About an hour before my father Nicholas died, my mother, four siblings, and I were sitting in his bedroom. He was lying in bed, unresponsive but generally peaceful; after a 16-month battle with colon cancer, we knew the end was near. My sister suggested we watch a game on TV. Dad would like that. Since it was May, I figured we could easily find a baseball game. Someone found the remote, turned on the TV, and there on the screen, the very first thing we saw, were the words: “Game of the Century. Nebraska vs. Oklahoma 1971.” We all looked at each other. We sat there as the highlights of one of the most important games in Nebraska college football history played on the screen. It turned out to be an ESPN special about the greatest games in college football history. But at the time, it felt like a sign from God.

Dad was one of the greatest Nebraska football fans in the history of planet Earth. He could remember games, players, scores, big plays, bad calls, everything. He was a season ticket holder for decades. We were even lucky enough to go to a few bowl games over the years. Dad wasn’t the most outgoing guy, but he was a secretly good storyteller, and I grew up hearing stories about how he watched his own father walk down the field during the Game of the Century. Or how Tom Osborne didn’t hesitate to go for two in the 1984 Orange Bowl, even though a tie before overtime in those days would likely have given the Huskers a national championship. Dad told me that Osborne had said after the game that he always wanted his teams to play to win, and even though Nebraska lost that night, Osborne earned a lot of respect for his decision. I can still feel my corn-fed, Husker-pride-fueled youth when I hear about the great history of our beloved Big Red. And of course, there were plenty of stories about the many times the Huskers were beaten up by the officials. Everyone knows that the college football industrial complex has had its eye on Nebraska for a long time.

This thing we love, this thing we share, this thing we get to be a part of, NEBRASKA FOOTBALL, is truly special. It is so much more than a game played by students. It transcends the petty disagreements of everyday life; it exists outside of the larger divisions we have as human beings. For 12 Saturdays every fall, we are not Republicans or Democrats, believers or nonbelievers, Montagues or Capulets. On those 12 Saturdays, we are united from Memorial Stadium to the living room to the potluck to the alumni watch party; from Omaha to Scottsbluff, from South Sioux City to Sidney, from Beatrice to Broken Bow. We are united in a common mission with a common purpose, as if we have the power to influence the game, to lead the boys in red to victory. I can’t tell you how many times the thought crossed my mind as I watched those red shirts run out of the tunnel for kickoff, “Man, I’m so glad I got to be a part of this.” What do people do when they don’t have something like Nebraska football? That’s a bit ironic, of course; there are plenty of other ways we can and do find meaning in life. But for those few hours on a Saturday in the fall, what happens on that field is the most important thing in the world.

And everyone can be a part of it. Some Husker fans grew up in the state and graduated from college. Others never lived in the state but had a family or personal connection that drew them to it. Still others discovered the team during its heyday in the 80s and 90s and decided they wanted to cheer for a winner. Everyone’s story is different and unique in this huge tent that is the Nebraska fan base, and it’s beautiful.

Like everything else, Nebraska football is about family. It’s passed down through the generations, through stories of games and players gone; through shared experiences of watching games, tailgating, and obsessing over the latest practice report or recruiting news. It’s about fathers and mothers and daughters and sons and the hopes of an entire state and a fan base that spans the globe. Together, we celebrate the joy of victory and mourn the devastation of defeat. In our season-opening episode with Tom Shatel, we asked him about a line he wrote in a recent column, in which he said that Nebraska fans “remain undefeated against apathy.” The first thing he said in his response was about family, about a generation that wills its season tickets to the next generation. Those tickets are as valuable as any family heirloom; our shared Husker memories as important as the family’s origin story.

I woke up early Monday morning. Monday morning of game week – it’s finally here! After completing a handful of podcast-related tasks, and with the house still quiet, I excitedly read through all the latest Husker news and commentary I could find as we approach a new season full of hope. Tom Shatel. Sam McKewon. Steve Sipple. All the favorites who seem to be walking with us on this journey, narrating the season as it unfolds each week. Somehow, after finishing my to-do list and catching up on Husker coverage (a rarity, considering at least one of the kids is usually awake at or before 6am), the house was still quiet.

Then, in the quiet of the morning alone with my coffee, I thought of my dad. It’s been over two years since he passed away, and still, when I think about Nebraska football (which, you know, happens a lot), I think of my dad. I wish I could call him up and talk to him about Husker football. He would be so excited about this season, so caught up in the optimism surrounding the program. I wish he could watch this podcast we’ve made. Nothing but Husker football, all the time. That’s how we describe the pod. He would love every minute of it; he would be the first to listen to each new episode. And I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that he’s the reason it exists. What drives a man in his early 40s with a full-time job, a wife and three kids to devote what little free time he has to a podcast about Nebraska football? It’s a lifelong love affair, one that began with stories about Grandpa walking across the floor.

About a month before he died, Dad had to make a decision: try an oral form of chemotherapy, which had no guarantee of any effect and the side effects could be worse than the potential benefits; or stop treatment altogether. In either case, the doctors estimated he had three to six months left. I was there when he made the decision. He stared out the kitchen window, then suddenly turned around and said he was done with the treatment and was putting everything in God’s hands. What a terrible decision for anyone to have to make. And yet, my memory of that day is of an air of optimism once he made the decision. He was going to enjoy the time he had left. And I can still see and hear him, clear as day, saying, “Maybe I’ll even make it to football season.”

He didn’t make it to the football season. Sometimes I find that unfair, but then I remember that the 2022 team was such a disaster, maybe the Man Upstairs did him a favor by sparing him the agony of having to watch another disappointing season.

It’s telling though that during this major life decision, Dad was of course thinking about football. And it’s so fitting that the first thing we saw when we turned on the TV in the final moments of his life was a highlight reel of the Game of the Century. Maybe that really was a sign from God. Just a little nod, letting us know not to worry, Dad is on his way to a better place and he’ll be there soon. There couldn’t be a better way to get that message across.

So here we are, my fellow Common Fans, eager for another season to begin. In this new season of hope, we walk together, arm in arm, ready to scream at our TVs, tailgate like our lives depend on it, and do whatever it takes to do our part in returning the Nebraska football team to its winning ways. In doing so, we stand on the shoulders of those who showed us this great tradition, who shared it with us so that we too could be a part of it, be immersed in it, and share it with our children. It is in our blood; it is part of who we are; it is our shared heritage and our shared identity.

Whatever happens, let’s embrace it. Let’s enjoy it for all it’s worth. Let’s make it all the way for those who can’t. I know I plan to, and I know my dad will be there, along for the ride, in memory and in spirit.

As always, GBR for LIFE.

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