Post Wisconsin

            Today was actually hot. Not like one of those 'Indian Summer' days, whatever that means. It wasn't Africa hot, but hot enough to make you question long pants, and consider inflicting your pasty legs on the public.

            Beads of sweat had collected in the middle of my back, and the hat was doing double duty in an oxymoronic sense. On the one hand, it was shielding my head from those terrible ultra-violet rays. On the other, it was capturing and retaining heat to the point where the sweat-band was earning hits title.

            I sought refuge from the sun and solace from the thirst by ducking into Jake's, of course. I caught sight of Lloyd. He was wearing a red t-shirt over his long-sleeved, white, dress shirt. As I got closer, I could see he had white lettering with '#Rileyaimfire' across his chest.

            I slid into the booth across from him, "A member of the Legion of Doom", I said to him. "Things aren't going better than expected, so off with their heads."

            "When things are going worse than expected, yes", he said in a really snooty air that reminded me of Niles from 'Frasier'.

            "What are your three tenants of coaching, that you always say, that regardless of how the players play, there are three things the coach and staff are always responsible for?"

            "Inspiration, preparation, and education," Lloyd replied, warily. "What are you getting at?"

            "I'm going to set aside the inherent futility of calling for a guy's head, six games into the gig. He wouldn't have taken it if the AD would have had him on a short leash. Nobody would have. The only way I see him getting booted before the end of two years is if Urban Meyer fakes another heart attack and decided to come here, because he likes a challenge."

            "If the sell-out streak ends, he's gone."

            "Nope," I said. "The boosters are all that stand between Riley and unemployment. Most of them are fat-cat businessmen that understand that you can't take over a struggling business, twist a few knobs, and punch a few buttons and voila, the magic happens. They are still on the hook for Bo for the next couple of years, $7.7 million, minus whatever chicken feed Youngstown State is paying him. Besides, knowing Bo, I bet he told Jim Tressel, 'Fuck 'em. I'll do it for the legal minimum of a teaching position, here. Make that ass-hat, Eichorst, swallow every last bit that I can', or something to that effect."

No shower, bleeding, arm in a brace, classic D-lineman

           "So, what, with these losses, it's better to cut now, than to see the program sink even further. When your revenue from bowl games disappears, you're really screwed."

            "Just to be clear," I said. "You're ok with paying $21 million to guys to not coach here, plus, whatever it would take to hire a new guy, who I'm sure would demand upwards of $5 million a year, and who might not be any better than Riley, because there are no guarantees."

            "Doesn't matter. Can him, now. Think toward the future."

            "Ha," I laughed right at him. "Think to the future? You're hilarious. You're not even giving this guy a chance. Not his recruits. Not his players recruited to run his system on either side of the ball. Not his players mentally, or emotionally, either. You always told me how the players loved Bo. How do you know that the lack of effort, lack of execution, lack of desire on the players' parts, isn't deliberate, in order to make Riley look bad?"

            "I don't think any of the kids are doing that," Lloyd said.

            "I don't either. I see a bunch of kids who are trying, really trying. In the fourth quarter, against Wisconsin, they kids on the sidelines were more animated than I have seen them in a long time. They wanted it, they were fired up, I think you have to chalk that up to 'Inspiration", right? They were believing they could win."

            "But they didn't."

            "No, you're right, there. They didn't. At the beginning of the year, who did you have picked to win this game?"

            "Wisconsin."

            "That's right, this and Michigan State were the two games that you said we had no chance of winning."

            "That's right. I didn't think we'd have Illinois or BYU on that list, either."

            "Fair enough. What about game-plan. How do you beat Wisconsin?"

            "You stop the run and make Stave beat you."

            "Exactly what I thought. After watching Melvin Gordon blow through the defense like a Mac truck, last year, and sit for the fourth quarter, I expected a big dose of the same stuff. The defense did stop the run, they made Stave throw the ball 50 times."

            "And they still lost."

            "But not due to preparation. They made Wisconsin do what they had to. They forced them to throw, which should have made it easier on the secondary."

            "The secondary is awful. They let down the front seven over and over."

How many times, this year?

            "I'm not going to disagree with you, there. Every one of the DB's that have gotten significant action, are Bo recruits. He runs a completely different scheme. These guys are having to unlearn one system, and learn another. The one positive that I saw on Saturday. There were actually passes broken up, not just by linebackers, but by the corners, as well. Three of those could have been picks. I don't know if the light-bulb is trying to switch on, but confidence is a big issue. Getting flagged for incidental contact on two key plays doesn't help that, either."

            "I will agree with you, there," Lloyd said. "Cockrell had just as much right to the ball as the receiver, he got there first, should not have been a flag on that. The one on Kalu was closer, but I don't think you can say that the receiver would have caught that had he not collided with Kalu."

