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.

Post Jaguars assessment

                I enjoy meeting up with Lloyd when he's in a good mood. A nice 48-9 win will do wonders for his mood, even if it was against a team you expect to get beaten 48-9.

            I ran into Lloyd at Jake's, where he was nursing a bourbon, smoking a Gurkha, and watching whatever NFL game was on, Ravens-Broncos, probably. He might have been secretly watching the Bundesliga soccer game on the other telly, but I wasn't going to out him.

            "So, Lloyd, old buddy, you seem to be in a much better mood than last Sunday," I said as I hoisted myself onto the stool, next to him. "You don't have the laptop out, or anything."

            "No need for it, my good man," he said, quite cheerfully, "No need. I watched the game and saw good things, for the most part, there are some things that still need work, but for the most part, the boys looked pretty good."

                                          I caught the bartenders eye, she came over and I ordered a Four Roses, neat. The bartender had an impressive chest-piece tattoo. It depicted a sailing ship, dismasted and floundering, as kraken's tentacles entwined the ship, fore, aft and amidships. The tentacles led the eye downward until they disappeared beneath the surface of her shirt. I asked her once, after I had my social filter degraded by a few too many bourbons, at just how many fathoms the kraken lived. She just smiled, stepped back and lifted the hem of her shirt to expose her belly. I could see where the tentacles continued upward, pairs of tentacles looped left and right toward her back.  The pair threatening the ship, continued down past the waistband of her jeans.

            I raised my glass and tipped my hat to her. Some dedication to the art went into that piece.

            I turned back to Lloyd, "So what pleased you the most?" I asked.

            "The ground game," he said, immediately. "Newby had 198 yards and two touchdowns. It seemed like he was picking up ten yards every time he touched the ball. He wears number 34, just like Walter Payton, he's no Walter Payton, but I'm going to refer to him as 'Sweet-n-lo' during the games. Maybe it will catch on."

            

                             Sweet-n-lo in action

            "So the o-line must have been pretty good, too," I said.

            "They did well, but the South Alabama d-line was just terrible. As they wore down in the second half, they could barely get out of their stances, never mind generate any push to put pressure on Tommy."

            "Tommy did look pretty sharp, he looked like he made good decisions."

            "Tommy went 21 of 30, for 270 yards, two touchdowns and no picks, a very solid day for Tommy. We only had one turnover, and that was Fife, the backup, throwing a bad one, when the outcome had been decided."

            "Any love for the receivers of special teams?" I asked.

            "Lane Hovey stepped it up with 5 catches. Alonzo Moore is showing that he can be a speed threat. I see a bright future for Stanley Morgan. When DeMornay gets healed up, this receiving corps will be scary good."

            "How's your Drew Brown Bang-your-head-against-the-wall-meter?"

            "He hit both of his attempts, one was a shorty, the other one was pretty decent, so the meter is at 8, not 11, like last week."

            I sipped my bourbon as I processed the information. The offense had done well, but against a defense that wasn't particularly good. They still did what they were supposed to. "Let's talk about the defense," I said.

            Lloyd kind of tilted his head, side-to-side, in an odd sort of weighing the ideas in his head motion. "The front seven were pretty impressive. the D-line got push all night, and stuffed the ground game, South Alabama is a team that wants to run the ball and the Blackshirts shut them down."

            "Tell me about that Rose-Ivey kid, he was all over the place."

            "That was his first action in two years," Lloyd said, matter-of-factly. "He was hurt last year, and was one of the five suspended last week, imagine how much better the run defense would have been against BYU if he had been out there." Lloyd waved away the invisible 'coulda-woulds-shouldas' that started to pester him.

            "What about the back end?", I asked somewhat delicately.

            Lloyd took a deep breath. "The safeties seem to be fine, Nate Gerry especially. The corners are weak points. I have a feeling that there is going to be a shake up on the left side. Daniel Davie had a rough night. He got burned repeatedly, and even when he was getting burned, he could have been flagged for defensive holding. South Alabama's quarterback, Clements, made some nice passes, but Davie was never even in position to contest them, let alone stop them."

            "So, overall, good game?" I asked.

            "Good enough," Lloyd said. "Nebraska did what it was supposed to, and in a week where Auburn got scared, Missouri got pushed, and Arkansas got beat by 'lesser opponents', I'll take it. It was no McNeese State, anyway."

            "One more thing," I said. "I noticed you're drinking the hard stuff, today, instead of liquid hops and barley, and that cigar is a little above your usual price point. What gives?"

            Lloyd smiled. "I won 100 bucks on the game. Nebraska covered the spread so I was good to go."

            "Who did you bet with?"

            "Remember that old bookie, from back in the day, Cowboy Steve? He put me in touch with a young up-and-comer. I almost feel bad about taking his money."

            I opened my mouth to explain to Lloyd how that all works. He's a tech guru and number geek like you wouldn't believe, but I should probably intervene before he starts to parlay. It could wait. Let him enjoy it for today.

            I went back to the office. I opened the desk bottle and just kind of slipped away. It had been a long, tiring week and before I knew it, I fell asleep in the chair.

            I dreamed of a ship of the line, battered by a hurricane, dismasted, adrift, as the tentacles came out of the depths and started dragging her down to dark unfathomable depths.