Why I'm a Husker

I have a sort of vague memory of that day. It was the day I became a Husker. After spending countless days completing passes to myself in the front yard of my parents’ house in Summerville, South Carolina, Dad and I were finally on our way to watch a Husker game. The neighbors always looked askance at me as I called out signals and played both quarterback and receiver in my silly pass patterns. Football fans were numerous among the young in my neighborhood, but there was only one kid wearing the glorious red N. That kid was me.

One day, I reluctantly revealed to my dad that I had saved up my allowance to buy a football helmet from a kid in my second grade class. The price was an astronomical sum of around 3 dollars. He saw me as I got off the bus, carrying a Miami Dolphins helmet, of all things. He frowned in the way that dads do and said, “That ought to be a Nebraska helmet.” I instantly agreed, because Dad was always right – he was infallible – he was Dad. Dad spent about an hour peeling off the smiling Miami Dolphin logos and gaudy stripes and painting a single, sober red stripe and a block N on each side. He asked me what number I wanted, and I asked for number 12. A short while later, I was looking at a shiny new Husker helmet.

I spent all of my free time, (and if you’ve ever been 9 years old, you know that there’s a lot of free time) holding my hands under an invisible center, barking out signals, fading back and throwing a pass that, switching positions magically, I would just be able to dive out and catch. I carried on the commentary of the announcers, shouting, “Nebraska quarterback Ron Jaworski completes a miraculous pass to Osborn in the corner of the end zone!” I liked the Eagles at the time and I didn’t know the Huskers yet. I would come to know the Huskers and what it was to be a Husker soon enough.

That was the whole point of being in the car with Dad that morning. He told me that we had to go see the Oklahoma game, and I was not about to argue with Dad – he was, of course, 100% right – he was Dad after all. For maybe the first time in my life, I sat quietly and comfortably for a long car ride. We drove from Summerville to a nameless destination just over the Virginia border – the closest point where the Oklahoma game was on television. We ended up in a television store, back in the days when there were such things, and we stood in front of the biggest television and watched the Big Red. I spent most of the game watching Dad and taking my cues from him. When Jarvis Redwine broke a huge run, I was thrilled. When Redwine turned around and waved to the defender, I shared Dad’s condemnation of what he saw as showboating. The most important lesson of that day was the fact that a Husker loss was important. As we drove home, Dad was stoic, but I knew he was upset, and I knew why. The mighty Huskers had fallen that day. But I was sold. The Huskers were important to Dad, so they were important to me. That was the day that I learned that the Huskers were special – because they were special to Dad.

Since that day, Dad has taken a step back from college football. He realized, as I surely will one day, that having that much of your heart invested in a college football team takes a toll on a man. In January of 1995, I watched Tom Osborne walk onto the Orange Bowl field as a champion. It was the culmination of all of the grueling game Saturdays that I had ever spent. It was a confirmation of all of the things that I had ever believed about college football. And I was sitting next to Dad. I stood up, and Dad stood up with me. He had a tired smile on his face. I was already reaching for my keys to head to Lincoln and join the celebration. As I looked at him, all of my Husker moments flashed through my mind. I saw Jarvis Redwine scooting along the sideline for a touchdown. I saw Turner Gill flicking an incomplete pass into the flat in Miami. I saw an incomplete pass in Boulder. I saw a field goal go left. Most of all, I saw Dad, white knuckled and quiet. He finally looked relaxed. I threw my arms around him and said, “I love you Dad.” He said, “Go have fun.”

On a fall day in a year that I don’t even really remember, Dad gave me one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. He made me a Husker. There is no gift I can think of that would be better. I look forward to the day when my son comes home with a Packers helmet or a Chiefs helmet or a Broncos helmet. I will frown in the way that dads do, and I’ll say, “That should be a Nebraska helmet.”