            "Exactly. How about Riley getting a flag. It reminded me of Gene Hackman is "Hoosiers", telling the ref to kick him out. I bet he didn't swear, I bet he said something to question the ref's integrity without ever swearing. Something like, 'aren't you supposed to call it the same for both sides, or did you get a giant cheese gift basket delivered to your hotel room?'"

            "I will admit, it was kind of cool. Bo drew flags for stupid shit. Swinging his hat at refs, not letting stuff go, riding the side judge or the line judge when the umpire or back judge made the play. I think we're still feeling the effects of that. The Bo hangover. Refs call us tighter than they do other teams. Kondolo getting flagged for holding? All right, I can see that, but I saw Valentine and Collins taken down on several plays and no holding flags."

            "Let me summarize," I said. "The coaches have the players at a desire to play. They had the same game plan, a successful game plan, we got more yards on Wisconsin than anyone they've played except Alabama, more points, too. They are showing signs of improvement, signs that the light is turning on. That's all in coaching."

            "But he's still not winning, and that's the only stat that matters."

            I nodded. "You're right," I said. "A win is a win and a loss is a loss, this statistically bizarre season my continue with more crazy stuff. I guess what I'm trying to say is that since he's not going to get fired, for numerous reasons, maybe you should channel your energies, elsewhere. Instead of cheering for failure to confirm your bias, swallow the bitter pill and support the players, they need it. Or find a different hobby, like origami, or stamp collecting. Something that won't elevate your blood pressure."

            "I refuse to lower my standards and expectations, Lloyd said. Just then Jess brought me a drink I didn't order. She bent down, next to me and whispered in my ear.

            "From the hot chick at the end of the bar. She said to make sure you saw the card under the glass".

            I looked down into the swirling amber in the glass. The Kraken logo I had been seeing far too often undulated beneath the whiskey's oils. I craned my neck to see who Jess had called the "Hot Chick". The blonde driver held up her glass, made eye contact, tossed back her drink, put her glass on the bar and moved toward the side entrance.

            I tried to scooch out of the booth and around Jess to get to the door. I went out the front and hurried to the corner. I looked back toward the side entrance. I didn't see the girl and I scanned the street, looking for the car. She had given me the slip.

            I tried to walk up the street for a few blocks, seeing if I could spot her, or the car. I did see the Beemer, briefly, as it roared past me on 'P' street, doing about 50.

            At least she waved at me.

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."

Post Illinois

            I had to dispense with most of the usual pleasantries before heading down to Jake's. I had heard some things, and the things I heard were not good.

Nebraska lost 14-13. They led, most of the game, but couldn't hold their water in the last minute. I found Lloyd in the bar. No computer. He was just staring at his cigar, which is a waste, and a sure sign that he was in a bad, bad, mood.

            "So, buddy, what happened?" I asked as gently, as I could.

            "I am so close to being done", he said, "If you get beat, you get beat. You tip your hat to the winner, say, 'good game' and move on. If you get blown out, it's because the other team has superior talent and or circumstances to demonstrate that superiority. To lose to a team that you should beat, through a combination of ineptitude and stupidity just pisses me off."

            "Whoa," I said as I motioned to Jess. "Break it down for me. Explain it to me like I don't know as much about football as I should".

            "You mean like Mike Riley?"

            Ouch. Lloyd is pissed. Riley basically got Lloyd's endorsement when we went on our little trip, earlier this year. To see him turn on him, halfway through the season is a bit surprising. "Lay it on me. What would you have done differently?"

            Lloyd picked up his cigar, puffed it to a satisfactory level of smokiness and exhaled a long plume. He looked like a vengeful demon rising from the fiery pit to dispense justice..in an oversize coat. "First thing first, we simply must stop wearing the all white surrender gear. We look like shit, we play like shit and always have when we wore it. On the road, white jersey over RED pants, dammit."

            Jess interrupted as I ordered a Slaughterhouse and asked her ever so nicely to run to the back and get a Rocky Patel A-10, for me. "We don't do that," she said, flatly.

            "I looked up at her and smiled, "Not even for me? I don't want to leave Lloyd alone, right now. He might do something rash like throw himself into the window, and I'd hate for you to have to windex the whole thing."

            "Ha fuckin' ha," Lloyd said as he gave me the finger.

            Jess sighed, "All right, just this once. Next time, plan ahead". She left to get my stuff for me.

            "It has to be more than the uniforms," I said. "You don't get that pissed off over uniforms".

            "Let me break it down. Between the two teams, the first quarter had 7 possessions. 4 punts, 2 missed field goals and a turnover on downs. All three of Nebraska's possessions were three and outs. It was the little things. Dropped passes, runners not being aware or putting the effort in to get the first down. Tommy could have had a first down on the opening drive if he would have put his head in and fought for the extra yard. Even then, that's fine, it's still 0-0 at the end of the first quarter and both teams looked sloppy."

            "So the whole game wasn't  like that," I said as Jess brought my stuff and gave a half-hearted harumph as I thanked her.

