, too. Tommy was rolling right, keeping his eyes downfield, so far, so good, pursuit getting to him, sideline approaching, Tommy stops, plants, throws back across his body, and into a stiff wind. Linebacker picks it off. Tommy still suffers from tunnel vision, at times. He still blocks out defenders from his vision. The Illini continued the tradition of visitors scoring on their opening drive. 41-yard burst right up the gut. MIKE got lost. Cooper got juked. IL makes it 7-7. After Tommy's pick, IL moved right on down the field, again, the D finally holds inside the 10, and snatches a pick back. Huskers drive, again, but Imani Cross fumbles at the end of a play. I say he got face-masked, but what I say doesn't matter. End of one, score is 7-7. Huskers not quite hitting on all cylinders. Illini gaming it, letting it all hang out.
     Second quarter. Boom. Illinois ran 15 plays. One was a big pass for a touchdown. Other than that, IL gains 23 yards on 14 plays. Boom number one, FearAmeer from 8 yards out. 14-7, NE. IL throws another pick, which sets up boom number two. FearAmeer from 2 yards out, 21-7 NE. A 3&O sets up Boom number three. 63 yards strike to Kenny, a thing of beauty. First and 10 from their own 37. Tommy fakes the handoff, sets up in the pocket, waits, waits, waits, pressure coming, uncork that big right arm. It looks too long. Wait. What? A quarterback can overthrow a receiver. Yes. but not this time. Right on the numbers. Afrothunder80 for the TD.  Message to IL, we can hit this any time we want. 28-7, NE. IL hits their big play, making it 28-14, and Husker fan is still nervous. A made field goal and a missed field goal that had the range but not the accuracy, closes the book on the first half. 31-14. IL wants to go home. Bo won't let them.
    27 Sep. 2014 2349
     The second half, becomes a battle against topor on offense. Ameer got his 200 and is sitting. Imani plays most of the second half. Imani is a good back. Imani is bigger. Imani is no Ameer. yet. The defense is keeping things fresh, though. Playing with seven defensive backs in  'Dollar" set. It's fun. Illini QB, O'Toole cant solve it. O'Toole tries to read it, but it's like Sanskrit. O'Toole scrambles, O'Toole meets RG4 a couple times. Illini shut out for the second half. Defense figuring it out? For all the fear and loathing of an 'average' defense, they have only given up 8 touchdowns when a game was still in doubt.
     Somehow, the fourth quarter is slightly more interesting. Get to see guys that you've never heard of. Ryker Fife getting some experience. Jordy Nelson trying to show why he deserves to move from 4th to 3rd on the depth chart. The defense rolling over the Illini offense like a Labrador that found a dead squirrel in the back yard. Just to finish things, and to prevent another garbage touchdown in the final minute. Pooch turns the dogs loose. Zaire blasts O'Toole on the final play. Game over.    
28 Sep 2014 0013
     The walk home is soothing. 5-0 soothing. I don't want to think about the 300. Nebraska still won't get any love. Doesn't really deserve any until after Thermopylae, anyway. Just a hunch, but I think that this might just be the first half of a double-header. The sound of 6-0 is almost enough to make one giddy.

Nebraska 41, Miami 31

    From the files of Lloyd.
     Game four. Miami, (Fla.) (MiaF) at Nebraska (NE).
     20 Sep. 2014 0535
     Huskerfan is jacked. Jacked, man. The Hurricanes blew into town with all their brashness and bravado and bullshit. These cats are not the cats of yesteryear. It's not Michael Irvin and Warren Sapp and Vinny Testaverde. These are not the dudes you grew up hating because not only did they act like assholes on the field, they had the audacity to back their shit up with their play. No, these weren't the fearsome tigers of the 80s and 90s; these guys were more like bocats or lynx, still dangerous, but not nearly as much as their progenitors.
     I hate discussing games as duels between opposing players of the same position. It doesn't matter if Brad Kaaya will play Better than  Tommy Armstrong. It makes no difference if Duke Johnson outduels Ameer Abdullah (as if). The matchups are how Kaaya will handle the noise of the 91,000 people baying for his blood How will Ameer keep moving the chains against a fast, athletic defense?
Those are the kinds of things I seek answers to. Those are the things I hope to gain insight to.
