Nebraska Basketball, the Love Story, Isn’t Over Yet
On Saturday night, with my vocal chords Fran Dreschered and my hands dully aching, I walked out of Pinnacle Bank Arena having just watched Nebraska Basketball lose another game.
They lost by one point, to a very vulnerable Kansas basketball program that narrowly avoided dropping their third game in a row.
Moral victories are a lot like eating leftovers. They’re budget friendly. They’re the “right way” of doing/looking at things, because you’re making the responsible decision not to waste. Sometimes, they even taste pretty good. But they’re never as delicious, as perfect, as the meal when it’s fresh.
Saturday, for all its brutality at the finish — the Huskers getting a swift kick right in their Jayhawks with Svi Mykahiailiuiaujliuikjskjui’s 3-pointer dropping in to put the KU ahead with 23 seconds to go — was just that: a moral victory.
So, no. It didn’t taste that good.
And, yes. Some people will throw it out because, at this point in the game? Husker fans want (and deserve) something fresh. Something deliciously hot out the oven to chew on, not reheated in the office microwave for 1:30 while Janice from accounting loudly talks to her homegirl about her kids’ issues with diarrhea at the spot in line behind you.
We’ve been eating leftovers for 3 years.
We’ve been waiting ’til next year so long, our fan base is now as old as the acrobat we hired for the halftime show.
(*Author’s note: which, can we talk for a second about letting this AARP member come out and do a bunch of stunts with no net and no padding, Nebraska? I don’t want The Amazing Sladek’s blood on our hands. The last thing I want for him to do is get all hopped up on Centrum Silver, velour his way onto the court and impale himself on a chair leg in front of 15,000 people. You know what was stacking up alongside those 8 chairs he was balancing on? My anxiety. That’s what.
My anxiety was 8 chairs high and Pinnacle Bank Arena doesn’t even have the decency to sell the $7 beers I need to calm myself down, when I’m concerned that this kindly old man might have some Werther’s Original residue on his hands and slip to his death. This dude’s will is written in hieroglyphics on a wall somewhere in Mesopotamia and we’re letting him risk it all so he can cash a check and wink at a couple of the elderly ladies sitting courtside? Like, Tom Osborne was probably in a rocking chair in some $5,000 seat in a private box thinking: damn, that guy is too old for this. Alright, that’s my rant. ❤ u Sladek.)
After Nebraska’s latest loss, I saw several prominent journalists from our great state refer to Nebraska basketball as a “sad story.” It was only on Twitter. A quick meaningless blurb, really, but something about it struck a chord with me.
I think that’s the easy way out. It’s too reductive.
That’s like calling Goodfellas “A drama.”
Don’t mistake a story with sad parts to only be capable of sadness. Nebraska men’s basketball isn’t a Greek tragedy. This isn’t the end of a Shakespeare play where everyone’s dead and the characters’ lives are in shambles.
Nebraska basketball is, and always will be, a love story.
Because love is messy and weird and unpredictable and reckless with your heart. Stop me if this sounds familiar, Husker basketball fans.
Because love is something that everyone sees differently, wears differently. Touches them differently. It’s a benign black hole that pulls at us, in one way or another, only some of us are farther out from the spot where the star collapsed.
Nebraska basketball, that beautifully flawed, utterly human project is all of those things. Sad? Sure. Insane? Definitely. Beautiful? At times, absolutely.
Over? No.
The ink hasn’t dried on this little piece of romance writing. Nicholas Sparks hasn’t hit ‘Ctrl P’ on this epic tale of rising and falling that would make Hawthorne proud.
On Saturday, it felt like we were counting down for a shuttle launch and when mission control crackled in our headsets calling for liftoff, the flames from the engine sputtered briefly and then died out. But the fuel is still there and the parts still work. We’re still looking up at the stars, even if we’re back to drawing board. Again.
But, make no mistake, this team is full of brawlers who seem ready to smile with blood between their teeth and wink with an eye that’s swelling shut.
Because, when Anton Gill collapsed to the floor after missing his shot and an exhausted James Palmer untucked his jersey — that familiar basketball white flag of surrender showing that you’ve given all you have — and put his hands on his knees, staring up at the rim that had just mercilessly ricocheted off his hopes of a massive, massive upset? I had nothing but pride in the program.
Sadness was the last thing I thought of.
All I felt was love.
All it felt like was another chapter, another ocean wave 1,000 miles from the coast. But, beneath those waves? I still believe there’s a current. An unseen force that will somehow, inexplicably, guide us through the choppy waters. And, I guess that’s what love is.
To love Nebraska men’s basketball, to be part of the love story in 2017? You have to have a little bit of sports hipster in you. You have to kind of like the battle more than the victories.
You know that dude riding the old, uncomfortable bike, rolling his own cigarettes, and grinding up his coffee by hand? He’s either utterly full of shit, or he sees the beauty in the struggle.
Which one are you going to be for the rest of 2017?
