On Wisconsin

            I followed the Little Red Roadster to a stately, old house in one of Lincoln's older neighborhoods. The building stood out, to me, because it hadn't been converted to apartments like a lot of the big houses in this part of town. To most people, it probably looked like the last refuge of an old lady with 17 cats and grandkids that never visited.

            The house was surrounded by a wrought iron fence, topped with Romeo spikes. There was a gate at the driveway, that the blond driver of the roadster had to pause at to enter a code into a keypad. The gate swung inward to allow her and Mr. DuMont to proceed up a driveway that lead to a large garage that had obviously been added well after the house's construction. The garage door rolled up as the gate opened. My quarry pulled into the garage and the door rolled down as the gate swung closed. I decided that doing a bit of peeping was in order.

            I have a small, deep-tinted window on the side of the van. The tint is dark enough to resemble concentrated midnight on a moonless night. Inside, I have a binocular mount rigged so I can sit in one of the swivel chairs and peep through my Zeiss binoculars in comfort and stability. Physical, stability, anyway.

            I checked out the house and surrounding grounds. Ground floor, second floor, it appeared to have a livable attic space. I swept the front yard area. The grass was well-maintained, edged. There were no trees near the fence, and now flower beds or decorative plants anywhere. The windows were all shut and curtained. I checked out the ground level. At both corners of the house, and over the front door were mounted security cameras. I bet the monitors and security staff were set up in a basement playroom.

            I focused on the front door. The stairs leading up to the porch were flanked by wrought iron handrails. Subtle, easy way to control access to the front. The door looked to be one of those solid, oak numbers. Heavy, metal strap hinges gave the door an antique appearance. At eye-level, where a peep-hole, or portal would be, a metal motif was mounted. It appeared to be a sea-creature of some sort, octopod with the letters, 'HAFGUFA' surrounding it. I made a mental note to look it up, or ask Lloyd, since I couldn't even Scrabble a word out of it, I mean, I came up with Ahaguff, but, I bet it would be challenged.

            I snooped for a bit longer, decided that I would have to drive around to see if it abutted an alley, or had any other back access when I caught movement from the side of the house. A guy with a polo shirt similar to ZZZip's driver strolled toward the front gate. He was big enough, not huge, but big enough to get a gig as a bouncer in a bar where fights broke out on a bad weekend. The Doberman shepherd that trotted alongside him at a precise distance concerned me a lot more.

            This place intrigued me. I didn't feel the compulsion to get inside, yet, but it sparked my interest. Big house, security measures, controlled access, uniforms with a unifying logo that bore a striking resemblance to the motif on the door. I was beginning to think I had some good news and some bad news for Mrs. DuMont. The good news was that I didn't think he was fooling around with another woman. The bad news was that I had no idea what he was fooling around with.

            I called it a day and went back to write up my findings. I had a weird feeling that I was on the surface of something that went a lot deeper than should, or that I wanted to get into.

            Lloyd was waiting for me, in the office. He had all sorts of his electronic crap strewn over my desk. He looked like he was researching something.

            "Just don't spill your coffee, or anything," I said. "My creditors don't like stains on their invoices."

            He just harrumphed, but moved his cup to a more stable location on the desk.

            "Whatcha doing?" I asked as I sat in the government issue, grey, steel chair, that probably belonged to the State Pen, once.   

            "Trying to find anything that will make me think that Nebraska will beat Wisconsin, Saturday. Right now, I'm down to hoping the entire Badger defense gets food poisoning."

            "We'll take them to Hi-Way Diner. It always works for me when I want to clear out the system."

            He barely raised an eyebrow. "They have a good defense against the run, which doesn't really matter, since we don't like to use our running backs, for anything. They have a good pass rush, which means that Tommy will be running for his life all day, since he'll try to put it up 40 times."

            "Five of those will be called run plays, though." Lloyd shot me a sharp look. I raised my hands in mock surrender. He was in no mood to be messed with.

