A series of articles by Brandon "Blankman" Cavanaugh.

The Ritual

As many of you who read my semi-frequent offerings know, I use a lot of metaphor to describe my experiences in Lincoln because I feel it helps adequately portray just how I feel when in the Capitol City. For my literary moment of your time today, I have chosen to give you a first hand look into my weekly (or bi-weekly depending on the schedule) ritual for attending a Nebraska home game. Over the past several years, it’s the continuity and familiarity with the schedule that I have grown accustomed to and enjoyed. Hopefully, with the conclusion of this piece, you will understand why.

The hours before the alarm clock screams hard rock into my ear are often times as difficult as they would be to a child before Christmas morning. I toss, I turn and I think of what could be. Like Bugs Bunny once said, “It’s the suspense that gets me.” Finally, once I drift in and out of slumber, I awake and the day has begun anew, only this time it has a certain quality to it. It has a certain wholesome appreciation during each passing moment. I clean myself up for the day ahead and select, for apparel, either my authentic #71 jersey or an appropriate red T-shirt with my favorite leather Blackshirts jacket for a cover. Either way, I sport the now well-worn fitted Nebraska cap. Red with a solitary white letter “N”, it is. Simplicity as I enjoy it most, I must confess.

I attend these games regularly with my father, so I await his arrival by playing back music from the college game in sheer anticipation of the steps we take towards kickoff. He ideally arrives and we are off. I like to take the time before every season to burn a CD that compliments the year and our changing musical tastes. This past year I made certain to provide a mix of Nebraska’s Marching Band and severely hard rock. As the melodies and achingly harsh riffs enter our ears at a medium volume, I take the time to read the morning paper’s view of the game and then I do something very underrated in today’s modern day and age: I watch. I look out the window as we drive to Lincoln and I take in the sights of the Nebraska geography. I take pride in the cornfields and crops, I marvel at the gargantuan windmills; I take in everything that is the state of Nebraska, her soul, her heart and her courage.

As we reach Lincoln, we park and decide on the appropriate game day meal. Sometimes it’s at Kuhl’s, a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant that is crammed to the gills with red much like a Memorial Stadium section, where commentary is never at a loss. Sometimes, it’s at Misty’s where the sweet potato fries are absolutely to die for. Sometimes, it’s at Applebee’s, a very common establishment but, let’s be honest, a place that serves up some pretty good food, I think. We dine, we chat, we laugh a bit and then we part ways as while my father is the type who considers entering the stadium 30 minutes before a game early, I like to get there once the gates first open and the dust is ridden from their hinges.

I then begin a portion of my ritual that I have, much like my cap, named simply: The Walk. The Walk is a very special time to me because it gives me an opportunity to not only trek to the stadium and see the sights of the University of Nebraska campus, but it also gives me a chance to experience the soul and aura of Nebraska even before I step inside Memorial. As I walk, I take in the color of red, I listen to the strains of the Nebraska fight song played by the marching band, I take great pleasure in each and every step. Truthfully, I have to slow myself down sometimes to fully appreciate it as my desire to get to my seat is quite overwhelming. This, however, is much like a fine wine or a fine woman. It is to be enjoyed and savored, not rushed. So, savor it I do.

As The Walk comes to its inevitable end, I gaze upon one of the sweetest sights I ever could in my life and in the lives of many others, I dare say: Memorial Stadium on game day. She has a certain something, a regal elegance that invites all comers and I take the time to gape at her exterior. I take in the textures and the colors and let them invade my senses. As many opponents eventually realize, however, her exterior and her interior are two different beasts entirely.

Early, as I mentioned, I then wander near the entry way and sit on one of the cool steps leading into Memorial and I let myself go, relaxing entirely. As I have compared this experience in the past to achieving a state of Nirvana, this would have to, undoubtedly, be my meditation. Much like The Walk, I look out over the expanse and take in the hustle and bustle of the game day activity. Admission being sold, merchandise being attained, parties of people being formed, the look of the same anxiety I feel on a child’s face about to see his Cornhuskers in person for the very first time. That’s something I’ve never lost and I’m very happy I didn’t. Eventually, the gates open and it is time. It is time to enter the Church of the Cornhusker.

My ticket is ripped and I wander into the bowels of the arena, the lads and lasses with their wares in tow all ready to make me their pitch. Let me tell you, folks, there are few finer things in life than a hot slice of Val’s or a warm Runza sandwich betwixt your cheek and gum on a cool Autumn day. With provisions and stadium chair in hand, I walk past the very same ground the Cornhuskers will walk on mere minutes from now. I gaze upon the scene of the legendary Tunnel Walk. I look up the row of brick and tile to where All-American and walk-on alike have strolled in unity. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention then much as they do right now thinking about the experience. All in good time, though.

I find my seat, which has in recent years been located in the South Stadium and I sit. My father eventually joins me and we both take from the experience what we will. Personally, I like it all. I enjoy watching the warm ups and practices with all of the names I know and have met. I enjoy the starting line ups and the looks of confidence and ability on these men’s faces. Mostly, though? I enjoy the band. When The Pride of All Nebraska comes onto the field, I revel in part of what the game is all about, the pageantry. The full compliment is played from Mr. Touchdown, U.S.A. to Hail, Varsity! Then, after it is all said and done, you will hear the sweetest silence you have ever heard in your life. Like a beast awakened from its slumber, the state of Nebraska cries out in unison: HUSKER! Then again: POWER! HUSKER! POWER! It grows and it permeates the senses, it no longer becomes a chant, it becomes precedence, it becomes life. Then, it happens.

That familiar drone of “Sirius” blares over the loudspeakers and 78,000+ of my new best friends begin to clap in unison along with me. Tales of ‘Husker conquests long ago and to the present day line the HuskerVision screens. The shots of the NU helmet crushing the opposition’s and eventually the swing back to a live shot of the Men of Corn, their uniforms perfect and radiating, strutting to their eventual place of battle. The halls swell with their presence and finally, they burst forth from the abyss in a stream of scarlet and cream, flooding the field with power, presence, poise and confidence. At this point, it is not uncommon for my eyes to well with a tear or two, as I am a big softie when it comes down to it. The next several hours contain various things: A lost voice, screams and cheers, high-fives and celebration. To be truthful though, at that point? It’s all just one Big Red Blur…

Questions, commentary and your favorite mixed drinks can be sent to [email protected]

===Brandon a.k.a. Blankman #71===

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