I brought back more pop, but no pizza. As I approached the table, I saw Tim had a napkin unfolded on the table in front of him. He had a pen in one hand and held the napkin down with the other as he diagrammed a play on it. There were several other discarded napkins on the table and a few had fallen to the floor.
I had only been gone a couple of minutes.
"Do you know what it's like, maan?" he asked, barely looking up from his improvised playbook.
"What what is like?" I asked.
"Rhetorical. I know you don't know." He finished drawing on the napkin, stared at it, nodded, folded it up and put it into his jacket pocket. "The whole play-calling thing. It's like a game-plan is this beautiful symphony, maan. The tempo and rhythm can be adjusted. The plays are the notes and even the drives are passages of beautiful music. You get to practice and practice and practice. Every player knows exactly what he has to do. I'm in the box, I see the waves and ripples of what my plays are going to do before the opening kick-off. You dig?"
I had no idea where he was going with this, so I just nodded.
"The music starts, and it's amazing. A-mazing. Even though there's all these distractions trying to throw your musicians off. You got dudes throwing shit at the woodwinds. A snake is slithering between the legs of the string section. An orang-utan is poking his finger into the ear of the bass drummer. All the while the music is coming out perfectly. The conductor has got the whole orchestra focused and it is flowing, maan, just flowing."
He was staring beyond me. He had that thousand-yard stare going on. It was kind of creepy.
"Then, bang!" he shouted as he slapped a hand down, hard, on the table. "First chair violin has a string break. Yeah, she can get a replacement in, quick, but it's not going to sound the same. Half the oboes start playing the wrong piece. People notice, man. The bass drum gets half a beat off rhythm and its starts throwing the whole damn orchestra off. Is that shit the conductor's fault?"
I digested that for a moment before replying. "You know," I said, in a measured tone. "There are those out there that say you can never blame the player. It's up to the coaches to ensure that he's prepared."
"And I would say to them, that they must not have ever had to deal with kids, of any age. Just look around, maan, you see kids driving around, texting and shit. You think mom and dad haven't ridden their asses about that. Kids go out and Saturday night and get shit-faced. Don't you think mommy and daddy haven't told them not to? How much crap do you think you'd get, if you went up to the mom of a pregnant teenager, rolled your eyes and said, 'why didn't you coach her up'?"
"But these aren't kids," I said. "They are legally adults. Shouldn't we treat them with that level of responsibility?"
"Really, maan. Really? These are kids who are out of the house for the first time in their lives. They got football. They got school. In order to be good citizens, we've got them going to hospitals and camps for the underprivileged. Most of them are trying to get or keep a girl. Some even have munchkins. They have twice the responsibility of an average student, and have to, or get to, throw themselves on the mercy of 90,000 fans in the stadium and the millions of faithful on TV. I'm amazed more of these guys don't melt down. Yes, they're accountable to me, and to themselves, they don't want to miss a block, or drop a catch, but it happens. Yes, it is their fault, but it happens. So, where was I? Oh, yeah. I treat them as kids. I hold them accountable when they fuck up. I yell at them when I need to. And believe it or not, I hug them when they need that, too, maan."
"So, who's fault is it, then, when things don't go right?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. Hoping to avoid the inevitable froth.
"Oh, maan. That's the 64-thousand dollar question, isn't it. Ok, maan, lets break this shit down. Lets get molecular, baby. I'm going to take a cosmic number, 64, lets say. That's the number of offensive plays. On one hand, we only scored on five of those plays. So, does that mean we only had a 0.078125% success rate. If so, that's bullshit, maan. Or, do you take all the plays that yielded a less than optimal result? That would mean all the incompletions, right? Tommy went 8-for-21, so that's a minimum of 13 plays with less than optimal results, right? You'd have to break down the game film, to be sure, but how many of those passes were tipped at the line? How many of those passes were throwaways because no receivers were open? How many times did he put the ball out of reach to avoid a sack?"
He was getting really worked up, now.
"So, to go back to our magic number of 64, in order to be successful, we've got to what, hit on at least 48 of those plays? To what degree is it a success? Is gaining 8 yards on third and five any more successful than gaining the needed five? Should Tommy have stopped on his TD run on fourth and four, in order to get more opportunities for success or failure? Yeah, you can sit there and break things down, we're we good on half the plays? One-quarter? One-eighth? That's not how we, as coaches look at it man. We don't have time to worry about whose nit to pick. It's like, ok, that sucked. Call the next play."
"But isn't it the coaches job to put the players in positions that give them opportunities to succeed?"
"Maan, this is just getting so quantum, maan. I mean like Schrodinger's cat, maan. That's what every single play is, you dig? You have a vision of how the play is designed to work. Every player has to do their part. You look in the box to see if the cat is alive or dead. At the moment you grab the lid, it is both, maan. Trippy, I know. At every snap of the ball, we're grabbing the lid. There are an infinite number of possibilities with every single play. You try to minimize the possibilities by having your 11 guys do their job while at the same time recognizing that the other side has 11 guys trying to prevent yours from doing what they need to do."
He suddenly flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head. His eyes were bulging out.
"I have the perfect example of what I'm talking about. 4th and goal from inside Purdue's one yard line. I called exactly the same play we picked up the first down earlier in the drive, because I knew we had an advantage on that side of the line, and I've got Ameer, maan. Small probability effect 1: Pelini rockets the ball right at Tommy's grill. Small probability effect 2: Tommy can't get a hold of the ball, and Ameer tries to scoop it up and plunge it into the endzone. Small Probability effect 3: because Ameer is on the ground, lunging toward the endzone, he gets a great big, 300 pound defensive fat-ass, falling on his leg, spraining his knee. That's three dead cats, maan. If the first cat had been alive, we don't even need to open the lids on the other two."
My head was starting to swim. Maybe the caffeine and sugar rush from the pop was kicking in. Maybe the proximity to what was quite clearly, madness was seeping into me. I had to wrap this up.
"So, In a nutshell, how would you define a successful game?" I asked.
"Are you kidding me, maan? Just look at the final score. We put more points on the board than the other guy. That's not rocket science. That's not complicated. It's the big picture, man. With what I do, its like that painting made up of all the dots, Sunday Afternoon on La Grand Jatte. When you step back, you've got a beautiful picture. Any win is a beautiful picture. It's when you get close up to it that you start to see all the little things that make it up. I'm sure there are critics that try to hammer Seurat with why he put that red dot over that blue dot, and how he probably should have not put so much blue on the monkey's tail and shit like that. Look at the big picture, maan. A win, a 21-point win over a conference opponent. I don't know, maan, does this help you get the vibe, at all?"
Nope. Not really.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Interview With Beck
From the Files of Lloyd
Meeting/Interview with Tim Beck, Offensive Coordinator, Nebraska
2 Nov 14
I got the chance to talk to Tim Beck. He's been under a lot of criticism lately, and I wanted to get a chance to really get his thoughts on the matter. His responses in the local fishwrap and the nightly news have been too, circumspect, too tightly wound and delivered. I don't think the average fan is getting to see the real Tim Beck.
I called in a favor. I helped him out with a little COINTELPRO operation that makes 'Spy-Gate' for the Patriots look like an episode of 'I Spy'. Not saying when or where it happened.
I rolled to the rendezvous point. The local Kiddie Kasino on a school day is a great location. If you go to the upstairs area, you can survey anyone coming in, not that anyone does, and if anyone does come in, they are usually too focused on the flashing lights and the machines vomiting tickets to pay too much attention to anyone else.
I grabbed a couple slices of Vals (bleh) and pop and sat him down. He was agitated, not his normal, 'I'm too busy to do this' agitation. He was looking as wound up as an old, 50's alien invasion robot toy and the spring was pulling on its housing. One more twist of the key, and Kapow.
"So, Timmy, what's going on?" I asked in a clear, cool voice. I didn't want to be the one to push him over.
"You know what, maan," he rasped. "This is the part of the job that sucks. You know what I mean?"
"No. What sucks?"
"We go out there, maan. My guys. We drop 35 points on Purdue. We Drop 42 on Rutgers and it's not good enough. Can't win, maan, you dig?"
"Well, they did look kind of sloppy in both games."
"You don't think I know that. Man, I got the best god-damned view in the house. I see stuff, maan, I see everything, dig?"
"I get that. You know, the fans--"
"The fans?" he spat. "You mean those jack-offs who sit around drinking their red beers and maybe devote a half-hour a day, make that an hour if they listen to Jack-Off and Suck-Me on the local sports radio show. Those guys, who think that because they've been sitting on their asses, flipping through the dial every Saturday, all of a sudden become gurus of football. Those guys?"
"Well, yeah. But my point--"
"Those guys can blow me. I'm out there, every freaking day, maan. Every day. You think I know what Mark Pelini does on game-day that makes it so he can't snap the fuckin' ball right. Never does it in practice. Never. Snaps as beautiful as you'll see. He's like John freakin' Fitzgerald in practice."
"John Fitzgerald?"
"Center for the Cowboys in the 70's. Shotgun City, baby."
"Oh. OK. But what about the play-calling?"
"Oh, maan, the play-calling. Some people are just never satisfied. Every time a play doesn't go right, it's my fault. I hear it, maan. Those same arm-chair coordinators are screaming at their fuckin' TV's every time I call a play that doesn't work out. I got two things to say about that. Every play. Every single play has got 11 kids that have to do enough to make it work. On the other side there are 11 kids doing their damndest to stop it. Then I've got a guy over in the other press box who is trying to keep his job by making me try to do my best. Riddle me this, maan. If Tommy sees Kenny on that pass that he threw to his bff, and Kenny takes it to the end-zone, then I'm a freakin' genius, right? But, noooo, Tommy misses, incomplete. And I'm the moron. I cant go out there and throw the fuckin' ball for him."
"What was the other thing?"
"Complaining about the O.C. is treated as a birthright, in Nebraska. Look into it, maan. Old-school La-Z-Boy coaches screamed at the T.V. whenever Tom (all praise be to his name) would run the option to the short side of the field...and it didn't work. I'm sure Billy Sodbuster, in Alda, used to pound the radio in his combine every time it was 3rd and greater than 15 and Tom (glory to his highest) would call the god-damned draw play."