            "It's not like Wisconsin is at the same level they were, last year. No Melvin Gordon, they only put 6 points on the board against Iowa, at home."

            "This Nebraska team is a blowout away from fracturing. I don't want to use the term 'must win"--

            "Pfft. Every game at Nebraska is a 'must win'", I interrupted. "This one maybe more so than others, but the beast must be fed."

            "Oh yeah, 'The Beast'. More like the Kraken, you mean."

            I perked up. "What do you mean, the Kraken?"

            "You've never heard of the Kraken. It's a shadowy, all-powerful group of Husker Boosters that have their fingers in everything. No one outside of conspiracy nutters believe they exist. It's like the Bilderburg group, The Illuminati, The Templars, CIA COINTELPRO, that sort of thing."

            I was going to mention my findings to him, but thought better of it. "Back on task. You think there is absolutely no way Nebraska can win on Saturday."

            "Nope."

            "Riley's already lost the plot?"

            "Yep. Well, I don't think he had far to go to lose the plot. I don't think he's a good coach, or his staff isn't very good, either way, he chose them, so he's on the hook."

            "So, for the sake of argument, what does he have to do, to win back Huskerfan?"

            "To quote Al Davis, 'Just win, baby'".

            "Ewwww," I said. "You quoted a Raider. I feel all dirty, now."

            "It's true. And you know it's true."

            "Yeah," I conceded. "You know what else is true?"

            "What?"

            "The torches and pitchforks crowd is going to have to chill out. Dude is here for at least three years. If he ends up flaming, the new Chancellor hires a new AD and he (or she, gasp) gets to hire a new Football coach. If he bottoms out, say, 2-10, this year, and goes 6-6 and goes to the Astroglide Superlube Bowl, and then 9-4 with a Gator Bowl Appearance, he's showing 'steady improvement'."

            "Stop."

            "You know it's true. Even if he hiccups, in year four, and goes 8-5, or 7-6, and then goes 10-4 with a loss in the B1G Championship game, the program 'is on track', and 'headed in the right direction."

            "I said stop it."

            "Hold on. Year six, everyone on the team is his recruit. They go 15-1, with that one loss being a heartbreaker in the National Championship Game. That's when he retires and the cycle starts all over again."

            "If Nebraska is ranked in the top 25 at the end of any of those 9+ win seasons, we'd consider it good, and that he has earned his way, here."

            "Dude, I said. "If they go 2-10 this year, and less than 6-6 next year, your still going to be stuck with him for at least the first half of 2017. He's not going anywhere. Complain about him, bitch about his play calling, write your Congressman, whatever. I'm betting he will be here 25 games from now. That's the rest of this season, all of next season, and into 2017."

            Lloyd thought about it for a minute. "Bet on it?"

            "Sure," I said. "I will buy your drinks and cigars, at Jake's, for the entire 2017 season, if Mike Riley is not the head coach, 25 games from right now. Except in the cases of death or illness. I'm talking about him being fired or 'resigning' in the best interests of the team."

            Lloyd stood up to shake on the best. "You are so on. One exception. If he's gone before that point, you buy for that season or seasons, as well."

            I grabbed his hand. "It's a bet. Now, tell me how much we're going to lose by, this week."

            Lloyd glanced at his notes. "We're favored by one-and-a-half, at home. Vegas gives us three points for playing at home. Joel Stave will look like Aaron Rodgers in the fourth quarter. Go on an 85 yard drive, for Wisconsin to kick a chip-shot field goal, their fifth of the day, to win 15-13."

            "If that happens," I said, "I'd better start padding my expense accounts in order to pay for your drinks and smokes."

