If you can say one positive thing about the 2022 Northwestern football season is that it is mercifully over. The Wildcats are nursing a single win over Nebraska, they will have their worst season since 1989, and the program seems to have plummeted from the highs of a Big Ten West championship back to its miserable historical depths in only two years. On Saturday, they will have one more desperate attempt to salvage something from the season by prying the Hat from atop the bulbous, far side caricature skull of Bret Bielema and then retreat to whatever lair Pat Fitzgerald crawls into the offseason as he tries to figure out how much longer he can retain his imperial control over the football program while actively in the Rick Venturi Zone.
The last two losses summarized the season so far. The first turned into a miserable blowout in Minnesota, where they only interesting wrinkle was the Gophers tearing through every available quarterback; there was a point in the fourth quarter when it seemed like the Wildcats were one quarterback injury away from the impressment of anyone large and wearing a purple sweatshirt.
Beer is served in clear, plastic cups at TCF Bank Stadium in case a fan finds Fitzgerald's Shilling and is forced to play quarterback for the Northwestern Wildcats
The second game was close enough to imagine Northwestern winning. Then again, the game was only so close because of an incredible turn of events where a Purdue pick-six was called back because the officials found the cornerback guilty of Illegal Hurrahsman-ship for high stepping for 30 yards and made them take the ball back at the 30, which resulted in a three and out and a missed field goal.
I am sorry for even putting such offensive and disgusting content on this website.
As a college football fan, the officiating on this play was a travesty, an insanely draconian outcome for overly festive running that serves as a reminder that the NCAA's ruling cabal of severe, frown-lined bureaucrats seem to have a bizarre vision of college football where the thousands of drunk people at games many of whom were dressed inexplicably in shark costumes would see a guy lifting his legs a few extra inches off the ground on a game-securing touchdown and say "that simply will not do." On the other hand, as a fan of a team who benefited from the call, I can say that, as a turn of events, it was extremely funny.
(SIGH) HAT HAT HAT HAT
Northwestern has an opportunity to salvage their season by doing the seemingly impossible and prising the Hat from the prodigious skull of Bret Bielema. That will be a difficult task. The Illini are finishing an excellent season; last week they nearly took out Michigan on the road. They have an impregnable defense and their running game will test a Wildcat defense that has struggled all season stopping opponents' ground games. Illinois will be heavily favored and the Ryan Field stands will be glowing orange. But in this game, North America's greatest sports rivalry, one can only hope that it is an indescribable and possibly deranged urged for the Hat can drive Northwestern to an inexplicable victory.
If The Hat is not won during the game, I will assemble a Heist Crew to steal it from the Illinois Athletic Facility where we are call caught 35 seconds after entering the building.
Illinois has more than just Hat Lust on the line; a win and Purdue loss against Indiana that could happen if for example they have multiple touchdowns called back for Too Many High Fives or Excessive Smiling would thrust the Illini into a potential Big Ten West championship clusterfuck. After Iowa's very funny loss to Nebraska, there is the possibility that four teams could finish 5-4 in Big Ten play, which would require cracking open the dusty books of Legends and Leaders to determine the ancient Tie-Breaking Scenarios with one team headed to certain slaughter in Indianapolis and the rest somehow all heading simultaneously to the Music City Bowl.
Breaking down the potential Big Ten West Tie-Breaking scenarios if Purdue chokes.
This season, I have been seeing a lot of discussion online about how the Big Ten West is a flaming garbage scow and the federal government should intervene specifically to stop the Big Ten West teams from playing unwatchable lummoxing football at each other every week and I'm incensed. Anytime there is grousing about how breathtakingly mediocre and hideous the division is, Northwestern should be contending in it. Northwestern football is like one of those single-celled organisms that live in volcanoes and hydrothermal vents that are viable in environments where no one wants to be, and when the Big Ten west is essentially a giant pile of toxic waste, the Wildcats should be thriving. Unfortunately they have one year to get their act together before the California teams force some sort of grand realignment and the conference is forced to create new divisions such as maybe "legends" or "leaders" that could destroy the magic of the Big Ten West. I hope that Kevin Warren and his henchmen think long and hard about the effect on Northwestern and all of the other grasping oaf programs in college football's greatest division before acting too quickly.