"You have to admit, though, the yardage hasn't --"
"Fuck yards. The only people who cite yard stats are fantasy Jack-Offs and people who really don't get it."
"Get what?"
"Points is what wins the game. Points. If I get the ball at my own five, drive it all the way down to the opponent's five and come away with nothing, that is a failure. If I get the ball at their 20, and punch it in on the very next play, that is success. In one drive I get 90 yards. Big fuckin' deal, maan. That and three bucks will get me a mocha. Whoop-de-fuckin' do. In the other, I get points, seven of them. Look at it this way, maan. You're going to the moon. If you land on the moon, you're awesome. If you don't, nobody looks at the 238,000 miles you travelled and gives you a consolation prize. You don't get 4 points for getting into the red-zone."
"Some people point at the compensation--"
"Stop right there, maan. Yes, I get 700K to do what I do. I've got a good agent and a good sense of self worth. There are 120 guys with my job description. Narrow that down to the what, 66 guys in the power five conferences. Narrow that further to the 20 or so guys who are expected to keep their teams in the hunt, every single year. I figure I'm worth it, maan. Hell, I think the 700K might not be enough tom put up with all the bullshit. Maybe I should take that Kansas gig. I could get more cash, and have lower expectations."
"You don't think the expectations, here, are justified?"
"Expectations? Here? Justified? You tell me. A win isn't good enough. A good, win, 20+ points isn't good enough. Every little aspect is picked over and the fans forget that football is a dynamic, fluid game. Weird shit happens. I get that part, I know they want the best, but there are some fans out there that wouldn't be happy if we blew out Wisconsin by 50 points and I arranged a orgy with the cheerleaders for them."
The pizza was getting cold and the pop was getting low. I wanted to continue the conversation.
Part 2 to follow.
Meeting/Interview with Tim Beck, Offensive Coordinator, Nebraska
2 Nov 14
I got the chance to talk to Tim Beck. He's been under a lot of criticism lately, and I wanted to get a chance to really get his thoughts on the matter. His responses in the local fishwrap and the nightly news have been too, circumspect, too tightly wound and delivered. I don't think the average fan is getting to see the real Tim Beck.
I called in a favor. I helped him out with a little COINTELPRO operation that makes 'Spy-Gate' for the Patriots look like an episode of 'I Spy'. Not saying when or where it happened.
I rolled to the rendezvous point. The local Kiddie Kasino on a school day is a great location. If you go to the upstairs area, you can survey anyone coming in, not that anyone does, and if anyone does come in, they are usually too focused on the flashing lights and the machines vomiting tickets to pay too much attention to anyone else.
I grabbed a couple slices of Vals (bleh) and pop and sat him down. He was agitated, not his normal, 'I'm too busy to do this' agitation. He was looking as wound up as an old, 50's alien invasion robot toy and the spring was pulling on its housing. One more twist of the key, and Kapow.
"So, Timmy, what's going on?" I asked in a clear, cool voice. I didn't want to be the one to push him over.
"You know what, maan," he rasped. "This is the part of the job that sucks. You know what I mean?"
"No. What sucks?"
"We go out there, maan. My guys. We drop 35 points on Purdue. We Drop 42 on Rutgers and it's not good enough. Can't win, maan, you dig?"
"Well, they did look kind of sloppy in both games."
"You don't think I know that. Man, I got the best god-damned view in the house. I see stuff, maan, I see everything, dig?"
"I get that. You know, the fans--"
"The fans?" he spat. "You mean those jack-offs who sit around drinking their red beers and maybe devote a half-hour a day, make that an hour if they listen to Jack-Off and Suck-Me on the local sports radio show. Those guys, who think that because they've been sitting on their asses, flipping through the dial every Saturday, all of a sudden become gurus of football. Those guys?"
"Well, yeah. But my point--"
"Those guys can blow me. I'm out there, every freaking day, maan. Every day. You think I know what Mark Pelini does on game-day that makes it so he can't snap the fuckin' ball right. Never does it in practice. Never. Snaps as beautiful as you'll see. He's like John freakin' Fitzgerald in practice."
"John Fitzgerald?"
"Center for the Cowboys in the 70's. Shotgun City, baby."
"Oh. OK. But what about the play-calling?"
"Oh, maan, the play-calling. Some people are just never satisfied. Every time a play doesn't go right, it's my fault. I hear it, maan. Those same arm-chair coordinators are screaming at their fuckin' TV's every time I call a play that doesn't work out. I got two things to say about that. Every play. Every single play has got 11 kids that have to do enough to make it work. On the other side there are 11 kids doing their damndest to stop it. Then I've got a guy over in the other press box who is trying to keep his job by making me try to do my best. Riddle me this, maan. If Tommy sees Kenny on that pass that he threw to his bff, and Kenny takes it to the end-zone, then I'm a freakin' genius, right? But, noooo, Tommy misses, incomplete. And I'm the moron. I cant go out there and throw the fuckin' ball for him."
"What was the other thing?"
"Complaining about the O.C. is treated as a birthright, in Nebraska. Look into it, maan. Old-school La-Z-Boy coaches screamed at the T.V. whenever Tom (all praise be to his name) would run the option to the short side of the field...and it didn't work. I'm sure Billy Sodbuster, in Alda, used to pound the radio in his combine every time it was 3rd and greater than 15 and Tom (glory to his highest) would call the god-damned draw play."
"You have to admit, though, the yardage hasn't --"
"Fuck yards. The only people who cite yard stats are fantasy Jack-Offs and people who really don't get it."
"Get what?"
"Points is what wins the game. Points. If I get the ball at my own five, drive it all the way down to the opponent's five and come away with nothing, that is a failure. If I get the ball at their 20, and punch it in on the very next play, that is success. In one drive I get 90 yards. Big fuckin' deal, maan. That and three bucks will get me a mocha. Whoop-de-fuckin' do. In the other, I get points, seven of them. Look at it this way, maan. You're going to the moon. If you land on the moon, you're awesome. If you don't, nobody looks at the 238,000 miles you travelled and gives you a consolation prize. You don't get 4 points for getting into the red-zone."
"Some people point at the compensation--"
"Stop right there, maan. Yes, I get 700K to do what I do. I've got a good agent and a good sense of self worth. There are 120 guys with my job description. Narrow that down to the what, 66 guys in the power five conferences. Narrow that further to the 20 or so guys who are expected to keep their teams in the hunt, every single year. I figure I'm worth it, maan. Hell, I think the 700K might not be enough tom put up with all the bullshit. Maybe I should take that Kansas gig. I could get more cash, and have lower expectations."
"You don't think the expectations, here, are justified?"
"Expectations? Here? Justified? You tell me. A win isn't good enough. A good, win, 20+ points isn't good enough. Every little aspect is picked over and the fans forget that football is a dynamic, fluid game. Weird shit happens. I get that part, I know they want the best, but there are some fans out there that wouldn't be happy if we blew out Wisconsin by 50 points and I arranged a orgy with the cheerleaders for them."
The pizza was getting cold and the pop was getting low. I wanted to continue the conversation.
Part 2 to follow.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Playing with the competition
Little Ricky Brewer wanted to know what I was up to. If Hoodie was smart, and I had already established he was about as sharp as a ball of play-dough, he would confess to his cover getting blown and asked to be re-assigned.
I had called Lloyd to let him know that an operative was keeping tabs on him. He knew and was currently messing with him.
Lloyd had spotted his tail, earlier. Once he knew he had hooked the guy, he took a nice, slow, leisurely stroll to the nearest Gentleman's Club. Foxy' on O street had been recently remodeled, but Lloyd knew about it's one great feature. Lloyd sauntered in, grabbed a seat at the bar where he could see the entrance. He ordered a drink, Bud Light in a can, I think he said, and struck up a conversation with the lucite-shod dancer who took a moment from strutting on the bar to squat in front of him so she could hear better. 'Sweet Dreams', by the Eurythmics shook the newly installed fixtures.
"So, what's your name?" Lloyd asked, trying to smile, affecting a look that fit right in for a place dedicated to illusion and disillusion.
"Victoria," the dancer said, between chomps of her gum.
"Listen, Victoria." Lloyd oozed. "I'm doing a little project where I'm paying it forward, you know, doing a nice, unexpected thing for a stranger."
"Uh-huh. That's cool," Victoria said blandly, as she performed a few run-of-the-mill thigh exercises. "I don't have to do anything weird, do I."
Lloyd sighed. "No. See this twenty. I am going to put it under my beer can. When I pick it up, I want you to go over to whoever came in last and give them twenty dollars of individual attention. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"
"And I get the money?"
"You can tuck it right into your cute, little g-string, just as soon as I lift the can."
Victoria tossed her hair a couple of times. "OK. I can do that."
Lloyd tried to follow the action of a chat show on the screens that showed Playboy channel, presumably to get guys, 'in the mood'. Victoria circulated the nearly empty bar, taking a dollar from an old codger by squeezing it between her boobs.
The tail finally walked in, before his eyes completely adjusted, Lloyd took a swig of his golden swill. Luckily, Victoria noticed, sidled over, snagged her Andy Jackson, and cruised over to the new arrival.
Lloyd scanned the guy through the darkness. Older guy, late50s, early 60's, greying hair, well groomed, clean shaven, decent attire, suit and tie, off the rack, department store variety. Enough room for a gat in a shoulder rig, but not today.
'Jessie's Girl' became the soundtrack for the unfolding scene.
Lloyd made sure that Victoria engaged the tail. She sidled up to him, put her hand on his shoulder and pressed up against him as he sat at one of the tables. She pushed her boobs in his face and turned her back toward him, and shook her ass in his face.
'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' came on as Victoria sat on the tail's lap, and ground her hips. With him pinned, Lloyd made his move. As Victoria went to town, straddling the guy's legs and leaning in close, almost kissing distance, Loyd headed for the back exit.
