"Listen," he says, "you going to the game tomorrow?"

I say that I am.

"You watch this guy Landers. He's got an arm on him like a slingshot, this guy."

At this point, the friend leans over and grabs the arm of the guy next to me.

"You see that guy over there?" he says. "Now, that guy looks like Buddy Cianci." He points to a dark-haired man wearing a trench-coat. "I'm not saying it's him, but that's what he looks like."

"What?" says the guy next to me. "He doesn't look anything like that. In fact, I know that guy."

I look away. After a short time, the guy next to me grabs my arm. "You from Brown?" he asks.

I tell him I am from Harvard and that I write for The Crimson. He asks me about the Harvard team. I tell him what I think about it. He asks me if the Crimson is paying for my drinks. I say no. He doesn't believe me. He asks me what I think about the game.

"Well," I say.

"Listen," he says, "you want to know what I think?"

I say that I do.

"I'll tell you what I think. If I was a betting man, I would say, Brown by four points. Say 28-24. You know why?"

I say that I don't, but just then the friend leans over. "I think that is Buddy Cianci," he says. It is obvious the guy next to me does not agree. The two begin to tussle, trading shoves. We get up to go, leaving the tip on the bar.

Outside the air is cool and there are fewer people around. We start to walk down Thayer Street. When we are half a block down the Street, we hear something behind us. Just then, the guy next to me and his friend are hooved out the door.

They land in a heap at the bottom of the steps as we walk away quickly. "Hey," the guy next to me call out in the night, "Brown by four."