One innovation I think could help the Big Ten West become even more annoying would be to bring back ties. I was inspired by USA manager Gregg Berhalter's heroic decision to have Christian Pulisic simply kick a ball to nowhere in order to seal a tie at the end of the USA-England game when it occurred to me what Pat Fitzgerald would do offensively if the Wildcats were able to weaponize a draw to drive opponents completely insane. Imagine a scenario where it would benefit both Northwestern and Iowa to tie instead of trying risky forward passes and they just alternately kneeled for the entire game. Imagine a scenario where every Big Ten West team has like four ties during a season because no one is letting their extremely Big Ten West quarterbacks dare to throw the ball for the entire second half while fans throw garbage on the field. Imagine the Playoff Committee having to sort through the concept of a one-tie Conference Champion while sports radio callers besiege their headquarters with towers and sappers.
Unfortunately there is no tie scenario today. The stakes are binary: you either have the Hat or you slink away from the stadium, crushed and bare-headed. This season has been such a disaster that no amount of Hats can salvage it, but it would sure feel better to go into an offseason with a heroic Hat victory than the same thing that's happened every other week.
BUCK DUCKETT IN THE PANTS FROM BEYOND
"Why does he want to meet us in the middle of the woods?" Crodway asked, brushing back a branch in the dark.
"Obviously, there are a lot of eyes around. Once we get the pants, we just bring them home. No one can prove where we got them. No one can say shit," Laslow said.
Crodway was not assuaged. The forest was impenetrably dark save for the beams of their flashlights, and he suspected that Laslow didn't know where he was going.
"You'd better not get us lost in here. Coach has got Madford looking for us making sure we're not getting in trouble. This is definitely trouble."
"Relax," Laslow said. "We're almost at the clearing."
Crodway didn't answer. This whole thing was Laslow's idea. Sure, he could use some new pants. Laslow said they were rare and had never been seen in the United States before. That's what Mr. Gludcrul had told him. But he was out here mainly because Laslow would otherwise be out in the woods alone, and he was already dangerously close to the bench after throwing three picks in last week's game. Crodway, who already spent his Saturdays desperately trying to prevent opponents from hitting his quarterback, figured that he might as well try to stop him from getting completely lost in the woods.
"I don't see his car yet," Laslow said. "Dude, you should see this car," Laslow said. "Rolls. Phantom. He said he'd maybe let me take it for a spin if we get the win."
But they were at the clearing and there was no one there. It was eerily still, like the trees themselves were trying desperately to avoid detection. There was silence. Then a rustling. The sound seemed to come from behind them then from the left. But when they aimed their flashlights into the forest surrounding them, they saw nothing.
"Five minutes, Laslow, then we have to go," Crodway said.
There was nothing. And then there was something. Some formless shape seeming like it had materialized from the trees, something almost imperceptible but definitively there and something that was definitely moving towards them. They turned to run but no matter what direction they turned it was in front of them moving closer and closer.
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Detective Carl Tratt was five minutes from the end of his shift when the call came in, five minutes from a warm house with a warm, brown bottle and instead he was squatting in the frost in a forest clearing looking at two bodies. A professor found them on what he told the officer was his "morning constitutional," which made Tratt dread having to the professor later on. He was told what he'd find when he'd come in but he was still not prepared for this. The bodies were desiccated, almost shriveled. Neither seemed to have much blood in them, but there was none at the scene.
"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to them?" he asked the Paul Quatch, the medical examiner.
"I've never seen anything like it. No blood. No wounds. No trauma. I have no idea what the hell could have done this."
Tratt's phone rang. He listened for a few minutes and frowned, then hung up and paced around.
"Quatch, that was the office. Coach called in this morning. They've got two football players missing. One of the roommates saw them grab some flashlights on the way out. Says they were on the way to get some pants."
"Oh no," Quatch said.
"That's right," Tratt said, sighing. "They've already called in Duckett. He's on the train from Indianapolis."