Foxy's has a back area for smoking that opens onto an alley. There is a large, not exactly in-shape guy in an orange T-shirt that 'reads Security' stationed by the door to check ID's of those attempting to avail themselves of the more discrete gateway to worn-down Nirvana. Muscle hidden under rolls of muscle is still muscle, and Lloyd decided to sub-let that muscle.
"Hey, Buddy," Lloyd called out. "There's a guy getting pretty handsy with Victoria. And you know her, she won't narc on the guy."
"Where are they" he asked, slowing raising himself to his 6-4 height.
"Up front. Sitting at a table. There's nobody else, here, you cant miss them," Lloyd explained.
As 'Security' trudged off, Lloyd slipped out the back door. Cut down the alley and ducked inside the big liquor store, next door. From there he pretended to peruse the bottles of spirits that stood like willing infantry, ready to sacrifice themselves for a good cause.
Not long after, the tail went by, looking left and right, hoping to pick up Lloyd's trail. He had one hand holding his nose as blood dripped through his fingers and his other hand held a phone to his ear.
That was his story when he told me about it, later. We needed to decide if we should lie low or mess with these guys, The Rickster obviously hadn't invested in the best, but it is awfully difficult to tail yourself.
We decided on a campaign of misdirection and good, old-fashioned bore them into submission. I was betting that Ricky-boy didn't have the patience to get a weekly report of bupkus. Lloyd and I could play it cool.
I still needed to find out what Betty knew. I called her and told her to bring a friend, preferably one that looked a lot like her.
She told me that she hoped I didn't have anything weird, planned. I told her, not this time, but if she played her cards right...
I sat back and waited. The desk bottle was volunteering for a suicide mission. I left the lights off as the shadows lengthened in the office. The blinds made patterns that looked like yard-lines on the floor. I was trying to wrap my head around Rebecca's information, and the lack of progress that running countermeasures had forced on me. I wasn't quite sure if we had peeled into another layer of the onion, or if the onion was just fighting back.
Betty and her friend, Jessica, showed up. Betty was wearing a red Husker sweatshirt, jeans and a Huskers ball-cap with her hair pulled into a pony tail, threaded through the back of the hat. Jessica had a blue Royals t-shirt, Royals hat and jeans; she was really representing. I couldn't have arranged a better wardrobe for what I had planned.
"Betty," I said. "after you let me know what you've found out, you and Jessica, here, get to run the old switcheroo play."
"Sounds fun," Betty said. Jessica looked less enthusiastic.
I had called Lloyd to let him know that an operative was keeping tabs on him. He knew and was currently messing with him.
Lloyd had spotted his tail, earlier. Once he knew he had hooked the guy, he took a nice, slow, leisurely stroll to the nearest Gentleman's Club. Foxy' on O street had been recently remodeled, but Lloyd knew about it's one great feature. Lloyd sauntered in, grabbed a seat at the bar where he could see the entrance. He ordered a drink, Bud Light in a can, I think he said, and struck up a conversation with the lucite-shod dancer who took a moment from strutting on the bar to squat in front of him so she could hear better. 'Sweet Dreams', by the Eurythmics shook the newly installed fixtures.
"So, what's your name?" Lloyd asked, trying to smile, affecting a look that fit right in for a place dedicated to illusion and disillusion.
"Victoria," the dancer said, between chomps of her gum.
"Listen, Victoria." Lloyd oozed. "I'm doing a little project where I'm paying it forward, you know, doing a nice, unexpected thing for a stranger."
"Uh-huh. That's cool," Victoria said blandly, as she performed a few run-of-the-mill thigh exercises. "I don't have to do anything weird, do I."
Lloyd sighed. "No. See this twenty. I am going to put it under my beer can. When I pick it up, I want you to go over to whoever came in last and give them twenty dollars of individual attention. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"
"And I get the money?"
"You can tuck it right into your cute, little g-string, just as soon as I lift the can."
Victoria tossed her hair a couple of times. "OK. I can do that."
Lloyd tried to follow the action of a chat show on the screens that showed Playboy channel, presumably to get guys, 'in the mood'. Victoria circulated the nearly empty bar, taking a dollar from an old codger by squeezing it between her boobs.
The tail finally walked in, before his eyes completely adjusted, Lloyd took a swig of his golden swill. Luckily, Victoria noticed, sidled over, snagged her Andy Jackson, and cruised over to the new arrival.
Lloyd scanned the guy through the darkness. Older guy, late50s, early 60's, greying hair, well groomed, clean shaven, decent attire, suit and tie, off the rack, department store variety. Enough room for a gat in a shoulder rig, but not today.
'Jessie's Girl' became the soundtrack for the unfolding scene.
Lloyd made sure that Victoria engaged the tail. She sidled up to him, put her hand on his shoulder and pressed up against him as he sat at one of the tables. She pushed her boobs in his face and turned her back toward him, and shook her ass in his face.
'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' came on as Victoria sat on the tail's lap, and ground her hips. With him pinned, Lloyd made his move. As Victoria went to town, straddling the guy's legs and leaning in close, almost kissing distance, Loyd headed for the back exit.
Foxy's has a back area for smoking that opens onto an alley. There is a large, not exactly in-shape guy in an orange T-shirt that 'reads Security' stationed by the door to check ID's of those attempting to avail themselves of the more discrete gateway to worn-down Nirvana. Muscle hidden under rolls of muscle is still muscle, and Lloyd decided to sub-let that muscle.
"Hey, Buddy," Lloyd called out. "There's a guy getting pretty handsy with Victoria. And you know her, she won't narc on the guy."
"Where are they" he asked, slowing raising himself to his 6-4 height.
"Up front. Sitting at a table. There's nobody else, here, you cant miss them," Lloyd explained.
As 'Security' trudged off, Lloyd slipped out the back door. Cut down the alley and ducked inside the big liquor store, next door. From there he pretended to peruse the bottles of spirits that stood like willing infantry, ready to sacrifice themselves for a good cause.
Not long after, the tail went by, looking left and right, hoping to pick up Lloyd's trail. He had one hand holding his nose as blood dripped through his fingers and his other hand held a phone to his ear.
That was his story when he told me about it, later. We needed to decide if we should lie low or mess with these guys, The Rickster obviously hadn't invested in the best, but it is awfully difficult to tail yourself.
We decided on a campaign of misdirection and good, old-fashioned bore them into submission. I was betting that Ricky-boy didn't have the patience to get a weekly report of bupkus. Lloyd and I could play it cool.
I still needed to find out what Betty knew. I called her and told her to bring a friend, preferably one that looked a lot like her.
She told me that she hoped I didn't have anything weird, planned. I told her, not this time, but if she played her cards right...
I sat back and waited. The desk bottle was volunteering for a suicide mission. I left the lights off as the shadows lengthened in the office. The blinds made patterns that looked like yard-lines on the floor. I was trying to wrap my head around Rebecca's information, and the lack of progress that running countermeasures had forced on me. I wasn't quite sure if we had peeled into another layer of the onion, or if the onion was just fighting back.
Betty and her friend, Jessica, showed up. Betty was wearing a red Husker sweatshirt, jeans and a Huskers ball-cap with her hair pulled into a pony tail, threaded through the back of the hat. Jessica had a blue Royals t-shirt, Royals hat and jeans; she was really representing. I couldn't have arranged a better wardrobe for what I had planned.
"Betty," I said. "after you let me know what you've found out, you and Jessica, here, get to run the old switcheroo play."
"Sounds fun," Betty said. Jessica looked less enthusiastic.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Nebraska 38, Northwestern 17
From the files of Lloyd.
18 Oct., 2014
Chicago, IL
The Kirkwood Bar.
There is a really cool bar, in North Chicago. They proudly display their Husker pride with flags, drink specials, and lots of fans. If you're in the area, stay in Chicago to watch the game. Evanston is a nice, quaint little town, grafted onto the north end of a major metropolis like an experiment gone awry. Snooty, smarty pants, rich kids go to Northwestern, surrounded by a town that that prides itself on its blue collar history and attitude. Chicagoans feel that Northwestern doesn't quite fit in, doesn't quite make the cut. Northwestern has soft hands from counting money all its life.
Except when it comes to football. NU is way better than Illinois. Northern Illinois has had some recent success, but the bandwagoners are far too obvious. So, for a few months each year, Chicago puts aside its issues with the smart kids, the tax-free status of lakefront property, and enjoys some decent football.
Northwestern looks at Chicago like the dude trying desperately to fit in. He's trying, but a clip-on tie and short-sleeved button-down shirt does not belie sophistication and urbanity.
1800
The game is about to start. It has been a long day of waiting. I got to the bar when it opened in order to get a good seat. I've been pacing myself and I have a deal with Jenny, the waitress, that she will stand guard over my table when I have to go pee. She indulges me. The extra dollar I give her whenever she brings my drink is a small inducement, but inducement, nonetheless.
1835
Kickoff, finally. Ryan field is about half-red. The other half is purple, so it looks like some old ladies' book club gathering, but not as loud.
Huskers get the ball first. Northwestern loads the box to stop Ameer, just like MSU. Tommy connects with Kenny a couple of times. Drive sputters, a couple of drops kills it. Foltz puts the punt inside the 20. Lets see what the defense can do.
I'm starting to think we need to make a deal with opposing teams. We spot you seven points and in return we get the ball twice and run 3:00 off the clock. Had them on their initial third down. Missed a tackle, leaky yards. Northwestern has a freshman, Justin Jackson, that will be awesome in a couple of years. He's good, now, but bulk him up a little bit and get him some experience and he will be a threat. The Wildcats go 89 yards in 15 plays, converting twice on 3rd down.
Huskers get the ball back. Ameer is still struggling to get going. Wet grass, that may have been left to get a bit longer seems to be bothering Nebraska more than Northwestern. Decent drive, 8 plays, 47 yards, but Kenny whiffed on a third down pass. Field goal has the distance but is wide. Still 7-0 and game is beginning to feel like MSU part deux.
After an exchange of 3 & Outs, Northwestern almost seized control of the game. Husker pressure forced Siemien out of the pocket, he tried to slide under Zaire. Zaire lowered his head. No flag. Next play, make-up call. Nathan Gerry gets flag for a ticky-tack unnecessary roughness call. It wouldn't have drawn a flag if Northwestern had man-sized receivers. Northwestern goes for the kill. Deep throw into triple coverage, Gerry comes up with the pick in the end zone. Crisis averted. The offense needs to find a spark.