     20 Sep. 2014 1347
     The crowd downtown is well on their way. The red beer (tomato juice and beer) is flowing in quantities that remind one of a slaughterhouse. Middle aged-moms and pops are tippling their wines. The young and single are tossing brewskies as they flirt and mingle. Hot girls in next to nothing are tossing back shots and petitioning the Lord with prayers of 'Ohmigaw'. Fierce, young laddies are in pursuit, posing and displaying, crushing defenseless aluminum into lifeless, drained recyclable slag. At this rate, the crowd will be at full roar. Maybe volume setting 9. Not 12. Never 12. Seattle is 12 and the old gal on 10th street never gets to Seattle level.
     20 Sep. 2014 1905
     The was a near riot at the Indian Center. 3,000 drunk kids squared of with some tour buses. Cops got called. City cops, County cops, Statie cops. Inter-agency differences set aside in order to present united front and ride to the rescue. Crowd got restless, crowd got stupid. Too much booze? Ya think? One cop caught a can off her noggin, sent to the Krankenhaus. There's one dude looking at serious offense, Felony Assault on an Officer. Probably best throw of his life. Now he wants it back. Yes, drunken bacchanal at the Indian Center. Irony lost only on those there.
     20 Sep. 2014 2014
     First half is done. The NE o-line seems to be grind-grind-grinding the MiaF front into a fine powder. Not done yet, but they will break by the third. Ameer to the left, Ameer to the right, Ameer right up the gut, between the tackles. MiaF has no answer. They hit him high, he spins away, the hit him low and he balances for extra yards as he falls. He's smiling. He's feeling it. Ameer is crushing it. It didn't start out so comfortable. MiaF went right down the field to open the scoring. Three straight first downs. Yet another game of the defense looking at each other with 'whatthefuck' faces on the opening drive, again. NE answered. Lightning strike to AfroThunder from 40 yards out. MiaF stopped on an INT. Despite that, Kaaya looks poised. Things got sloppy after that. Both sides traded punts, and Tommy pulled a Taylor and fumbled on the run. MiaF moves at will, goes up by a touchdown. Ameer responds. Touchdown back. Huskers forced a 3&O. More Ameer. Have to settle for a field goal. Since MiaF scored last, Huskers outgained Canes 129-(-1). 25 plays to 3. TOP 12:43-1:109.
    20 Sep. 2014 2238
     The second half  started where the first left off. More Ameer. The mere mention of Ameer has the MiaF d-line cringing. The NE o-line is looking magnificent, standing the tired 'Cane d-lineman up and driving them back. MiaF d-backs getting a workout making all the tackles. Long grinding drives traded. NE jumps out 24-14, about to put the dagger in, but Kaaya and company responds. Steals a march and is right back in it 24-21. Tommy and Ameer are driving back to push lead back out when Tommy throws a pick. Bad pick. Slap you in the helmet bad pick. Mighty Mouse saves the day. Crushes Hurricane hearts. Trevor Roach, filling in for scuffling Josh Banderas, forces the Duke to fumble. Josh Mitchell, all 5-9 and 175 pounds of him scoops and scores. Dagger in the heart.
  Canes not quite done, yet. They have to throw, now. Kaaya throws a pick to Nathan Gerry, good return, flags fly. Canes throwning down, scuffle edging on ruckus brewing. Bullshit call on Valentine for roughing the passer. More bullshit as unsportsmanlike penalties offset. Bo turns red. Bo yells. Bo points for emphasis. Bo gets nowhere. Field goal traded for a field goal. 34-24, at this point. Must hold until relieved. Kalu gets a pick. Miami starts shit. Brawling and jawing near the sideline, 'there there there, boys' turns into 'get the fuck back to the sidelines'. Miami imploding, Hurricane force winds only coming from their mouths. The team is a summer breeze. Ameer from 10 yards out Head on a stake. Mount that bitch on the wall.
    Game over. Late Miami score. Meaningless. Cosmetic. A slag in Maybelline is still a slag. MiaF is broken, defeated, but they won't shut up. Still talking trash. Husker doesn't know enough to point at the scoreboard and illuminate the Canes. Canes depart. Canes don't shake hands. Canes give crowd the finger. Crowd gives boos back. Crowd sings 'Na Na, hey hey, goodbye'. Crowd full of hatred. Crowd full of vindication. Huskerfan feels that this makes up for the failed two-point conversion when Reagan watched the Orange Bowl from 1600. It doesn't. It's just the next step to 4-0, which hasn't happened since 2011.
     20 Sep 2014 2159
     Streets are quieting. Bars are rocking. Lads and lasses calling plays, trying to score. Inside trap works well. Passing game needs work. Channel your inner Ameer, lads, and nothing can stop you.