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.

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."

Off to Illinois

            Sometimes, fate can be mean-spirited. She can intervene at just the wrong moment and pull your chair out from under you when you're sitting down at the table with a bunch of high rollers who just love to see you fail.

            Other times, she a sweet little sprit, who drops things in your lap when you least expect them and speeds off giggling into the darkness. Fate, Karma, synchronicity, or blind, stupid luck, whatever you want to call it, it happened to be on my side for a little while.

            I just finished prepping the Murderwagon for the next round of the DuMont case. Mrs. Dumont had called me after getting my last report and screamed at me for a while. She used words like unsatisfactory and inept and boondoggle, which, on its own, is a rather spectacular word, but when used in an assessment of one's work, is a bit unpleasant. She wasn't satisfied with my results, but hadn't pulled me off the case, so I was in investigatory limbo.

            I placated her with a few 'there, theres', a 'come now' or two, and the requisite 'yes ma'ams', and after reattaching my head, set about figuring out just how to snag hubby doing what he was doing.

            That's when fate showed up and gave me a fat smooch on the kisser. I was gassing up the van, sobbing inwardly as the price on the pump climbed like a Starfighter in afterburner, when the Little Red Roadster pulled into the lot. 'ZZZZip' was on the front plate and a blonde girl was at the wheel. She killed the engine and got out. She was wearing a white polo shirt with a black logo over the pocket, she was just far enough out of peeper range for me to make out what it was. She wore the same tan ball cap with her hair pulled through the back. She wore dark sunglasses, more than likely Aviators that seemed a bit big for her face, but shielded her eyes from the sun and observers. She wore khaki pants and sensible cross-trainer type shoes. As she made her way into the store, she scanned her surroundings, good situational awareness. The other things I noticed was that she moved with a degree of athleticism, and it was evident that she ran to stay in shape.

            I had a decision to make. I still needed to pay, but I didn't want her to notice me, and I didn't need to watch her drive off while some dude in front of me handed in his winning, one-dollar lottery tickets and decided how to re-invest his winnings in more lottery tickets. I grabbed a note-pad and quickly scrawled a note and a phone number. I walked over to the roadster and slipped the folded note under the windshield wiper. I doubled around to the store's side entrance and went inside. As I got in line to pay, she was just finishing up. She had bought a pack of gum, an energy drink, and a box of band-aids. She slipped by me. She smelled nice, too. I couldn't place the scent, but it wasn't something you'd snag at Bath and Bodyworks.  I shuffled forward in line and tried not to watch the girl as she read the note. I settled up and went out to the van. The girl was on her phone and was looking at the bumper of the Z4 with a look of anger and confusion. I pulled the van out and trundled over to the abandoned dry cleaner across the street and waited.

            She got in, slammed the door and tossed her phone disgustedly into the passenger seat. It looked as if she had really torn into whoever she had been on the phone with.

            Sorry about that, Lloyd. I owe you one.

Champaign, Illinois. Looks fun.

            She pulled into traffic and the Murderwagon and I followed at a respectable distance.

As we light-hopped through town, her bearing indicated the country club, and I dialed in the local sports radio to get a feel on Saturday's game at Illinois.

            Nebraska should be able to move the ball against Illinois. As if it were some sort of Bizzarro World note, Nebraska leads the B1G in passing. Yes, passing. The ground game isn't bad, but it looks like the Huskers should feature Sweet-n-low, and bring Cross in on short yardage plays (or just give it to Janovich) and when Newby needs to rest. The receiving corps is looking good and about to get better. De'Morney Pierson-El is back on a limited basis and will probably need to play his way into shape before getting punt return duties, but Tommy will now have about 6 reliable targets at receiver. Passes to the tight end spot are still problematic, but, it would be fun to see Janovich in an H-Back type of position. There still hasn't been a lot of passes thrown to running backs, whether by scheme, design, or Tommy wanting to hit a home run every time when a single will do, but the longest passing play, last week went to Janovich. Anyone else noticing a theme?

            Defensively, the Huskers are on the edge. The line has been depleted and has still held their own against the run. The Raccoon Whisperer may be back, and Vincent's knee might be good enough to go, but all-in-all the line has done a good job, as a unit. The linebackers have been playing shorthanded, whether by suspension or injury, all year. Michael Rose-Ivy is the best of the bunch, and has only played in one full game. Josh Banderas should be back from injury and Marcus Newby is on-again, off-again. They don't seem lost, like last year, but are a bit over their heads. The secondary is vulnerable. It doesn't seem to make a difference who is back there, the outside guys can't get control of the receivers. I don't know if it's a lack of talent, or poor technique, but the corners are getting torched like a debt-ridden bar with three insurance policies.