Local boy, Jordan Westerkamp, sparks the drive, 23 yard reception. Ameer gets going. A penalty helps, Tommy takes it down to the one. Ameer surges in. After the kick. New game, please.
The punters duel for the next four possessions. Huskers keep getting the ball in good field position, but cant do anything. Wildcats get the ball in bad field position and ipso-ipso.
Justin Jackson goes off. Wildcats do everything right. Jackson has runs of 11, 11, 12 and 5 yards. The 5-yarder goes into the endzone with a spin move that MItchell is still trying to figure out. NU up 14-7. Just over two minutes left in the half.
De'Mornay Pierson-El goes to Texas. Tommy throws to P-El for 46 yards. Then Tommy throws to Ameer for 11. On first down, Tommy gets the 'Texas' call. Tommy hands to Newby, who sweeps left while P-El, reverses right. Newby pitches to P-El. P-El lofts a floater to a wide open Tommy, who catches it, and dances into the end zone. 14-up. New game, again.
Northwestern isn't quite finished, yet. Passes and penalties bring the Cats inside the 20. The defense makes a stand, forces a field goal. Wildcats up 17-14 as capering Pat Fitzgerald cheerleads his team into the locker room.
The murmuring. The hushed tones. Funerary atmosphere. 'We've always been a second half team'. 'I hope the coaches can adjust'. 'After a bye week. Really?' 'Didn't we used to blow teams like this out?'
Patience, Huskerfan, patience. Old Man Lloyd, here has seen a lot of Husker ball games. He can cite numerous examples of a first half not quite living to expectations. Halftime is when the coaches do adjust and have done so. The other team adjusts, too, though. A team 'like this'. What does that even mean? If we're talking Northwestern circa 1983, when the students had a cheer that went, 'that's all right, that's ok, you will work for us one day,' every time the opposition scored, then yes. This Northwestern isn't that Northwestern, and hasn't been for about 20 years. The Northwestern coach, Pat Fitzgerald, played in a Rose Bowl, while at Northwestern. We're 2-1 against them since joining the B1G. All three of those games coming down to the last minute. They're a good opponent, don't kid yourself.
18 Oct. 2014
2045
The second half gets going.
The defense finds its groove. More pressure. Better pursuit. Justin Jackson not finding as much room. Wildcats go 3 & Out. Nebraska moves. Tommy throws a near pick that the DB drops. Instead Huskers get to punt. Cats still lead 17-14. Time is slipping away.
Another 3 & Out for the D. Tommy gets it going. 55 yard drive on eleven plays. Three third down conversions, all with Tommy in the mix. Two passes on third and long and a run to pick up the first down when no-one was open. Ameer punches it in from the one. Huskers lead for the first time 21-17. Ryan field gets a bit quieter. History has shown that it is far from over. We should have a wild finish.
The Wildcats try to respond. They get a first down and get to midfield before the door gets slammed, again. Another punt, the third of the quarter, sets up the final act.
Moral crusher. Back breaker. Life stealer. 77 yards in seven plays will do that. The big one has Ameer breaking free for a 50-yard run. He punches it in on the next play. The Wildcat defense has been unhinged, worn down, eroded. it is now 28-17, in the fourth. Northwestern must respond or it is over.
They don't. Another 3 & Out and The Huskers get the ball back before the Wildcat defense has a chance to catch it's breath. It shows. Nebraska goes old school. Nine plays, 55 yards. All on the ground. Tommy leaping from the five and getting the ball across the plane. The refs disagree. They want to see Ameer score his fourth TD, instead. 35-17. It is done, but time remains.
Another 3 & O for the Cats. A punt and P-El returns it to the 19. A less than stellar drive results in a field goal. Huskers up 38-17.
The clock winds down in garbage time. Nebraska gets backups in. Pat Fitzgerald looks sad. Ryan field is half empty. The half full crowd is chanting 'Go Big Red' over and over. A tough win and a good win for Nebraska. The bad taste of the MSU loss kind of wiped away. 6-1, now.
Looking ahead, Nebraska has to play Rutgers, Purdue, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa. None of them a particularly scary. None are exactly pushovers, either. All are winnable. Wisconsin has the best threat in Melvin Gordon, but Northwestern held them to 14 points. Minnesota is on a roll, but they have to come to Lincoln and won a squeaker with Purdue. The stage is set for a re-match with MSU, so I have to go for Sparta to win out, too.
Time to melt into the night before things start to freeze.
18 Oct., 2014
Chicago, IL
The Kirkwood Bar.
There is a really cool bar, in North Chicago. They proudly display their Husker pride with flags, drink specials, and lots of fans. If you're in the area, stay in Chicago to watch the game. Evanston is a nice, quaint little town, grafted onto the north end of a major metropolis like an experiment gone awry. Snooty, smarty pants, rich kids go to Northwestern, surrounded by a town that that prides itself on its blue collar history and attitude. Chicagoans feel that Northwestern doesn't quite fit in, doesn't quite make the cut. Northwestern has soft hands from counting money all its life.
Except when it comes to football. NU is way better than Illinois. Northern Illinois has had some recent success, but the bandwagoners are far too obvious. So, for a few months each year, Chicago puts aside its issues with the smart kids, the tax-free status of lakefront property, and enjoys some decent football.
Northwestern looks at Chicago like the dude trying desperately to fit in. He's trying, but a clip-on tie and short-sleeved button-down shirt does not belie sophistication and urbanity.
1800
The game is about to start. It has been a long day of waiting. I got to the bar when it opened in order to get a good seat. I've been pacing myself and I have a deal with Jenny, the waitress, that she will stand guard over my table when I have to go pee. She indulges me. The extra dollar I give her whenever she brings my drink is a small inducement, but inducement, nonetheless.
1835
Kickoff, finally. Ryan field is about half-red. The other half is purple, so it looks like some old ladies' book club gathering, but not as loud.
Huskers get the ball first. Northwestern loads the box to stop Ameer, just like MSU. Tommy connects with Kenny a couple of times. Drive sputters, a couple of drops kills it. Foltz puts the punt inside the 20. Lets see what the defense can do.
I'm starting to think we need to make a deal with opposing teams. We spot you seven points and in return we get the ball twice and run 3:00 off the clock. Had them on their initial third down. Missed a tackle, leaky yards. Northwestern has a freshman, Justin Jackson, that will be awesome in a couple of years. He's good, now, but bulk him up a little bit and get him some experience and he will be a threat. The Wildcats go 89 yards in 15 plays, converting twice on 3rd down.
Huskers get the ball back. Ameer is still struggling to get going. Wet grass, that may have been left to get a bit longer seems to be bothering Nebraska more than Northwestern. Decent drive, 8 plays, 47 yards, but Kenny whiffed on a third down pass. Field goal has the distance but is wide. Still 7-0 and game is beginning to feel like MSU part deux.
After an exchange of 3 & Outs, Northwestern almost seized control of the game. Husker pressure forced Siemien out of the pocket, he tried to slide under Zaire. Zaire lowered his head. No flag. Next play, make-up call. Nathan Gerry gets flag for a ticky-tack unnecessary roughness call. It wouldn't have drawn a flag if Northwestern had man-sized receivers. Northwestern goes for the kill. Deep throw into triple coverage, Gerry comes up with the pick in the end zone. Crisis averted. The offense needs to find a spark.
Local boy, Jordan Westerkamp, sparks the drive, 23 yard reception. Ameer gets going. A penalty helps, Tommy takes it down to the one. Ameer surges in. After the kick. New game, please.
The punters duel for the next four possessions. Huskers keep getting the ball in good field position, but cant do anything. Wildcats get the ball in bad field position and ipso-ipso.
Justin Jackson goes off. Wildcats do everything right. Jackson has runs of 11, 11, 12 and 5 yards. The 5-yarder goes into the endzone with a spin move that MItchell is still trying to figure out. NU up 14-7. Just over two minutes left in the half.
De'Mornay Pierson-El goes to Texas. Tommy throws to P-El for 46 yards. Then Tommy throws to Ameer for 11. On first down, Tommy gets the 'Texas' call. Tommy hands to Newby, who sweeps left while P-El, reverses right. Newby pitches to P-El. P-El lofts a floater to a wide open Tommy, who catches it, and dances into the end zone. 14-up. New game, again.
Northwestern isn't quite finished, yet. Passes and penalties bring the Cats inside the 20. The defense makes a stand, forces a field goal. Wildcats up 17-14 as capering Pat Fitzgerald cheerleads his team into the locker room.
The murmuring. The hushed tones. Funerary atmosphere. 'We've always been a second half team'. 'I hope the coaches can adjust'. 'After a bye week. Really?' 'Didn't we used to blow teams like this out?'
Patience, Huskerfan, patience. Old Man Lloyd, here has seen a lot of Husker ball games. He can cite numerous examples of a first half not quite living to expectations. Halftime is when the coaches do adjust and have done so. The other team adjusts, too, though. A team 'like this'. What does that even mean? If we're talking Northwestern circa 1983, when the students had a cheer that went, 'that's all right, that's ok, you will work for us one day,' every time the opposition scored, then yes. This Northwestern isn't that Northwestern, and hasn't been for about 20 years. The Northwestern coach, Pat Fitzgerald, played in a Rose Bowl, while at Northwestern. We're 2-1 against them since joining the B1G. All three of those games coming down to the last minute. They're a good opponent, don't kid yourself.
18 Oct. 2014
2045
The second half gets going.
The defense finds its groove. More pressure. Better pursuit. Justin Jackson not finding as much room. Wildcats go 3 & Out. Nebraska moves. Tommy throws a near pick that the DB drops. Instead Huskers get to punt. Cats still lead 17-14. Time is slipping away.
