Lloyd and I looked at each other. We looked back at the mud-spattered guy. I shrugged at Lloyd. He was slowly shaking his head.
"Hi," I said, as I stood up, holding my and out. "We're --"
He took my hand and shook it with a firm, direct shake. None of that overlapping hand Ive got you trapped stuff. And none of that eww, I don't really want to touch you but I feel I have to shake your hand stuff, either. Solid hold, firm grip, two pumps, break.
"The guys I was told to meet with," he finished my sentence. "I was at a meeting, earlier this week, in a San Francisco hotel, and was told to await further instructions."
I moved over to the other side of the booth, so Lloyd and I could both face him. He sat down opposite. On quick scan he seemed pretty relaxed, the bike ride hadn't shagged him out, so he was in OK shape. His eyes were lively, but direct. They sparkled with that light that hints at intelligence, but not dazzled, which hints at madness. his movements were fluid as he sat down, I was just guessing, but there seemed an air of athleticism about the way he moved. He just vibed 'pleasant'. I couldn't come up with any other word. It was very odd for me. The best way I could describe it is that he was a guy who you would want to find you after you had taken a thrashing for getting too close to a secret. If he found you, say, lying in a gutter, the rain pissing down on you like God trying to say 'I told you so', while you ooze blood into the city's storm drains, he'd be the guy to not only call 911, but give you his coat and wouldn't think twice about using his shirt to apply pressure to that one cut that just won't stop.
The waitress showed up. "Can I get you fellas anything?' she asked, oh so perkily.
"We're good," I said and Lloyd looked a little dejected.
"Amber, I'll have a coffee, one sugar, no cream. Let these gentlemen order something and put it on my bill, ok?" the new guy said.
"Sure thing, Coach." She looked back at us.
"Two coffees, one as black sin and one with cream and about 5 sugars. Thank you," I said.
Lloyd seemed happier.
Amber turned to put our orders in. She had a quick, light gait, and I didn't mind watching her go. "You know Amber?" I asked.
"Sure, Corvallis only has about 55,000 people. I've been here a long time. Her dad and I played on the State championship football team, in high school."
"And she called you 'Coach'," I stated with a hint of question in my voice.
The new guy laughed, "Well, why wouldn't she? That's what I do."
Lloyd started snapping his fingers in rapid succession. We both looked at him, he had a wild, crazed look in his eyes, like he was startled by the klieg light that just switched on in his head. "Your Mike Riley. Head Coach, Oregon State. 93-80 in college, 14-34 in NFL, 40-32. two Grey Cups in the CFL."
"Whoa," I said. "Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that we came all the way out here, to the soggiest pine forest in north America--"
"Well, actually the Olympic, in Washington --" Lloyd interjected before I cut him off with a hand gesture.
"Not to interview Scott Frost, but to interview Mike Riley. What the fuck?"
Riley's eyes narrowed and he turned his full attention to me. "You will keep your voice down, son," he said evenly, but with enough edge to tell he was serious. "There is absolutely no call to use that off-color language. Here comes Amber, with your coffee, now."
Amber placed three china mugs on the table. I took a sip of mine, hoping that the bitter acidity of industrial-grade coffee would scrub the bad taste from my mouth. It didn't. It did more than that. This was good stuff. I took another sip and let the black magic cast its spell on my palate.
"Kenya AA?" I asked Amber.
"You're good," she said and flounced off to the other tables.
"Back to the business at hand," I said. "This is not going to go over well, with the investors."
"Why not?" Riley asked.
"They want a 'splash' hire. A big name. A proven commodity to elevate the brand," I said.
"I see," Riley said. "And who would the investors consider a 'splash' hire? Besides Scott Frost, obviously."
"They've been floating names around like, Jim Tressel, Jon Gruden, Dan Mullen, Mack Brown, Gary Patterson, among others."
"I see. Do the investors understand that Tressel would be, um, problematic, shall we say?"
"I know. He's under a show cause penalty from the NCAA until 2016, he'd have to sit out five games. He left Youngstown State before allegations about his quarterback could surface. Maurice Clarett completely threw him under the bus, and according to him, the extra benefits at OSU in the 2000's made Oklahoma's cheating in the 70s and 80s look like playing Monopoly with house rules."
"And the other names?"