            Illinois has some weapons, not a fully stocked arsenal, but some weapons. Wes Lunt is an accurate passer that will with his receivers for short to medium gains and let them make extra yards after the catch. He's a big guy, and not mobile, so pocket pressure will be key to making him get rid of the ball and making him uncomfortable. Josh Ferguson is a decent running back, but has only gone over the 100-yard mark once, this year. Illinois would rather throw, anyway. When they do throw, they look for Geronimo Allison, a big target who leads the Illini in both receptions and yards, and has an awesome name to go along with it.

            Even though it's a road game, it's not like going to Miami. I think the defense will make just enough plays to slow down Illinois enough for Tommy and the offense to continue putting up the points, better red-zone execution would be nice.

            I followed the roadster up to the gates of the country club and waited on a side street. I knew what I was looking for, and wanted to be in position to follow. As I parked, I thought about a score to predict for the game. Nebraska 38, Illinois 28.

A comeback, and a heartbreaker.

                If Nebraska could just consistently deliver the aggression and efficiency of the fourth quarter at Miami, they would be scary good.

            True, it helps if you don't let an offense barf 17 points on you in the first quarter.

            True it helps if you don't commit so many penalties. My favorite, the five-yard penalty on Luke Gifford for lining up on the kickoff more than five yards from the line. On a kick that went for a touchback. Miami got the ball at the 30. I can't even recall ever seeing that flagged, before. I especially loved the final punts of Miami's last possession, 4th & 7 at the Nebraska 47, punt, fair catch at Nebraska 10. Penalty, Running into the kicker, dodged a bullet, there. 4th & 2 at the Nebraska 42, punt, out of bounds at the Nebraska 14. Penalty, personal foul, Miami. 4th & 17 at Miami 41, punt, touchback. Three plays, two penalties, and a change of 10 yards in field position.

            True, it helps that in the fourth quarter, Miami's offense got more conservative than election day in Clay County, it was good to see that Nebraska was able to stop the run when everyone knew it was run, not like the Minnesota game, last year.

            I was wandering around town, dealing with the manic-depressive (fickle) nature of Huskerfans, who were running the emotional gamut between 'they are an embarrassment to all Nebraska fans' to 'keep fighting to the end, that's all we ask for', from the same person, in the span of 45 minutes.

About as close as Nebraska got all day

              Jake's invited me in, as it always does, and I found Lloyd happily pecking away at his laptop. "What gives, pardner? I thought you'd be in the alley looking for cats to kick."

            Lloyd looked up at me, gestured to the opposite bench, and smiled. "Nope, I'm good. Disappointed in the loss, but I get to dry my tears with about five c-notes."

            "500 bucks," I whistled low. "That's a pretty good haul. The Cowboy?" I asked as confirmation for than question.

            "Yep. When the line first hit, Miami was favored by 5, so i called up the Cowboy to get in on that. He said he wouldn't give me five, the line was dropping, even then. He settled for 3 with a hook, so I jumped on it."

            "So, how much did you bet? On a road game. In Miami."

            "200 bucks. Believe me, I was going to have to claim to be a designated driver to drink pop for free at the start of the fourth quarter. I heard Cowboy laughing in my head the whole game. When Tommy hit Zo for the touch, and then CC for two, I thought, 'OK, 33-18 is respectable, but I'm still going to lose'.

            I nodded, I was enjoying how animated he was in telling the story. I gave him the 'go-on' gesture.

            "Then Tommy hit Reilly, and I'm all, 'kick the PAT, that way we're still only one possession down, if you go for two and fail, we'll be two possessions down', we kicked it and it was 33-25, I'm still down, but we can at least hold our head up."

            "How bloody did your fingers get on that last possession?"

            "It was like Miami wanted to give it away. Tommy looked like Russell Wilson, hitting guys down the seam, running for a first down on 3rd and 13, with the 2-pointer to JW, the game was tied and as far as I was concerned, i was almost in. 75% of overtime games are decided by three points or less, so I was almost there."

            "Tell me about the overtime, for me, it was almost as bad as Matt Hasselback's, 'We want the ball, and we're gonna score', only to throw a pick six."

            Lloyd shook his head, "Almost that bad," he said, "Not quite, but almost. I saw what he was looking at, and it was a case of too much confidence in his arm, which is not a new problem. Miami was in a zone coverage, and Morgan was crossing the back of the end-zone. Tommy saw him, but was on the run to his right, he was trying to throw the ball about 45 yards without having his feet set, he didn't get as much energy into the ball as he thought he did, or needed and so under threw it by about 10 yards, the Miami defender didn't even have to move."