Another 3 & Out for the D. Tommy gets it going. 55 yard drive on eleven plays. Three third down conversions, all with Tommy in the mix. Two passes on third and long and a run to pick up the first down when no-one was open. Ameer punches it in from the one. Huskers lead for the first time 21-17. Ryan field gets a bit quieter. History has shown that it is far from over. We should have a wild finish.
The Wildcats try to respond. They get a first down and get to midfield before the door gets slammed, again. Another punt, the third of the quarter, sets up the final act.
Moral crusher. Back breaker. Life stealer. 77 yards in seven plays will do that. The big one has Ameer breaking free for a 50-yard run. He punches it in on the next play. The Wildcat defense has been unhinged, worn down, eroded. it is now 28-17, in the fourth. Northwestern must respond or it is over.
They don't. Another 3 & Out and The Huskers get the ball back before the Wildcat defense has a chance to catch it's breath. It shows. Nebraska goes old school. Nine plays, 55 yards. All on the ground. Tommy leaping from the five and getting the ball across the plane. The refs disagree. They want to see Ameer score his fourth TD, instead. 35-17. It is done, but time remains.
Another 3 & O for the Cats. A punt and P-El returns it to the 19. A less than stellar drive results in a field goal. Huskers up 38-17.
The clock winds down in garbage time. Nebraska gets backups in. Pat Fitzgerald looks sad. Ryan field is half empty. The half full crowd is chanting 'Go Big Red' over and over. A tough win and a good win for Nebraska. The bad taste of the MSU loss kind of wiped away. 6-1, now.
Looking ahead, Nebraska has to play Rutgers, Purdue, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa. None of them a particularly scary. None are exactly pushovers, either. All are winnable. Wisconsin has the best threat in Melvin Gordon, but Northwestern held them to 14 points. Minnesota is on a roll, but they have to come to Lincoln and won a squeaker with Purdue. The stage is set for a re-match with MSU, so I have to go for Sparta to win out, too.
Time to melt into the night before things start to freeze.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Busy during the bye-week
While it might have been a bye-week for the team, I was able to keep busy. We had a name to go on, now, and confirming whether or not she was a student at dear, mold, Nebraska U was pretty straightforward. The Student Directory is but a quick jaunt through the Student Union.
Computer labs and video games, big-screen HD TVs in order to catch up on the soaps without having to go all the way back to the dorm, a quick nosh if your in the mood for BK or Subway. The bookstore, downstairs is always a good place to browse or lurk, or kill time.
The student directory is a time-honored bit of old-fashioned low-tech. It's like a mini phonebook that lists students, their majors, their residence if they're on campus and phone numbers if they opt in. Most don't opt in, anymore. Too many creepers and weirdos like me who want the information for less than legitimate reasons. I just wanted to see if we had an Elpis Smith listed and what info she shared.
I popped the little book open and started scanning the Smiths. There were quite a few, shockingly. I slid my finger along the margin; Ebony...Eden...Elmer...Emily...Emma...Emma...Enoch....Damn. Back to the top of the Smiths, and I found seven E. Smiths. I checked the corresponding majors, two English, one History, one Philosophy, two Business, and one Chemical Engineering. Bingo. If this was the right E. Smith, she was listed in 984 Selleck Hall. Selleck, nice. I flipped the book closed and went outside to make a call to Betty, the theme to Magnum, P.I. in my head. Magnum had the sweetest P.I. gig of all time.
I rang up Betty. Voicemail. Shit, she was probably in class. I told her what I had found out, and that I was in town and to give me a call when she got some free time. With nothing pressing and feeling slightly nostalgic, I decided to wander across the campus. I could cruise over to Oldfather, then over to the stadium, give the Statue of the Huskers tackling the K-State player a high-five, and do some shopping at the over-priced Husker Gear outlet across the street from the Stadium.
I was a slow-moving island in a sea of academic hustle and bustle. Dudes with backpacks flew past. The tribes of fraternity lads and sorority lassies trooped past in their designated daily uniforms. The Tri-Delts had some sort of jungle-themed joint imminent, and the dark green t-shirts with the silk-screened image and bright yellow Deltas accompanied really tight, really short denim shorts as the clothing du jour. Not gonna lie, no strong objection noted to the shorts.
The professors looked the same. Not the same people, just the same look, rumpled, harried, more concerned about getting published than passing on the knowledge, no matter how arcane or useless off campus.
I had turned to check out some tail-lights, perve-ing on the girlies when I noticed him. A guy who looked too old to be a student, too young to be a dad, keeping a decent tail distance but giving himself away with a hoodie with the hood up. It wasn't that cold and it wasn't that wet. I decided to do a once-twice-thrice check on him.
I spotted a girl approaching me from head-on, I stopped her with my oh-so-polite, "Excuse me, young lady." She stopped. "I think I got turned around here. I told my daughter I'd meet her at Oldfather Hall."
"Now, the guy at the Student Union..." I pointed back toward the Union, and right at Hoodie. Hoodie stopped. Once is a an accident.
I politely thanked the girl and and headed toward the stadium. I approached the statue, it is situated in such a way that one can walk completely around it. I pulled out my phone to take a few snaps, acting all touristy. Hoodie got closer. I expanded the view to zoom in on a detail. I pivoted and took a snap of Hoodie. It was easy, he was frozen about 20 yards away.
Twice is a coincidence.
I picked up my pace and headed toward the south end of the stadium, that way I actually approach closer to Hoodie, but not directly. If he doesn't know he's been made, by now, hes even dumber than I think. I angle around the Student-Athlete entrance, which projects from the main stadium building, itself. I move at a fast walk. I didn't even glance back as I rounded the corner of the entrance, into a blind spot. He had to have lost sight of me, so I waited.
I didn't have to wait long. Hoodie jogged around the corner, his hood was still up and his peripheral vision was obstructed and his focus was down range. He blew past me and I stepped out, right into his six-o'clock position.
Thrice is an act of war.
I wrapped my left arm around his shoulders, from behind, stuck my fingers from my right hand into his ribs. Hard. "Easy now," I said. You know what this is poking into your ribs, so play nice, and I wont have to play 'justifiable homicide' with my throwdown piece. Got, it?" I hissed into his ear.
He nodded. Nice and slow. "Now," I said. "You are going to tell me who sent you and why."
"Get bent," he spat. "I ain't telling you, shit."
I used the leverage I had and propelled him face-first into the wall. Class must have started, since the area was conveniently empty. "Tough guy, huh. I don't need to rough you up, too bad. Just enough to find out if you are licensed, who you work for, and how badly this will look on your evaluation."
He mumbled something that probably had to do with me and farm animals. It's so tough to understand people when they have their chin pressed into concrete.
I fished his wallet out. I kept my fingers to his ribs and flipped it open. "Michael Dixon. Probationary license with the good folks at Husker Security Services, huh. Your reporting officer will love this story. I give them a call and tell them how badly you screwed up a simple tail-job. Or, you can make me forget how badly you suck at this."
He mumbled something that sounded like, 'How?'
"Tell me who put you on to my scent, and what they want, and my memory begins to get all foggy," I explained in a calm voice.
"All right. All right. I'll tell you. Just let go of me, my face is starting to hurt." He was starting to sound pathetic.
"Nope. I'm not letting go until you spill. I have the advantage, here, bub, and I would hate to have an accidental discharge spray paint the wrong color red all over the pretty stadium."
His shoulder slumped. Surrender. "A dude named Rick Brewer hired us to figure out what you were doing. You and that weird dude, you hang out with. I got assigned to you. My adviser is on the other guy."
"Well, that does make sense. I'm going to let you go, nice and easy. Don't do anything stupid. .45 ACP rounds make an awful fucking mess."
"Ok. We're cool. Nothing stupid. No calls?"
"No calls," I said, hoping he couldn't hear the smile in my voice.
I stepped back and released him. I kept my hand in my pocket. I wanted to maintain the illusion of being armed. It would completely ruin his day to find out he had caved to a literal hand-gun.
I still needed to hear from Betty. Busy, busy day.
Computer labs and video games, big-screen HD TVs in order to catch up on the soaps without having to go all the way back to the dorm, a quick nosh if your in the mood for BK or Subway. The bookstore, downstairs is always a good place to browse or lurk, or kill time.
The student directory is a time-honored bit of old-fashioned low-tech. It's like a mini phonebook that lists students, their majors, their residence if they're on campus and phone numbers if they opt in. Most don't opt in, anymore. Too many creepers and weirdos like me who want the information for less than legitimate reasons. I just wanted to see if we had an Elpis Smith listed and what info she shared.
I popped the little book open and started scanning the Smiths. There were quite a few, shockingly. I slid my finger along the margin; Ebony...Eden...Elmer...Emily...Emma...Emma...Enoch....Damn. Back to the top of the Smiths, and I found seven E. Smiths. I checked the corresponding majors, two English, one History, one Philosophy, two Business, and one Chemical Engineering. Bingo. If this was the right E. Smith, she was listed in 984 Selleck Hall. Selleck, nice. I flipped the book closed and went outside to make a call to Betty, the theme to Magnum, P.I. in my head. Magnum had the sweetest P.I. gig of all time.
I rang up Betty. Voicemail. Shit, she was probably in class. I told her what I had found out, and that I was in town and to give me a call when she got some free time. With nothing pressing and feeling slightly nostalgic, I decided to wander across the campus. I could cruise over to Oldfather, then over to the stadium, give the Statue of the Huskers tackling the K-State player a high-five, and do some shopping at the over-priced Husker Gear outlet across the street from the Stadium.
I was a slow-moving island in a sea of academic hustle and bustle. Dudes with backpacks flew past. The tribes of fraternity lads and sorority lassies trooped past in their designated daily uniforms. The Tri-Delts had some sort of jungle-themed joint imminent, and the dark green t-shirts with the silk-screened image and bright yellow Deltas accompanied really tight, really short denim shorts as the clothing du jour. Not gonna lie, no strong objection noted to the shorts.
The professors looked the same. Not the same people, just the same look, rumpled, harried, more concerned about getting published than passing on the knowledge, no matter how arcane or useless off campus.
I had turned to check out some tail-lights, perve-ing on the girlies when I noticed him. A guy who looked too old to be a student, too young to be a dad, keeping a decent tail distance but giving himself away with a hoodie with the hood up. It wasn't that cold and it wasn't that wet. I decided to do a once-twice-thrice check on him.