"Gruden's not leaving his sweet Monday Night gig to jump into college coaching. Never was a college coach and won a Super Bowl. He doesn't need the hassle. Dan Mullen would be a lateral move at best, with not much of a track record to back it up. Patterson would break the bank with the buyout we'd have to pay TCU. Mack Brown flamed out with the most resources and deepest high school football talent in the country at his beck and call."
"Which brings us back to Frost, right?" Riley asked.
"Yep. Feel good story. Former Husker great returns home to guide his alma mater to the championship promised land. We'd get him cheap, too, less than the 3-million we were paying. And, since he's a former Husker, he'd get more leeway to grow into the job."
"You do realize he's only been the O.C. at Oregon for two years, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you do realize, that Marcus Mariota has been the quarterback for those two years, right?"
"Yeah," I said, as Lloyd nodded in agreement beside me.
"And that he didn't create the system he runs, the guy who created it is in the League, now."
"Yeah."
"So, knowing all of that, would you put 15-Million dollars down to see if he could succeed, knowing what you know about how the fans treated him the last time, he was there."
I thought about the stories I had heard about Frosty. Him becoming a pariah when Bill Walsh lured him out to the Farm. His struggles to run Bill's West Coast Offense, he understood it, he just didn't have the physical tools to make it work.
Then I thought about how the fans and players treated him when he came back. 'Too good for us', 'turncoat', 'traitor', were barbs hurled at him. He was the 'other guy' according to some in the whole Lawrence Phillips debacle. When he finally got on the field, things didn't go as planned. Safety first in the 19-0 loss to Arizona State, all Scott's fault. Getting booed, at home, during a game against Central Florida, when things weren't going as well as the fans wanted. Having to get things ironed out with four new offensive linemen who didn't gel until later in the season. All on Scott.
That all changed when Matt Davison got lucky with the 'flea-kicker' and a soul-crushing Blackshirt defense treated Peyton Manning like a piñata at a party for burgeoning sociopaths.
Scott allocated, Scott endorsed, Scott lobbied for the voters to name Osborne National Champ. All was forgiven, all was forgotten. Scott went away to play in the League, stayed in long enough to get an NFL Pension and then started working his way up the coaching food chain.
"Hello," Riley said. "You seemed to go kinda blank, on me, there. You ok?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine. I was just mulling over some of the points about Frost. I know a bunch of folks, back home, that would love to have him come back. I wouldn't if I were him. So Lloyd, what are supposed to do, now?"
"We're supposed to text the contact, and they will give us the password to set up the laptop."
"I texted 'he's here' to the minion. Less than a minute later, I got the reply. it read 'NOMOBO408'.
Lloyd is good. I showed him the code. He smiled his smile like he has been up to something that nobody knows about and he's not willing to discuss yet. He scares me, sometimes.
Lloyd powered up the laptop and set it up for Riley to see. Riley waved at the webcam, once, and proceeded to type away at the keyboard. His face showed various amounts of interest and engagement. Looking serious at times and at one point his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Mine would too if somebody offered me nearly 3 large to do what I was already doing, but for a better company.
This went on for about a half hour. Finally he turned the laptop around to us. "I'm done, I guess I'll be seeing you around...in Lincoln. Good luck, fellas."
He paid the tab and moved off, nodding at a few people as he left. The screen was red with white letters on it. It read, "Press any key to continue." I looked at Lloyd, he shrugged. "Something bad will happen if you press a key, but we can't take it back to the office. They want it turned in."
I tapped the 'N' key. The sound file of R2D2 screaming filled the place and turned some heads. I caught whiff of ozone and saw wisps of smoke curling from the laptop. "You tech guys are a riot," OI said to Lloyd. He had his 'I'm impressed' look on.
We gathered our stuff, and made for the trek home, a drive to Eugene and commercial hops all the way home. The news would precede us to Lincoln. I had a feeling it was planned that way.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Friday, December 5, 2014
Down and Out in Corvallis, part 1
Eichorst sent a minion to retain us. Well, me, and I elected to bring Lloyd along. I knew I was going to need back-up and probably a level head in order to get the payment that had been offered. I won't go into details, but I now understand how much fun you can have when your athletic budget is 83 million dollars. Yep, 83 mega, and that's only good enough for 7th in the Big Ten, but I digress.
We were tasked with securing a location out of the way, but in public, in Corvallis Oregon, with a candidate for the head coaching gig, so Eichorst could conduct a Skype interview with him. We were given a laptop computer with built-in web cam, externally secured and password protected. The minion said that the password word be texted to us, when the meet was a go. Lloyd guessed the password on the way out there, but that's another story.