"Well better get your cloak cleaned and your amulets shiny," Quatch said.
Tratt had never met the NCAA investigator Buck Duckett, but he heard about him. It was bound to happen when you worked in a college town. Most of the time, you would just hear about Duckett poking around in a trash can outside an athletic facility or harassing some big time booster at a country club. But Duckett was also an encyclopedia of college football's dark underbelly. He knew all of the secret deals, he knew the networks of people funneling money into the sport. It was rare that any of that dealing crossed from an NCAA infraction into the realm of an actual crime, but when it did he was a useful person to talk to. But no one on the force wanted to.
The fact is that any conversation with Buck Duckett could swerve in bizarre directions. The rumors were that Duckett believed in all sorts of strange, spooky stuff: monsters, spirits, demon cults, that sort of thing, and word spread among campus police that he could be found doing incantations or reading from scrolls. He creeped everyone out. Now, because some kid had mentioned pants to a detective, he was rolling up on Duckett's doorstep.
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"Chief, this is ridiculous. The guy's not even law enforcement. He gets people suspended for eating a burrito that someone else paid for," Tratt said. They were in the office, and the blinds were drawn.
"Tratt, my hands are tied. This is the only thread we have, and we're pulling on it," Chief Stunch said. "You know if these kids were looking for pants, he's the best shot at finding out who they were getting from and why they were in that clearing. If you have any better ideas, let me know."
Tratt fumed. He had nothing else. "Fine, I'll talk to him. But I can't investigate a murder and keep an eye on this guy. You know what he does. He slinks around. He talks to people. He hides in dumpsters and he has false mustaches. I can't watch him constantly," Tratt said.
"Well you'll have to keep him close to you, then. He's here," the Chief said. He picked up his phone. "Bring him in."
Duckett glided through the door. He was not what Tratt was expecting. He thought that Duckett would be wearing a cloak or at least some sort of skull necklace. He was expecting him to have a sack of poultices or amulets. But the man who walked in was dressed in a crisp suit with a tie and an anachronistic men's hat and carried a briefcase. If anything, this was more disconcerting. He looked like an FBI agent from the 1950s.
"Buck Duckett, NCAA," Duckett said.
"Carl Tratt," Tratt said. "We found two bodies in a clearing. Likely football players. Quarterback and a center. Seemed one of them might have had a line on some pants."
"Thanks for coming, Duckett," Chief Stunch said. "I'll leave you two to it. Tratt should have everything you need." He left the room.
"You know of anyone throwing money around who likes to do pants drops in the forest?" Tratt said. "Is that the MO of any operators?"
Duckett opened his briefcase and picked up a file folder and slapped it on the table. "Errol 'Jimmy' Budesnon III." He grabbed another one. "Bud 'Poke' Hanragason. Tad Hadley. Hudd 'Scrote' Thomas."
"That's a lot of pants guys," Tratt said.
"No, it's just one. I haven't figured out what his name is here yet."
"You're telling me there's a booster doling out pants and changing his name and no one has caught on yet?"
Duckett just stared at him. He closed the briefcase and removed his hat. A deep scar ran down his head parallel to the his scalp on the left side leaving a trench in a square buzzcut.
"You know who I am and what I do," Duckett said. "I know you don't want me here. I know you all think I'm a kook. I understand that. But I also know that this is the first time he's ever left the bodies like deflated sacks in the woods."
Tratt paused. He hadn't mentioned the state of the bodies or that the baffled medical examiner's office was already on the phone with some out-of-state experts.
"This booster is not just changing his name. When he leaves, it's as if he never existed. Just a disappeared athlete and what appears to be no memory. Holding galas for the coach and showering them with money and then he's gone. The locker room is renamed. You see that enough times and you start to believe there's something more sinister going on here than pants," Duckett said.
He took a large dusty book out of his briefcase. It took me sixteen years to find this thing and it damn near cost me my skull. I've been tracking this thing since those fullbacks disappeared. I think I know what we're dealing with. But I'm going to need your help. He opened the book. Lesser Pants Daemons.
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