I spotted a girl approaching me from head-on, I stopped her with my oh-so-polite, "Excuse me, young lady." She stopped. "I think I got turned around here. I told my daughter I'd meet her at Oldfather Hall."
"Now, the guy at the Student Union..." I pointed back toward the Union, and right at Hoodie. Hoodie stopped. Once is a an accident.
I politely thanked the girl and and headed toward the stadium. I approached the statue, it is situated in such a way that one can walk completely around it. I pulled out my phone to take a few snaps, acting all touristy. Hoodie got closer. I expanded the view to zoom in on a detail. I pivoted and took a snap of Hoodie. It was easy, he was frozen about 20 yards away.
Twice is a coincidence.
I picked up my pace and headed toward the south end of the stadium, that way I actually approach closer to Hoodie, but not directly. If he doesn't know he's been made, by now, hes even dumber than I think. I angle around the Student-Athlete entrance, which projects from the main stadium building, itself. I move at a fast walk. I didn't even glance back as I rounded the corner of the entrance, into a blind spot. He had to have lost sight of me, so I waited.
I didn't have to wait long. Hoodie jogged around the corner, his hood was still up and his peripheral vision was obstructed and his focus was down range. He blew past me and I stepped out, right into his six-o'clock position.
Thrice is an act of war.
I wrapped my left arm around his shoulders, from behind, stuck my fingers from my right hand into his ribs. Hard. "Easy now," I said. You know what this is poking into your ribs, so play nice, and I wont have to play 'justifiable homicide' with my throwdown piece. Got, it?" I hissed into his ear.
He nodded. Nice and slow. "Now," I said. "You are going to tell me who sent you and why."
"Get bent," he spat. "I ain't telling you, shit."
I used the leverage I had and propelled him face-first into the wall. Class must have started, since the area was conveniently empty. "Tough guy, huh. I don't need to rough you up, too bad. Just enough to find out if you are licensed, who you work for, and how badly this will look on your evaluation."
He mumbled something that probably had to do with me and farm animals. It's so tough to understand people when they have their chin pressed into concrete.
I fished his wallet out. I kept my fingers to his ribs and flipped it open. "Michael Dixon. Probationary license with the good folks at Husker Security Services, huh. Your reporting officer will love this story. I give them a call and tell them how badly you screwed up a simple tail-job. Or, you can make me forget how badly you suck at this."
He mumbled something that sounded like, 'How?'
"Tell me who put you on to my scent, and what they want, and my memory begins to get all foggy," I explained in a calm voice.
"All right. All right. I'll tell you. Just let go of me, my face is starting to hurt." He was starting to sound pathetic.
"Nope. I'm not letting go until you spill. I have the advantage, here, bub, and I would hate to have an accidental discharge spray paint the wrong color red all over the pretty stadium."
His shoulder slumped. Surrender. "A dude named Rick Brewer hired us to figure out what you were doing. You and that weird dude, you hang out with. I got assigned to you. My adviser is on the other guy."
"Well, that does make sense. I'm going to let you go, nice and easy. Don't do anything stupid. .45 ACP rounds make an awful fucking mess."
"Ok. We're cool. Nothing stupid. No calls?"
"No calls," I said, hoping he couldn't hear the smile in my voice.
I stepped back and released him. I kept my hand in my pocket. I wanted to maintain the illusion of being armed. It would completely ruin his day to find out he had caved to a literal hand-gun.
I still needed to hear from Betty. Busy, busy day.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Rebecca's Key
Lloyd and I were behind the Green Door, again. It's the only place where you could grab a smoke. We were in the alley with Tommy, the stand-up comic for tonight's entertainment. We shared our open-air cell with some local cats that were patrolling for the things they usually find in alleys.
Tommy worked on his act. Lloyd even gave him one of his cigarillos, he needed it. He was worked up and keyed in about his upcoming performance. Lloyd told him about how the army, during the second go-round with the Krauts, recommended burning a cig while under shell fire, to help settle the nerves.
Tommy eyed Lloyd skeptically and looked to me for confirmation.
"Don't look at me," I said, dismissively. "This dude knows more about more weird shit than I know about my own background. It's either true, in which case the calming effects of the nightshade derivative should be helping, soon; or, the stimulant nature of C10H12N2 should be causing a surge of epinephrine, which should have your heart beating faster, your pupils dilating and your brain trying to figure if your going to fight or bugger off."
He flicked the remnants of the cigarillo into a puddle of steadily reducing shoreline from last night's storm. "You guys are weird," he said, as he headed for the stage door.
"We've been called worse," Lloyd said after the latch clicked into place.
"True words," I nodded, "true words".
The phone rang. Rebecca was calling. As soon as I picked up, she said, "You need to leave. There is a bus stop across Clemens Avenue, on the same side of Michigan as that bar, you're in. Meet me there in 5 minutes." She was gone.
I tossed a couple bucks on the table to cover our consumption and pulled Lloyd after me.
The bus stop was in front of an abandoned building that looked like it had been a really boss drive thru in the 50's. After that went bust, a used car dealer had tried to make a go of it. Now, it looked like something ISIS would use as an urban combat training ground. Actually, most of this part of East Lansing looked like that. We got to the stop and didn't have to wait long before a big, forest green, SUV screeched to a halt in front of us. The window powered down and a woman with Rebecca's voice told us to get in.
She pulled away from the curb and started heading back, toward the campus. Rebecca is a compact woman, probably no more than five-five, and the leanness evident along her neck and hands indicated she was in decent shape. The muscles on her arms indicated to me that she lifted things more substantial than a glass of shiraz. Her legs, which extended to the pedals from a professional-looking black skirt, looked like they were the five-mile-a-day variety. Her long, red hair was swept back into a pony tail and her green eyes flashed with every word.
Lloyd was swooning.
"We don't have much time", she said as she kicked up pebbles pulling away from the curb. "Ever since I called you about Jamie, weird stuff has been happening."
This surprised me, a bit. "Weird stuff like what?" I asked.
"The trash guy taking too long with the garbage, on the wrong day, for one. A guy, claiming to be a reporter, calling the sports information office, wanting to interview me about what a trainer really does. That's never happened and I'm not the head trainer. To top it off, I keep seeing this guy on campus who is obviously not a student trying really hard to look like a student. That wouldn't concern me so much except I go to some places on campus that most students don't even have access to."
She was on campus, now, and was navigating around the stadium. I was proud of Lloyd for not shedding a tear at the site of the defeat. "Whoever he is, he's not with us," I explained. "We might have a rival for your attentions." She shot me a look. Sometimes humor works to ease tensions. This time it worked as well as a positive pregnancy test as an April Fool's gag.
She pulled into a parking garage, swiped a card a the gate and the barrier arm lifted. We ascended a few levels and she pulled into a spot. It was beginning to get dark, and I have to admit the trees in Michigan this time of year certainly put on a show. Rebecca looked around, checking to see if traffic was clear. It was.
I was tempted to make a gag about 'Deep Throat", Mark Felt, not the porn Classic, and decided against it.
Rebecca seemed satisfied no-one was watching. "Open the glove box," she directed.
I did. A fat envelope nearly flung itself into my arms like a long-lost love.
"Go ahead, open it," Rebecca directed again. I followed her instructions. It was difficult not to. Inside the envelope were several newspaper clippings, a print-out of a grainy photograph, and several letters from Jamie to Rebecca, dated 1998, but after the disappearance.
The newspaper clippings were from the time of the disappearance and didn't really shed any light on the situation. Another clipping was from the Chicago Trib, it was about a science competition for high school kids. The winner had completed a study on long term atmospheric change on Mars in conjunction with colonization. Rebecca had highlighted the name and age of the second-place award, Elpis Smith, age 12, Evanston, IL.
The photo was tough to make a call on. It was a blow-up of a crowd shot, taken at the game that Rebecca claimed to see Jamie. I had pored over her old pics to know her face pretty well, and the quality of the print-out made me unsure. But it held the possibility of being her.
I held out the letters, "I don't have time to read these, right, now, give me the Reader's Digest version. Why are they included in the packet?"
Rebecca sighed. "When you read them, you will find out for sure why Jamie left. She was pregnant. She either didn't know or wouldn't tell me who the father was. In her last letter to me, which came about six months after she left, she told me she was going to name the baby, Elpis."
"That is an unusual name," I said.
"Greek for hope," Lloyd finally chimed in. "It was the last spirit left in Pandora's box. Elpis"
That's why I let him hang around.
"And Smith is one of the perfect anonymous hidey-out, surnames," I thought aloud, rather than said to anyone in particular.
"This is good stuff," I said to Rebecca, tucking the envelope into my coat. "I just need to know why you didn't come forward with this information, sooner."
Her grip tightened on the wheel. "I figured she knew what she was doing, even though we all would have helped her. I can understand it though, Rick was a complete douche-bag, but that Jim guy she was seeing. Borderline psycho. He had problems, but Jamie couldn't see that."
"That's funny," I said without laughing. "He's our chief of detectives, now."
"Then watch your asses, boys."
Rebecca dropped us off back at our favorite dive where Tommy was dying a slow death on stage. I looked at Lloyd. "Next stop, Evanston?"
Lloyd just nodded. He was staring after the SUV as it disappeared around the corner. He had that look that told me he was either thinking of all the food possibilities in Chicago, or he was imagining Rebecca stabilizing his knee.
I hope it was the food.
Tommy worked on his act. Lloyd even gave him one of his cigarillos, he needed it. He was worked up and keyed in about his upcoming performance. Lloyd told him about how the army, during the second go-round with the Krauts, recommended burning a cig while under shell fire, to help settle the nerves.
Tommy eyed Lloyd skeptically and looked to me for confirmation.
"Don't look at me," I said, dismissively. "This dude knows more about more weird shit than I know about my own background. It's either true, in which case the calming effects of the nightshade derivative should be helping, soon; or, the stimulant nature of C10H12N2 should be causing a surge of epinephrine, which should have your heart beating faster, your pupils dilating and your brain trying to figure if your going to fight or bugger off."