Getting to Corvallis is hard, really hard. It reminded me of Marlowe trying to Find Kurtz in "Heart of Darkness". Maybe not quite that bad. I proposed pulling a D.B. Cooper and parachuting into the town square. Lloyd said no.
I proposed renting a helicopter in Eugene and swooping in blaring 'Ride of the Valkyries' a la "Apocalypse Now".
Again, Lloyd said no.
We flew into Minneapolis, first, then Salt Lake City, then Eugene and rented a car. I don't know why the smoke watchers think they can divine anything from trying to track private plane movements to determine where someone might be going to conduct interviews. If I was an AD and wanted to stay invisible, I'd fly commercial. From the air, the University of Oregon campus looks like a giant 'swoosh', but again, I digress.
It was raining. Big surprise. The rain gave everything that freshly scrubbed look, but was cold. Everyone had on hats and rain jackets. People in Corvallis wear rain jackets the same way people in Chicago wear North Face gear. It's like there's an ordinance or something.
I felt like I would have been quite at home wearing a trench coat and fedora, smoking, letting the rain drip off the brim of my hat. I would have stood out, unfortunately. Nobody smokes in Corvallis.
My phone buzzed and I checked the minion-sent text. It was just a number, a 541 area code. I called it. "Hello," said a quiet, measured voice on the other end.
"Hi," I said. "I'm calling to set up that meeting."
"Oh. I see," said the quiet voice. "I have a place in mind. I have to bike over, so it will take me about a half hour to get there."
"Just give me an address, and we'll find it."
The Snug Bar was our location. We could see the Trysting Tree golf course across the river. I'll give Corvallis props for creative naming.
Lloyd and I settled into a booth in the basement of a building really close to the river. So close that Lloyd was nervously checking the wall for condensation. I texted the minion to tell him that the meet was on. He texted back to let him know when the contact was in place.
Lloyd leaned forward, "You know, this is a lot of elaborate maneuvers to set up a meeting with...Scott," Lloyd caught himself.
"I know. Think about it though. Everyone back home is assuming it's going to be Tressel, who is not coaching, right now, because he got busted. If we want him, than winning truly has become the most important thing."
"Agreed," Lloyd said. "It's like DUI's. Multiply the number of times you've been busted for it by ten, and that's the number of times you've actually done it. Busted at Ohio State, busted at Youngstown State, the NCAA would love to nail Nebraska, so no thanks, Sweatervest."
"The other name that is popping like water in a skillet is Frosty," I said. "I fully expect the fair-haired, fair-complected lad from Wood River to come through that door, any second."
"Do you think he's ready to have the keys to dad's Cadillac?" Lloyd asked.
"I'm warming to the idea," I said. "He's smart, he got into Stanford and Bill Walsh thought he could handle the West-Coast offense. He handled the mental part, fine, he just didn't have the physical tools to execute it. He's played both offense and defense. He's coached both offense and defense. He's got the Osborne DNA that a lot of Huskerfans are demanding. He's only been an OC for two years, and I think that you could sit in the press box and call plays for Marcus Mariota and look pretty good doing it."
"Then why are we here, instead of up in Nike-town?" Lloyd asked.
"Maskirovka, baby," I replied. "Oregon probably wants to retain him, and would start a bidding war, if they found out. Plus the fish-wrappers would want to break the 'scoop'."
"Oh," I exclaimed. "What's your guess for the super-secret password? Any inclination?"
"The first one I'm going to try is 'NOMOBO408'."
I looked up to see an older dude, well, not that much older than me, but older, slowly approaching the booth. I tilted my head at him, questioningly. He was about six foot, lantern shaped jaw, kind of weathered. He wore water resistant track pants that had water and mud splattered on them, like he had been biking. His eyes were dark but lively. He vibed, nicest dude...ever. I was uncomfortable. I'm used to dealing with the sleazy, the criminal and the nutjobs. This was a strange experience.
"What can I do for you...sir?" I felt like I had to add the 'sir'.
"Well, I hope you are the right fellas, I'm here to talk to someone about a job."
"A job in Lincoln, Nebraska?" Lloyd asked.
"Yep. I'm Mike Riley, and I'm supposed to talk to someone about the Nebraska football job."
More to come.
We were tasked with securing a location out of the way, but in public, in Corvallis Oregon, with a candidate for the head coaching gig, so Eichorst could conduct a Skype interview with him. We were given a laptop computer with built-in web cam, externally secured and password protected. The minion said that the password word be texted to us, when the meet was a go. Lloyd guessed the password on the way out there, but that's another story.