Riley part 2

     Lloyd and I looked at each other. We looked back at the mud-spattered guy. I shrugged at Lloyd. He was slowly shaking his head.
     "Hi," I said, as I stood up, holding my and out. "We're --"
     He took my hand and shook it with a firm, direct shake. None of that overlapping hand Ive got you trapped stuff. And none of that eww, I don't really want to touch you but I feel I have to shake your hand stuff, either. Solid hold, firm grip, two pumps, break.
     "The guys I was told to meet with," he finished my sentence. "I was at a meeting, earlier this week, in a San Francisco hotel, and was told to await further instructions."
     I moved over to the other side of the booth, so Lloyd and I could both face him. He sat down opposite. On quick scan he seemed pretty relaxed, the bike ride hadn't shagged him out, so he was in OK shape. His eyes were lively, but direct. They sparkled with that light that hints at intelligence, but not dazzled, which hints at madness. his movements were fluid as he sat down, I was just guessing, but there seemed an air of athleticism about the way he moved. He just vibed 'pleasant'. I couldn't come up with any other word. It was very odd for me. The best way I could describe it is that he was a guy who you would want to find you after you had taken a thrashing for getting too close to a secret. If he found you, say, lying in a gutter, the rain pissing down on you like God trying to say 'I told you so', while you ooze blood into the city's storm drains, he'd be the guy to not only call 911, but give you his coat and wouldn't think twice about using his shirt to apply pressure to that one cut that just won't stop.
     The waitress showed up. "Can I get you fellas anything?' she asked, oh so perkily.
     "We're good," I said and Lloyd looked a little dejected.
     "Amber, I'll have a coffee, one sugar, no cream. Let these gentlemen order something and put it on my bill, ok?" the new guy said.
     "Sure thing, Coach." She looked back at us.
     "Two coffees, one as black sin and one with cream and about 5 sugars. Thank you," I said.
     Lloyd seemed happier.
     Amber turned to put our orders in. She had a quick, light gait, and I didn't mind watching her go. "You know Amber?" I asked.
     "Sure, Corvallis only has about 55,000 people. I've been here a long time. Her dad and I played on the State championship football team, in high school."
     "And she called you 'Coach'," I stated with a hint of question in my voice.
     The new guy laughed, "Well, why wouldn't she? That's what I do."
     Lloyd started snapping his fingers in rapid succession. We both looked at him, he had a wild, crazed look in his eyes, like he was startled by the klieg light that just switched on in his head. "Your Mike Riley. Head Coach, Oregon State. 93-80 in college, 14-34 in NFL, 40-32. two Grey Cups in the CFL."
     "Whoa," I said. "Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that we came all the way out here, to the soggiest pine forest in north America--"
     "Well, actually the Olympic, in Washington --" Lloyd interjected before I cut him off with a hand gesture.
     "Not to interview Scott Frost, but to interview Mike Riley. What the fuck?"
     Riley's eyes narrowed and he turned his full attention to me. "You will keep your voice down, son," he said evenly, but with enough edge to tell he was serious. "There is absolutely no call to use that off-color language. Here comes Amber, with your coffee, now."
    Amber placed three china mugs on the table. I took a sip of mine, hoping that the bitter acidity of industrial-grade coffee would scrub the bad taste from my mouth. It didn't. It did more than that. This was good stuff. I took another sip and let the black magic cast its spell on my palate.
     "Kenya AA?" I asked Amber.
     "You're good," she said and flounced off to the other tables.
     "Back to the business at hand," I said. "This is not going to go over well, with the investors."
     "Why not?" Riley asked.
     "They want a 'splash' hire. A big name. A proven commodity to elevate the brand," I said.
     "I see," Riley said. "And who would the investors consider a 'splash' hire?  Besides Scott Frost, obviously."
     "They've been floating names around like, Jim Tressel, Jon Gruden, Dan Mullen, Mack Brown, Gary Patterson, among others."
     "I see. Do the investors understand that Tressel would be, um, problematic, shall we say?"
     "I know. He's under a show cause penalty from the NCAA until 2016, he'd have to sit out five games. He left Youngstown State before allegations about his quarterback could surface. Maurice Clarett completely threw him under the bus, and according to him, the extra benefits at OSU in the 2000's made Oklahoma's cheating in the 70s and 80s look like playing Monopoly with house rules."
