We are sitting at a bar on Thayer Street when a pudgy, middle-aged man walks in.

"Hey," the guy next to me says to his friend, "You know who that is? That's Buddy Cianci."

"No way, that's not him," his friend says. "Buddy Cianci's shorter; that guy's way too tall."

The guy next to me turn my way.

"Buddy Cianci comes in here all the time," he says. "I think that's him right there."

"That's not him," his friend says, leaning over towards me to be heard. "That guy doesn't look anything like him. I always see him riding his horse. He's a short guy."

The bar is crowded with students and locals. I think about what the mayor of Providence looks like riding a horse. The guy next to me turns my way again.

"Some game tomorrow, huh?"

"Sure," I say.

"You know who I wish was still around?" he asks.

"Who?"

"Rick Villela," he says. "He was some kind of player. These guys today are no good. Not as good as Villela, anyway. Except one. One guy is as good. You know who?"

I don't.

"This Landers. Jeez, he can throw the football. Best passer I've ever seen. Better than Carbone."

"Really?" I say.