RIP to the Scott Frost Era
Scott Frost got canned.
Like a shitty ’90s movie featuring Brendan Fraser as a caveman, the frost has officially thawed and, unfortunately, so have those ice cold takes from people predicting a return to dominance of the Nebraska football program.
You probably know this by now.
Even if you’re not from here, Nebraska — often derided as being utterly irrelevant by the powers that be in other parts of the world — can still be relevant. Even if it’s only when we’re firing our 48th coach in the past 4 seasons.
So, what do we make of this ill-fated homecoming?
Does the ‘Prodigal Son’ parable end with a shepherd (or whatever) taking a steaming dump at the 50-yard line of Memorial Stadium and I just misread that thing? One thing is for certain, there are almost as many questions piling up as there were “L”s during Frost’s tenure. And that was a lot.
So, let’s start with the most obvious question:
What the F- happened?!?!
There’s really not much explanation that will work to satiate this unanswerable question. Why are long pants long? Why are bushes bushy?
If anyone tells you they have the definitive answer as to why the 2017 Coach of the Year, a guy with impeccable coaching tree connections at both the college and pro level, and a wildly successful track record of what could only be called offensive near-genius didn’t pan out at his alma mater — a place that truly worshipped him when he announced his return — : then they are, flatly, full of shit.
Let’s start at the beginning.
In the year 2017 AD, a time when Nebraska had just come off a milquetoast season with a lukewarm coach that had about as much sauce and swagger as Mike Greenberg, newly hired athletic director Bill Moos made the move that most of us would have happily taken 100 times out of 100.
He hired a guy who had just been crowned the finest coach in all the land. A man who was on the same list as names like Saban, Brian Kelly, Dabo Swinney. Frost had literally all the credentials in the world. He was a slam dunk’s slam dunk. He was a Vince-Carter-in-the-Olympics slam dunk.
Briefly, here are some credentials that you probably already knew:
24–2 as the starting QB at Nebraska with 1 National Title.
Worked directly under Bill Snyder and Chip Kelly in the college ranks.
Quarterback coach for Heisman Trophy winner and #1 overall NFL Draft Pick, Marcus Mariota (I know, I know. Less cool, in hindsight).
Took over an 0–12 UCF team and rocket-propelled them directly into national relevance, getting them to an undefeated 13–0 record and the #6 ranking in the AP poll, after they defeated Auburn and basically had everyone salivating for playoff expansion.
But, perhaps more importantly than any of the numbers and any of the sparkling credentials was this one sublime reality: he also wanted to coach at Nebraska.
It wasn’t just Nebraska fans slobbering for Frost to come back so they could even get just the faintest hint of eau de 1997. He wanted us too.
This kind of rom-com level of fatedness only happens on the Hallmark Channel in December and once a hundred fucking years at a place like Nebraska. So, when each of the thousand Rube Goldberg-ass pieces that saw Frost leave, come back, and leave again, saw him suddenly standing on our doorstep with a bow on his head, Moos did what anyone else would have too: dumped a pile of money on Frost and we all went crazy when he said “yes”.
With Frost in hand, a bright future ahead, and Mike Riley and his goofy-ass khakis in the rearview mirror, the Nebraska train was about to really ramp up and take off down the tracks.
Things immediately went horribly off the rails.
Frost had his first game cancelled. Not postponed. Not delayed. He had that entire game cancelled.
This had actually never happened before at Nebraska.
We got the MF-ing coach of the year. That was lightning striking. Then, lightning did strike twice. And rained all over his entire parade.
Game: over. Ass: soaked. Frost: cursed.
It was like an Alanis Morissette song, except no one wanted to get drunk and scream-sing along.
From there? Our Rom-Com turned into a horror movie. A this-close, almost, blue-balls, edgelord, how-the-hell-did-that-just-happen calamity that played out over three full seasons (record: 12 wins, 24 losses), one global pandemic (record: 3 wins, 5 losses) and a 1–2 start to his final year.
You know those DJs on TikTok or Twitter who enjoy trolling people by not actually letting the beat drop on a song? They have this wild, lengthy, delicious buildup to when that beat is about to hit and the crowd is going to go absolutely berserk? But then they do something different?
That’s what happened. We had DJ Snake and Lil Jon cued up and rolling and somehow ended up with Abba. It was brutal in ways you cannot understand if you’re not a sports fan.
This particular football Loki/obnoxious DJ just kept doing that same thing. One time? Sure. Pretty funny. You got us. At least we were close. Two times? Alright, maybe don’t overdo it, ya know? But 22 times? 10 times in a row? That joke gets pretty old, pretty fast. By the end? You’re probably ready to smash the turntables or Macbook over you knee.