            "No. The second quarter was actually OK. Nebraska got a touchdown and a field goal, and Illinois was stuck in second gear. Devine Ozigbo scored the touchdown. I'm not even sure who he is. We have Terrell Newby, Imani Cross, even Mikael Wilbon ahead of Ozigbo and he's getting the bulk of the carries? Newby, the starter, only carried 5 times for 15 yards. This is a guy who is capable of a 200-yard day, and he's watching?"

            "Let's cut to the chase," I said. What has Husker Nation in such a panty-bunching tizzy, today?"

            "Mike Riley is the absolute worst clock manager to ever wear a whistle."

            "Ooh, worst ever, eh? What did he do or not do? Because there is no try."

            Lloyd sighed, declining to run with my Yoda reference. "It's 3rd and 7 at the opponent's 27. There are 55 seconds left, and the opponent has no time outs left. What do you do?"

            I shrugged. "A 35-dive or something up the middle. It's reasonably safe, and if I don't make the first down, I have a long-ish field goal attempt, that even if I miss it, leaves about 10 seconds on the clock and 73 yards to defend."

            "And Riley calls a pass play. Some sort of fucked up run-pass option that Tommy threw low and behind the fullback, so had he just caught it, the clock would have kept running."

            "No, he didn't," I said.

            "What are you talking about."

            "The play called was a quarterback sweep. Tommy was even told specifically not to pass. There's no receiver package in the play. It was in the fish-wrap, today."

            "Then Riley sucks for throwing his player under the bus like that. Tom would never have done that."

            I was shaking my head at Lloyd. "Really?" I asked incredulously. "First of all, you are right, Tom would never specifically refer to a player. His political shuck-and-jive was to say, 'I don't know what happened on that play', or 'we still haven't had a chance to look at the film' or 'there was a communication problem of some kind' with all sorts of throat clearing."

            Lloyd opened his mouth to respond, but I overran him.

            "So he's now the worst coach ever, for calling the same kind of play that all of us armchair quarterbacks would have, and for being honest and telling the truth, from his point of view, about what went wrong"

            Lloyd sat for a moment giving me one of his harsh, really pissed off looks. I was about as worried about Lloyd doing something as I was worried about being savaged by a sheep. "That Alex Lewis kid needs to lose his captaincy," he said. "He was blowing kisses at the crowd and saying 'I'm sorry we suck' at the end of the game. It was tweeted by several people, including one of the sports guys at the paper."

            I nodded. "You're right. It's exactly like when a parent keeps telling a kid that they're stupid, over and over, and when the kid says 'I'm stupid' the parent gets all mad and says 'Don't ever say that about yourself'".

            "But he's a captain, he needs to be one of the leaders of the team."

            "Why? He's got no reason to be loyal to this team, or this staff, or this school even. Bo Pelini gave him a second chance. Bo Pelini is the reason he's here. Bo Pelini was shown the door by the administration, and a good chunk of the fan base was happy to see him go. He's 3-1 at YSU, by the way. Why is it OK for fans to blast message boards and call in shows with wave after wave of  'the team sucks, Riley sucks, the offense sucks, the defense sucks', but the second a player, who has put more into the game than any fan says it, it's like he waggled his wienie at your grandma?"

            Lloyd got really sullen. "They just are," He said. "We expect them to go out and give 100%"

            "They did that, as far as I could see."

            "They are supposed to keep their heads up, even when they lose, and show good sportsmanship."

            "But the fans aren't? The fans can verbally attack them, question their manhood, abilities and loyalties and they are supposed to just shrug it off? Let me ask you something with a premise to set up first. Operation Iraqi Freedom did not go off as Bush the Younger planned or hoped. Iraq is on the edge of teetering into utter chaos. Would you go up to a Veteran, who had served there, and say, 'You suck. You tried, I'll give you that, but your leaders let you down. They tried one strategy, then another, but ultimately, it's your fault. You made all of America look bad because you didn't win."

            "No. But that's different."

            "Yes, you're right. It's less important. I bet that if you went on any of the local TV web pages, there are more comments about the Illinois game, than there are about the supposed action against ISIS."

            Lloyd stewed for a bit.

            "I want them to win, you want them to win, we all want them to win, but the reasons are so selfish. We don't want them to win so that they feel good, or that they learn that through teamwork and trust, you can achieve more than as an individual. We want them to win to make us feel better. So that we can thump our chests and attach ourselves however so tentatively to their success. We take it so personally when THEY lose that I've got to be on my best behavior to not lay a motherfucker out at Hy-Vee because he's got aggro over the result of a game. A game, man, that we had nothing to do with."

            "They may not win another game, this year," Lloyd said.

            "Maybe not. They might go 2-12, there will be calls to fire the coaches, fire the AD, Perlman's retiring, so it's useless to call for his head. It will be a true test if that happens. If it does, that's when you ask yourself why you are even paying attention."

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.