     "And the other names?"
     "Gruden's not leaving his sweet Monday Night gig to jump into college coaching. Never was a college coach and won a Super Bowl. He doesn't need the hassle. Dan Mullen would be a lateral move at best, with not much of a track record to back it up. Patterson would break the bank with the buyout we'd have to pay TCU. Mack Brown flamed out with the most resources and deepest high school football talent in the country at his beck and call."
     "Which brings us back to Frost, right?" Riley asked.
     "Yep. Feel good story. Former Husker great returns home to guide his alma mater to the championship promised land. We'd get him cheap, too, less than the 3-million we were paying. And, since he's a former Husker, he'd get more leeway to grow into the job."
     "You do realize he's only been the O.C. at Oregon for two years, right?"
     "Yeah."
     "And you do realize, that Marcus Mariota has been the quarterback for those two years, right?"
    "Yeah," I said, as Lloyd nodded in agreement beside me.
    "And that he didn't create the system he runs, the guy who created it is in the League, now."
     "Yeah."
     "So, knowing all of that, would you put 15-Million dollars down to see if he could succeed, knowing what you know about how the fans treated him the last time, he was there."
     I thought about the stories I had heard about Frosty. Him becoming a pariah when Bill Walsh lured him out to the Farm. His struggles to run Bill's West Coast Offense, he understood it, he just didn't have the physical tools to make it work.
     Then I thought about how the fans and players treated him when he came back. 'Too good for us', 'turncoat', 'traitor', were barbs hurled at him. He was the 'other guy' according to some in the whole Lawrence Phillips debacle. When he finally got on the field, things didn't go as planned. Safety first in the 19-0 loss to Arizona State, all Scott's fault. Getting booed, at home, during a game against Central Florida, when things weren't going as well as the fans wanted. Having to get things ironed out with four new offensive linemen who didn't gel until later in the season. All on Scott.
     That all changed when Matt Davison got lucky with the 'flea-kicker' and a soul-crushing Blackshirt defense treated Peyton Manning like a piñata at a party for burgeoning sociopaths.
     Scott allocated, Scott endorsed, Scott lobbied for the voters to name Osborne National Champ. All was forgiven, all was forgotten. Scott went away to play in the League, stayed in long enough to get an NFL Pension and then started working his way up the coaching food chain.
     "Hello," Riley said. "You seemed to go kinda blank, on me, there. You ok?"
     "Yeah," I said. "I'm fine. I was just mulling over some of the points about Frost. I know a bunch of folks, back home, that would love to have him come back. I wouldn't if I were him. So Lloyd, what are supposed to do, now?"
     "We're supposed to text the contact, and they will give us the password to set up the laptop."
     "I texted 'he's here' to the minion. Less than a minute later, I got the reply. it read 'NOMOBO408'.
     Lloyd is good. I showed him the code. He smiled his smile like he has been up to something that nobody knows about and he's not willing to discuss yet. He scares me, sometimes.
     Lloyd powered up the laptop and set it up for Riley to see. Riley waved at the webcam, once, and proceeded to type away at the keyboard. His face showed various amounts of interest and engagement. Looking serious at times and at one point his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Mine would too if somebody offered me nearly 3 large to do what I was already doing, but for a better company.
     This went on for about a half hour. Finally he turned the laptop around to us. "I'm done, I guess I'll be seeing you around...in Lincoln. Good luck, fellas."
     He paid the tab and moved off, nodding at a few people as he left. The screen was red with white letters on it. It read, "Press any key to continue." I looked at Lloyd, he shrugged. "Something bad will happen if you press a key, but we can't take it back to the office. They want it turned in."
     I tapped the 'N' key. The sound file of R2D2 screaming filled the place and turned some heads. I caught whiff of ozone and saw wisps of smoke curling from the laptop. "You tech guys are a riot," OI said to Lloyd. He had his 'I'm impressed' look on.
     We gathered our stuff, and made for the trek home, a drive to Eugene and commercial hops all the way home. The news would precede us to Lincoln. I had a feeling it was planned that way.

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.