Simply put, Frost had to go.
His overall record was abysmal. Remember milquetoast, edited for content Mike Riley? His record was sterling by comparison. Did he also need to get fired? I would argue, yes.
If you put that pre-Nebraska resume on one side of the scale, and what Frost did at Nebraska on the other? You would need to move both those metaphorical weights out of the way and measure out some drugs just to not start sobbing.
It was truly baffling how bad he was when he needed to be good. Truly stunning how small his teams came up, when they needed to be big. The team would fight and scrap and claw and then inexplicably drop their hands in the last round and get absolutely smacked.
To be clear, not all of this was on Frost. Sometimes his players gagged on the moment, other times it truly seemed like heaven and earth and any gods you might believe in were laughing hysterically at his late-game misery.
There have been rumblings of other, off the field issues that Frost dealt with, but such is the crash-landing of an 747: there will be shrapnel strewn about.
Ultimately He ended his career 5–22 at Nebraska in one score games.
You cannot survive that stat, no matter how gilded your priors are, nor how big your key to the city.
His overall record was so bad your mother would have made you chug a bottle of Dial if you said it out loud: 16–31.
His signature wins were losses.
Even at the mighty-have-fallen Nebraska, that cannot stand.
And, Oh Did it Hurt to See Him Fail
It was like watching a brother fail. A cousin. There was no more “Nebraska” coach than Scott Frost. A Wood River boy, with chaw in his mouth and hunting commercials with his dog playing on the TV screen. With a pat on the back from the saintly hands of Tom Osborne and a for-once unified group of 1.8 million lunatics all rowing in the same direction, he was us.
When he failed, it felt like we failed. Like Nebraska hadn’t just stumbled, but had truly died.
That’s why this hurts so much, even though it was so necessary. We may experience the phantom pains of this particular amputation for quite some time.
That’s why you’ll see none of the gleeful grave-dancing that you did with other coaches who had such a clearly disdainful opinion of our fanatical fanbase or who seemed so foreign to our ways. This one felt like an indictment of…everything.
Our belief in the ’90s, our last vestiges of pride in who we were and where we came from: shaken to their very core. Frost was the clear path on the map for us. Simply put, he was our destiny.
And, for so many people it felt like, if our destiny — if the thing that was fated by the stars and the planets and whatever religion or spirituality or lack thereof we clutched to our chest — was so wrong, what did we have left as a fanbase? Where did our future go?
For Nebraska fans, it felt like the end of The Truman Show. This carefully constructed reality was just…bullshit.
So, where do we go from here?
(*Author’s note: I know this column has stretched far too long, so I’ll try to make it brief.)
M-i-c-k-e-y F-u-c-k yessssssssss!
https://vm.tiktok.com/TTPdMGt1ey/
There’s not enough track record of Mickey Joseph as a head coach to know for sure, but GD it, does he seem dynamic. Here’s what we know about Joseph: he’s a certifiably elite recruiter, he’s got those coveted Nebraska ties that we seem to love so much, and he’s coming off fiver years coaching WRs at LSU. Ever heard of Justin Jefferson? How about Ja’marr Chase? If not, Google them and feel your eyes roll back into your skull with how good both of them are.
I would argue that he’s already made a marked improvement of any of the aspects of the team that he’s touched.
Are our receivers better: ✔.
Recruits (Transfers, is probably more accurate): ✔
Landed us the dopest-named WR in the history of the universe, Decoldest Crawford? ✔✔✔✔✔✔
In short, Midas-Touch Mickey keeps turning shit gold for us. Now, he’s in charge of the entire kit and kaboodle. And, oh yeah. No pressure, Mick, but your first game is against the #6 team in the nation and will be watched by millions of people. No presh, my man.
So, we start with an impeccably tutored, highly respected coach who has worked with some of the brightest minds in the game, cranked out NFL talent, and has deep roots to his Alma Mater? Why does this sound so familiar???
The fact is, Joseph will be different than Frost. We need different right now.
He may not be the perfect fit, but he’s a breath of fresh air when all we could smell before was creatine powder, chaw, and the fetid breath of bad fourth quarters for the past five years.
I’m here for it. I think most of us are here for it.
Let’s slap on those Mickey Ears, let’s have the cheerleaders dress like Minnie, and let’s see what new directions we are capable of going, when the map is thrown out and we follow the path laid before us.
The Mickey Joseph era has already begun, the Scott Frost era is rapidly tailspinning away from focus. There are 9 entire games left this season for Joseph to impress, recruit, and absolutely slay the fire breathing dragons of the past five years. Throw on your armor, grab your shield, as corny-ass Russell Wilson would say in a PR-tested, focus-group-approved slogan: let’s ride.