He flicked the remnants of the cigarillo into a puddle of steadily reducing shoreline from last night's storm. "You guys are weird," he said, as he headed for the stage door.
"We've been called worse," Lloyd said after the latch clicked into place.
"True words," I nodded, "true words".
The phone rang. Rebecca was calling. As soon as I picked up, she said, "You need to leave. There is a bus stop across Clemens Avenue, on the same side of Michigan as that bar, you're in. Meet me there in 5 minutes." She was gone.
I tossed a couple bucks on the table to cover our consumption and pulled Lloyd after me.
The bus stop was in front of an abandoned building that looked like it had been a really boss drive thru in the 50's. After that went bust, a used car dealer had tried to make a go of it. Now, it looked like something ISIS would use as an urban combat training ground. Actually, most of this part of East Lansing looked like that. We got to the stop and didn't have to wait long before a big, forest green, SUV screeched to a halt in front of us. The window powered down and a woman with Rebecca's voice told us to get in.
She pulled away from the curb and started heading back, toward the campus. Rebecca is a compact woman, probably no more than five-five, and the leanness evident along her neck and hands indicated she was in decent shape. The muscles on her arms indicated to me that she lifted things more substantial than a glass of shiraz. Her legs, which extended to the pedals from a professional-looking black skirt, looked like they were the five-mile-a-day variety. Her long, red hair was swept back into a pony tail and her green eyes flashed with every word.
Lloyd was swooning.
"We don't have much time", she said as she kicked up pebbles pulling away from the curb. "Ever since I called you about Jamie, weird stuff has been happening."
This surprised me, a bit. "Weird stuff like what?" I asked.
"The trash guy taking too long with the garbage, on the wrong day, for one. A guy, claiming to be a reporter, calling the sports information office, wanting to interview me about what a trainer really does. That's never happened and I'm not the head trainer. To top it off, I keep seeing this guy on campus who is obviously not a student trying really hard to look like a student. That wouldn't concern me so much except I go to some places on campus that most students don't even have access to."
She was on campus, now, and was navigating around the stadium. I was proud of Lloyd for not shedding a tear at the site of the defeat. "Whoever he is, he's not with us," I explained. "We might have a rival for your attentions." She shot me a look. Sometimes humor works to ease tensions. This time it worked as well as a positive pregnancy test as an April Fool's gag.
She pulled into a parking garage, swiped a card a the gate and the barrier arm lifted. We ascended a few levels and she pulled into a spot. It was beginning to get dark, and I have to admit the trees in Michigan this time of year certainly put on a show. Rebecca looked around, checking to see if traffic was clear. It was.
I was tempted to make a gag about 'Deep Throat", Mark Felt, not the porn Classic, and decided against it.
Rebecca seemed satisfied no-one was watching. "Open the glove box," she directed.
I did. A fat envelope nearly flung itself into my arms like a long-lost love.
"Go ahead, open it," Rebecca directed again. I followed her instructions. It was difficult not to. Inside the envelope were several newspaper clippings, a print-out of a grainy photograph, and several letters from Jamie to Rebecca, dated 1998, but after the disappearance.
The newspaper clippings were from the time of the disappearance and didn't really shed any light on the situation. Another clipping was from the Chicago Trib, it was about a science competition for high school kids. The winner had completed a study on long term atmospheric change on Mars in conjunction with colonization. Rebecca had highlighted the name and age of the second-place award, Elpis Smith, age 12, Evanston, IL.
The photo was tough to make a call on. It was a blow-up of a crowd shot, taken at the game that Rebecca claimed to see Jamie. I had pored over her old pics to know her face pretty well, and the quality of the print-out made me unsure. But it held the possibility of being her.
I held out the letters, "I don't have time to read these, right, now, give me the Reader's Digest version. Why are they included in the packet?"
Rebecca sighed. "When you read them, you will find out for sure why Jamie left. She was pregnant. She either didn't know or wouldn't tell me who the father was. In her last letter to me, which came about six months after she left, she told me she was going to name the baby, Elpis."
"That is an unusual name," I said.
"Greek for hope," Lloyd finally chimed in. "It was the last spirit left in Pandora's box. Elpis"
That's why I let him hang around.
"And Smith is one of the perfect anonymous hidey-out, surnames," I thought aloud, rather than said to anyone in particular.
"This is good stuff," I said to Rebecca, tucking the envelope into my coat. "I just need to know why you didn't come forward with this information, sooner."
Her grip tightened on the wheel. "I figured she knew what she was doing, even though we all would have helped her. I can understand it though, Rick was a complete douche-bag, but that Jim guy she was seeing. Borderline psycho. He had problems, but Jamie couldn't see that."
"That's funny," I said without laughing. "He's our chief of detectives, now."
"Then watch your asses, boys."
Rebecca dropped us off back at our favorite dive where Tommy was dying a slow death on stage. I looked at Lloyd. "Next stop, Evanston?"
Lloyd just nodded. He was staring after the SUV as it disappeared around the corner. He had that look that told me he was either thinking of all the food possibilities in Chicago, or he was imagining Rebecca stabilizing his knee.
I hope it was the food.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
MIchigan State, part 1 (of 2?)
From the Files of Lloyd.
4 Oct. 2014
Hyped for this one. This is the biggest game of the year. Win this one, and Nebraska can stake a claim for the top 10. Win this one, and maybe some of those voices about 'mediocrity' and 'lack talent' and 'average' shut the hell up.
The weather is not conducive. It is raining with a howling wind. Cross-fire hurricane. Cold, but not too cold, just cold enough to be another distraction for a team trying to find itself. One team knows what it is. There are cool trophies that there are color pictures of. OK, that's not fair. One team has pictures of trophies that they didn't have to send off to the Foto-Hut to develop.
I'm sitting in a 'Blues' bar in East Lansing. I have no idea why they call themselves a blues bar. There aren't even pictures on the wall of any of the biggies. No Muddy, no Lightning, no Blind Lemon, no Mr. Wolf. The game is on, but on a screen mounted above the bar. I'm trying to watch but some shit-ass cover band called Avon Bomb is on stage, torturing animals. Not accurate. Torturing the fools who came in here expecting a good live act.
Two guys and two girls who just refuse to give up that dream of pop stardom. You just keep reaching, kids. Kids? All four are pushing 40 and denial in a death grip around the throat. Keep playing. Keep singing. Maybe an A&R man will just happen to be in Lansing on a bet or a dare. Yes, the Love Shack is where it's at. Do what you did to 'Shook Me All Night Long' to 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' you'll have a gas-gas-gas all over your ass-ass-ass.
Anyway, the sound track enhances my overall disposition toward barely controlled homicidal rage. Brilliant start to the game. RG4 snags a tipped ball for an INT. Then bupkus. The wind howling into Drews face is enough to make Bo think twice. Punt instead of FG attempt. Um, ok. Gain what, 15 yards of field position with the wind at their backs. OK. That's why your pulling down the 7-figures. Next possession. Defense holds, forces a punt. Very well. What the Fuck call of the night #1. Pierson-El is back to receive the punt. It's coming in hot, P-El is calling off the dogs. Peterpeterpeter, waving his arms in front of him. The ball bounces, seeks love and affection from P-El, nestles into his arms like a forever home. P-El starts to run, he has a lane, if he lights the jets, he will run so fast into the wind, he will achieve lift.
Whistle whistle whistle. Ref: We thought he was calling for a fair catch. Really? Then where's the flag. It is a penalty to signal a fair catch and then run with it. Quite unsportsman-like. Don't worry MSU, the offense has your back. We'll only move the ball a little bit, and then commit a stupid penalty. We're young. We're raw, this is only our 50th game since middle school.
Spartans treating Ameer like Xerxes.
Then the little niggly-ass nit-noy little things that decide games kicks in. Starting corner, Daniel Davie, gets hurt. These things happen. Sparty has a smart coaching staff. Sparty smells blood. Sparty calls a 'go' route right at the newbie who is in for his first play. He has probably heard the coaches tell him, 'they will test you' and 'be ready'. He probably heard them, he probably even listened and comprehended the sage advice of his leaders. It didn't help. Cook throws one of his satellite-guided small-diameter bombs over the top and it's big play city. 7-0 Sparta.
The Huskers get the ball back. Ameer still being treated like Xerxes. Huskers attack the perimeter. Husker move well. Good drive going. Hey, lets use play-action to keep Sparty honest. Good idea. Let's have Tommy throw a deep sideline pattern into the wind. Are we sure about this? What could go wrong? Tommy throws a pick. Not so terribly surprised.
Connor Cook, the Sparty QB, needs to pretend that every down is third down. Most of the night, he looks terrible, but on 3rd down, he channels Joe Montana. He's probably got better arm strength than Montana. Time and again he hits tough passes on third down. The defense is there, but Cook keeps hitting.
Big plays are the difference. Sparty gets a 30-yrd touchdown run. The only decent run of the night. Ameer is stymied. A cool pass to Ameer out of the diamond formation nets 12 yards. Only time we see the diamond all night. Tommy is harassed by the Sparty D, every time he drops back, the Sparty D-ends are on him. One kid, appropriately named Rush beats both Sterrup and Lewis like cheap, garage sale drums. The wind is nullifying his passing game. Then when it cant seem to get any worse, the center, the coach's nephew, decides that his climb from the depths of walk-on drudgery to starting center, must not have any more rungs on the ladder. He's missing line-calls, he's snapping before Tommy is ready, he's falling victim to alleged shenanigans of Sparty clapping to induce movement before the snap. On a night where the entire o-line looked like death on a hot day, Marky-P stood out. Not in a good way.
At the half, Sparta leads 17-0. Opportunities squandered, Ameer checked, Tommy looking wild-eyed, Kenny on the sideline after crushing his nuts. Second half should be better, right? Right?
Defense plays ok, then gives up a big play. The big one in the third is a touchdown on a double reverse that is executed perfectly by Sparta. Textbook. Almost military drill precision.