            "It was essentially game over at that point, the penalty on Lewis for being a big, frustrated, dumb-ass, didn't help," I said. "I don't know why Miami didn't just put the stake in on the first play. They have a good kicker, their house, spot the ball in the middle of the field, and kick a 30-yarder. Game over. They ran 4 plays to gain two yards, any of which they could have fumbled on."

            "I was just happy that the defense didn't give up and fought for those four plays. Miami kicks the field goal, wins 36-33, but with Nebraska getting spotted 3.5 by Cowboy, it was like they won, 36.5-36. Covered, baby. Covered." Lloyd smiled and pulled out a wad of 20-dollar bills."

            "You put 200 down on Nebraska, after Cowboy's handling fee, you should have about 360. Where did the rest of it come from?" I asked.

            "Ohio State and Alabama. There's a regular, here, that is always wearing his Terrell Pryor jersey on Saturdays. He was going off on how Nebraska sucks and if they played OSU it would be a total blowout again, blah, blah, blah. So I told him that they needed to take care of their own business, first. He laughed and said OSU would beat Northern Illinois by 56, easy. I told him I had 50 bucks that said that it wouldn't be that bad. We had Melissa hold the money, and told her the conditions."

            "Ah, you had the Kraken hold the cash, very nice," I said.

            "Yep, she put my money in one side of her bra, and the OSU dude's in the other side. I didn't mind. Not. One. Single. Bit."

            "I'm sure you did. Did you tip her?"

            "More than I should have, I think," he said smiling.

            "What about Alabama, how did you make money with them?"

            Lloyd frowned. "There was this loud, smartass kid, in here. He went to school at Alabama and his current football knowledge is ok, but to him college football started the day he became an Alabama fan, all of 6 years ago. So, I made a little wager with him about Ole Miss beating Alabama, strait up, no points. He was so confident in Alabama at home, he said 'Roll Tide' as we shook on it. I told him I'd start an on-line petition to replace Franklin on the hundred with Bear Bryant if it made him feel better. He flipped me off after throwing the money at me and storming out of here." Lloyd chuckled.

            "So. Moving forward," I said. "What does Nebraska need to do, 'cause the natives are restless and talk is drifting back to a 6-6 season. Even though you and I both know that this wasn't one of the 'count it' games on the schedule."

            "I think they gelled, a bit, in Miami," Lloyd said. "I think Daniel Davie lost his starting gig, and that is a positive. Kaaya completed 1/3 of his yardage in the first quarter, when Davie was back there. From the second quarter on, Nebraska outscored Miami 33-16. I know, lots of other factors played into that, but the pass defense was a lot better."

            "What else do they need to work on?"

            "I can give you four things that need to be fixed, three of which can be done, easily."

            "Hit me, what do you fix?"

Stanley Morgan, Jr. is going to be a good one.

      "First, the dropped passes. This was the first game where it was a problem, and was probably more a result of being on the road and getting too excited for a big game. They looked flat and complacent for the first quarter. Experience takes care of that. Second, the stupid penalties. 13 of them, most of which were just plain dumb, or lack of discipline. There was a play in the third quarter, I think, where Tommy hit JW down the sideline for a first down in the red zone. It got called back, for a personal foul, instead of 1st and 10 inside the Miami 20, it became 2nd and 25 at the Nebraska 34. Essentially, a 46 yard penalty."

            "That's been a problem for years, now," I said.

            "That will get fixed as they get used to the new offense, so it is a more long-term project."

            "What else?"

            "I do believe that Tommy will continue to get better. He has great confidence in his throws, but sometimes it's too much confidence Two of his three interceptions were a result of him trying to do too much. The other one was an early Christmas present from the football gods for the Miami defender. Tommy needs to learn to set his feet and put his whole body into the throws when he's scrambling, he might take a hit, but he will deliver the ball, better."

            "What is the last thing, the other easy fix?"

            "Please, please, please, for the sake of Bob Devaney and everything else that is sacred for Nebraska football, stop wearing the all-white surrender uniforms. They look bad, and the play in them is even worse. Even in the 90's, when the Huskers were the meanest, baddest mothas on the block, white-on-white was a bad combo. Georgia Tech, Washington, Iowa State, just to name a few. On the road, it should be mandatory, from this point forward, that white jerseys will be paired with red pants."

            With that, I decided to see if Melissa could deliver a drink saved from the watery depths. I needed some bourbon, but not as much as I thought I would need at the start of the fourth quarter.