Getting to Corvallis is hard, really hard. It reminded me of Marlowe trying to Find Kurtz in "Heart of Darkness". Maybe not quite that bad. I proposed pulling a D.B. Cooper and parachuting into the town square. Lloyd said no.
I proposed renting a helicopter in Eugene and swooping in blaring 'Ride of the Valkyries' a la "Apocalypse Now".
Again, Lloyd said no.
We flew into Minneapolis, first, then Salt Lake City, then Eugene and rented a car. I don't know why the smoke watchers think they can divine anything from trying to track private plane movements to determine where someone might be going to conduct interviews. If I was an AD and wanted to stay invisible, I'd fly commercial. From the air, the University of Oregon campus looks like a giant 'swoosh', but again, I digress.
It was raining. Big surprise. The rain gave everything that freshly scrubbed look, but was cold. Everyone had on hats and rain jackets. People in Corvallis wear rain jackets the same way people in Chicago wear North Face gear. It's like there's an ordinance or something.
I felt like I would have been quite at home wearing a trench coat and fedora, smoking, letting the rain drip off the brim of my hat. I would have stood out, unfortunately. Nobody smokes in Corvallis.
My phone buzzed and I checked the minion-sent text. It was just a number, a 541 area code. I called it. "Hello," said a quiet, measured voice on the other end.
"Hi," I said. "I'm calling to set up that meeting."
"Oh. I see," said the quiet voice. "I have a place in mind. I have to bike over, so it will take me about a half hour to get there."
"Just give me an address, and we'll find it."
The Snug Bar was our location. We could see the Trysting Tree golf course across the river. I'll give Corvallis props for creative naming.
Lloyd and I settled into a booth in the basement of a building really close to the river. So close that Lloyd was nervously checking the wall for condensation. I texted the minion to tell him that the meet was on. He texted back to let him know when the contact was in place.
Lloyd leaned forward, "You know, this is a lot of elaborate maneuvers to set up a meeting with...Scott," Lloyd caught himself.
"I know. Think about it though. Everyone back home is assuming it's going to be Tressel, who is not coaching, right now, because he got busted. If we want him, than winning truly has become the most important thing."
"Agreed," Lloyd said. "It's like DUI's. Multiply the number of times you've been busted for it by ten, and that's the number of times you've actually done it. Busted at Ohio State, busted at Youngstown State, the NCAA would love to nail Nebraska, so no thanks, Sweatervest."
"The other name that is popping like water in a skillet is Frosty," I said. "I fully expect the fair-haired, fair-complected lad from Wood River to come through that door, any second."
"Do you think he's ready to have the keys to dad's Cadillac?" Lloyd asked.
"I'm warming to the idea," I said. "He's smart, he got into Stanford and Bill Walsh thought he could handle the West-Coast offense. He handled the mental part, fine, he just didn't have the physical tools to execute it. He's played both offense and defense. He's coached both offense and defense. He's got the Osborne DNA that a lot of Huskerfans are demanding. He's only been an OC for two years, and I think that you could sit in the press box and call plays for Marcus Mariota and look pretty good doing it."
"Then why are we here, instead of up in Nike-town?" Lloyd asked.
"Maskirovka, baby," I replied. "Oregon probably wants to retain him, and would start a bidding war, if they found out. Plus the fish-wrappers would want to break the 'scoop'."
"Oh," I exclaimed. "What's your guess for the super-secret password? Any inclination?"
"The first one I'm going to try is 'NOMOBO408'."
I looked up to see an older dude, well, not that much older than me, but older, slowly approaching the booth. I tilted my head at him, questioningly. He was about six foot, lantern shaped jaw, kind of weathered. He wore water resistant track pants that had water and mud splattered on them, like he had been biking. His eyes were dark but lively. He vibed, nicest dude...ever. I was uncomfortable. I'm used to dealing with the sleazy, the criminal and the nutjobs. This was a strange experience.
"What can I do for you...sir?" I felt like I had to add the 'sir'.
"Well, I hope you are the right fellas, I'm here to talk to someone about a job."
"A job in Lincoln, Nebraska?" Lloyd asked.
"Yep. I'm Mike Riley, and I'm supposed to talk to someone about the Nebraska football job."
More to come.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Tim Beck part 2
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.
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.
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.
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