Weird play #2 happens in the third. Tommy drops back, Tommy gets hit while throwing. Ball hits the ground, Smart Spartan scoops it and starts to run. Whistle whistle whistle. Play is dead. Incomplete. Let's review, shall, we, lads. Conference. Upon further review, our bad, actually a fumble, MSU ball. What fresh hell is this? Defense stands, forces a field goal.
Huskers get a field goal to preserve their dignity and hide their shame. 27-3 at the end of three. Stadium starts emptying out. There is hot food, burning booze and scorching women, elsewhere.
Fourth quarter. Gut-check time. Tommy the gunslinger steps out. Tommy throws it all over. Life appears. Tommy gets it close. Ameer goes in for the score. Marky P screws up the snap on the 2-PAT. 27-9 less disgusting. Defense holds. P-El almost breaks one. Huskers drive. Tommy gets hurt. Ryker Fife, the walk-on from G.I. gets some time. He fires high, adrenaline. Gets close, again, Ameer, again. Failed 2-PAT, again. 27-15. Is there hope? Yes, there, is. Remaining crowd begins to murmur.
Huskers kick. Sparty has about four minutes to kill. Huskers have three time outs. Sparty runs and Bo stops clock three times. Sparty has to punt. The punt to P-El. P-El makes a man miss. P-El finds a lane. P-El kicks in the afterburner, torches the punter. Kick the PAT. 27-22, time for the onside kick.
Sparty covers the kick. Sparty tries to kill clock. On third down, Sparty runs out of bounds. Bad move. Field goal attempt wouldn't quite put the game out of reach, but would make it tougher. Field goal is up, field goal goes clang-clang-clang off the upright. Still 27-22 with enough time to complete the most epic comeback in Husker history. Tommy starts big. Hits Alonzo Moore down the sideline. Big gain. Huskerfan is up and psyched. Sparta is nervous. Oh, no, not again nervous. Tommy throws a pass that should have been a pick, but somehow gets through to Westerkamp. Under a minute. Husker ball at the Sparty 36. Tommy drops back. Tommy heaves it. He's got a receiver in the end zone. Zo, again. Zo has it. Zo goes to the ground. Zo is sliding on his back. Zo must maintain control through the completion of the action. Don't we all? Zo can't. Ball pops out. So close, Zo.
Still time. Get a little closer, spike it. Three beats to the end-zone bar and let fortune decide your fate. Tommy drops back. Receivers get tangled up on a crossing pattern. It's a timing play and the timing is off. Tommy throws one final pick.
Sparta is relieved. They get to return with their shields. Huskers defeated, but not beaten. The thoughts of could-haves and should haves as numerous as the raindrops that keep coming down.
Re-match in December, indoors, at a neutral site, bitches.
4 Oct. 2014
Hyped for this one. This is the biggest game of the year. Win this one, and Nebraska can stake a claim for the top 10. Win this one, and maybe some of those voices about 'mediocrity' and 'lack talent' and 'average' shut the hell up.
The weather is not conducive. It is raining with a howling wind. Cross-fire hurricane. Cold, but not too cold, just cold enough to be another distraction for a team trying to find itself. One team knows what it is. There are cool trophies that there are color pictures of. OK, that's not fair. One team has pictures of trophies that they didn't have to send off to the Foto-Hut to develop.
I'm sitting in a 'Blues' bar in East Lansing. I have no idea why they call themselves a blues bar. There aren't even pictures on the wall of any of the biggies. No Muddy, no Lightning, no Blind Lemon, no Mr. Wolf. The game is on, but on a screen mounted above the bar. I'm trying to watch but some shit-ass cover band called Avon Bomb is on stage, torturing animals. Not accurate. Torturing the fools who came in here expecting a good live act.
Two guys and two girls who just refuse to give up that dream of pop stardom. You just keep reaching, kids. Kids? All four are pushing 40 and denial in a death grip around the throat. Keep playing. Keep singing. Maybe an A&R man will just happen to be in Lansing on a bet or a dare. Yes, the Love Shack is where it's at. Do what you did to 'Shook Me All Night Long' to 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' you'll have a gas-gas-gas all over your ass-ass-ass.
Anyway, the sound track enhances my overall disposition toward barely controlled homicidal rage. Brilliant start to the game. RG4 snags a tipped ball for an INT. Then bupkus. The wind howling into Drews face is enough to make Bo think twice. Punt instead of FG attempt. Um, ok. Gain what, 15 yards of field position with the wind at their backs. OK. That's why your pulling down the 7-figures. Next possession. Defense holds, forces a punt. Very well. What the Fuck call of the night #1. Pierson-El is back to receive the punt. It's coming in hot, P-El is calling off the dogs. Peterpeterpeter, waving his arms in front of him. The ball bounces, seeks love and affection from P-El, nestles into his arms like a forever home. P-El starts to run, he has a lane, if he lights the jets, he will run so fast into the wind, he will achieve lift.
Whistle whistle whistle. Ref: We thought he was calling for a fair catch. Really? Then where's the flag. It is a penalty to signal a fair catch and then run with it. Quite unsportsman-like. Don't worry MSU, the offense has your back. We'll only move the ball a little bit, and then commit a stupid penalty. We're young. We're raw, this is only our 50th game since middle school.
Spartans treating Ameer like Xerxes.
Then the little niggly-ass nit-noy little things that decide games kicks in. Starting corner, Daniel Davie, gets hurt. These things happen. Sparty has a smart coaching staff. Sparty smells blood. Sparty calls a 'go' route right at the newbie who is in for his first play. He has probably heard the coaches tell him, 'they will test you' and 'be ready'. He probably heard them, he probably even listened and comprehended the sage advice of his leaders. It didn't help. Cook throws one of his satellite-guided small-diameter bombs over the top and it's big play city. 7-0 Sparta.
The Huskers get the ball back. Ameer still being treated like Xerxes. Huskers attack the perimeter. Husker move well. Good drive going. Hey, lets use play-action to keep Sparty honest. Good idea. Let's have Tommy throw a deep sideline pattern into the wind. Are we sure about this? What could go wrong? Tommy throws a pick. Not so terribly surprised.
Connor Cook, the Sparty QB, needs to pretend that every down is third down. Most of the night, he looks terrible, but on 3rd down, he channels Joe Montana. He's probably got better arm strength than Montana. Time and again he hits tough passes on third down. The defense is there, but Cook keeps hitting.
Big plays are the difference. Sparty gets a 30-yrd touchdown run. The only decent run of the night. Ameer is stymied. A cool pass to Ameer out of the diamond formation nets 12 yards. Only time we see the diamond all night. Tommy is harassed by the Sparty D, every time he drops back, the Sparty D-ends are on him. One kid, appropriately named Rush beats both Sterrup and Lewis like cheap, garage sale drums. The wind is nullifying his passing game. Then when it cant seem to get any worse, the center, the coach's nephew, decides that his climb from the depths of walk-on drudgery to starting center, must not have any more rungs on the ladder. He's missing line-calls, he's snapping before Tommy is ready, he's falling victim to alleged shenanigans of Sparty clapping to induce movement before the snap. On a night where the entire o-line looked like death on a hot day, Marky-P stood out. Not in a good way.
At the half, Sparta leads 17-0. Opportunities squandered, Ameer checked, Tommy looking wild-eyed, Kenny on the sideline after crushing his nuts. Second half should be better, right? Right?
Defense plays ok, then gives up a big play. The big one in the third is a touchdown on a double reverse that is executed perfectly by Sparta. Textbook. Almost military drill precision.
Weird play #2 happens in the third. Tommy drops back, Tommy gets hit while throwing. Ball hits the ground, Smart Spartan scoops it and starts to run. Whistle whistle whistle. Play is dead. Incomplete. Let's review, shall, we, lads. Conference. Upon further review, our bad, actually a fumble, MSU ball. What fresh hell is this? Defense stands, forces a field goal.
Huskers get a field goal to preserve their dignity and hide their shame. 27-3 at the end of three. Stadium starts emptying out. There is hot food, burning booze and scorching women, elsewhere.
Fourth quarter. Gut-check time. Tommy the gunslinger steps out. Tommy throws it all over. Life appears. Tommy gets it close. Ameer goes in for the score. Marky P screws up the snap on the 2-PAT. 27-9 less disgusting. Defense holds. P-El almost breaks one. Huskers drive. Tommy gets hurt. Ryker Fife, the walk-on from G.I. gets some time. He fires high, adrenaline. Gets close, again, Ameer, again. Failed 2-PAT, again. 27-15. Is there hope? Yes, there, is. Remaining crowd begins to murmur.
Huskers kick. Sparty has about four minutes to kill. Huskers have three time outs. Sparty runs and Bo stops clock three times. Sparty has to punt. The punt to P-El. P-El makes a man miss. P-El finds a lane. P-El kicks in the afterburner, torches the punter. Kick the PAT. 27-22, time for the onside kick.
Sparty covers the kick. Sparty tries to kill clock. On third down, Sparty runs out of bounds. Bad move. Field goal attempt wouldn't quite put the game out of reach, but would make it tougher. Field goal is up, field goal goes clang-clang-clang off the upright. Still 27-22 with enough time to complete the most epic comeback in Husker history. Tommy starts big. Hits Alonzo Moore down the sideline. Big gain. Huskerfan is up and psyched. Sparta is nervous. Oh, no, not again nervous. Tommy throws a pass that should have been a pick, but somehow gets through to Westerkamp. Under a minute. Husker ball at the Sparty 36. Tommy drops back. Tommy heaves it. He's got a receiver in the end zone. Zo, again. Zo has it. Zo goes to the ground. Zo is sliding on his back. Zo must maintain control through the completion of the action. Don't we all? Zo can't. Ball pops out. So close, Zo.
Still time. Get a little closer, spike it. Three beats to the end-zone bar and let fortune decide your fate. Tommy drops back. Receivers get tangled up on a crossing pattern. It's a timing play and the timing is off. Tommy throws one final pick.
Sparta is relieved. They get to return with their shields. Huskers defeated, but not beaten. The thoughts of could-haves and should haves as numerous as the raindrops that keep coming down.
Re-match in December, indoors, at a neutral site, bitches.
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