I admit I was a tad petrified when I saw thousands of foam-corn-hats bobbing at my first University of Nebraska football game. My knowledge of the sport has been gleaned from the TV show “Friday Night Lights” and watching preppy East Coasters throwing the pigskin around in a Kennedy-esque manner. Craig, who took me to my very first college football game, played Husker football, which I soon learned is akin to walking on water for Nebraskans. The state is a sea of football paraphernalia and red cotton casuals. While I love a little physical violence exhibited by muscular men in spandex pants, it took me a while to get into the game.
First of all, I wore a slinky shirt purchased at some bourgeois paradise because I thought it looked kind of farmish. I didn’t know I would be stoned by cowhands if I didn’t wear red and bought a University of Nebraska shirt at once out of fear for my life. I also might have made a few references to my Husker beau about “group think,” and “1984-like mind control,” when 70,000 white people started singing the same song with their fists in the air.
But after ingesting roughly 2,000 calories, high-fiving a boyscout, and playing tonsil hockey every time a mysterious first down was achieved, I decided that I too had a little Husker in my heart.