Posts Tagged ‘Husker Football’

Are you one of those disenfranchised, embittered people who doesn’t get out to the polls when it’s time to perform your civic duty?  Are you the guy/girl who grumbles angrily about “all the crooks” that we have to deal with when casting a ballot for an elected office?  Cut it out.  You know why?  Because here‘s why:



Yes, that’s Tim Miles in a G-Unit man-scarf with his head tilted to the side so you know he means business. Yesterday was election day in Lincoln, Nebraska, the home of the Nebraska Cornhuskers.  And Tim wanted you to know that it’s time to get off your obesity-epidemic-suffering-ass and go vote for city council, mayor, and last but certainly not least: airport authority.

And lest you think that Tim is going the civic-duty-route all by his lonesome, have a taste of this:


POW!  That’s Mike Riley.  He’s new to these parts but he still wants you to get your A out of your desk chair and go hang some chads.

I know.  I know.  I’m sure you’re thinking: “Hey, Chris, this is stupid.”  And “Hey, Chris, you are a terrible photoshopper.”  And you would be right on both counts.  But before you glass-house-living haters throw stones, here’s this little number for you to try on:


That’s the last one.  I promise, I’m done.  But check out the necklace on Mark Banker (*Author’s note: Banksy? Still trying on crappy nicknames for him, at this point.) as he reminds us that Airport Authority isn’t going to elect itself.



On November 30th, 2014 a coach named Bo Pelini disappeared for the second time that year.  The first time was on November 22nd in Madison, Wisconsin — and well get to more on that later — but this was his second time going missing.  And this time it was for good.

Skerial, a new Podcast from NCB, investigates the mysterious circumstances and the conspiracy theories that abound surrounding the former Nebraska Football lightning rod.  Episode one sets the scene.


It was October in Nebraska.  The leaves were beginning to catch fire, leaf kindling leaping to autumnal flame, and the air only just starting to whisper quietly about the winter yet to come.  The kind of fall evening where the setting sun turns the light to gold leaf that could make King Midas jealous and plates the air in a quiet brilliance.

Out came the cooler, the chairs, and the holy grail of youthful campouts: the s’mores supplies.  My family and my best friend and I were at Pioneer’s park.  Night was just beginning its warmup laps around our prairie sky, darkness kissing the edges of the vast expanse above us, and we had come to stay until darkness.  With a crackling, we fired up the portable radio, battered black edges sliding along the equally requisite and equally dented aluminum picnic table near the fire ring.

Scanning through country tracks from pre-Chris Gaines Garth and past the sounds of a pop music blasting pre-crazy Britney, we landed on the right station.  The motherload.  The Husker broadcast.  We maxed out the tinny, small speakers so we could throw our own Nerf football while listening to the sounds of the game.  I don’t remember the other broadcasters voices, not now and not clearly anyway, but I do remember Adrian Fiala.  His voice’s unmistakable timbre, auditory pointillism dotting out each important moment, expanding though the night air like the smoke from our Journal Star clippings as they sparked our wood to a blaze.

We were young and it was Saturday.  Life itself was not to be pondered.  Not while there was a game blasting, a fire going, and football in the air.  Not while Adrian Fiala was talking.

Image courtesy of:

On Monday afternoon the radio clicked off.

The voice, that iconic deep-chested rumble, came to a stop.

On Monday afternoon, Adrian Fiala passed away.

I didn’t know Adrian Fiala personally.  He probably has no idea that he impacted my life in a small way; that his gilded baritone voice lacquered many a Husker Saturday for me, enhancing the product beneath but not ever trying to change it completely.  He probably doesn’t know that, when the Huskers played a severely overmatched opponent and the pay-per-view games were too pricey for my parents, I would crank my parents’ cable dial way up to the pay-per-view channel in an attempt to watch the scrambled lines of distorted gamedays even though we hadn’t paid for it and I would listen to him explain the shifting patterns as I desperately tried to make out whether that was actually Scott Frost running with the ball or not.

I didn’t know Adrian Fiala.  But he did know me.

He knew me because he knew Nebraska.  He knew me because he knew the players and he knew the tradition.  But above all, he knew the fans.  He knew that the blood in our veins had a particular hue to it that can only truly be described if you’re seated in Memorial Stadium on a crisp fall day in the capital city of Nebraska.  And he knew how to describe exactly that.  To crystallize a moment in a game and blend it with his football-mind and tumble out words like a timpani drum roll.  Regal and majestic.

When silence was called for, Adrian Fiala let it reign.  His silence over the air waves of my youth were just a momentous as his voice.  When Fiala let a moment simmer, you didn’t taste the stew until he was ready to ladle it back out again.  And that was how it went.  In a time of blurry pictures and pay-per-view games that were out of my parents’ price point: Adrian Fiala’s voice was high-definition.  It was slow-motion replay.  It was all the things that make nostalgia and sports blend together into a fine wine that ages gracefully and with dignity.

I’m no longer young.  And life is now, certainly, open to be pondered.  But one thing is for certain: come Saturdays in the fall, Adrian Fiala’s voice won’t be gone.  It will be remembered in the breathless recanting of a die-hard sports fan as he passionately remembers Fiala’s voice launching him into his traditional Saturday sprint into the front yard to celebrate a Husker touchdown, rocket-fuel for the youthful fan.  It will sound in the hearts and minds of those who loved him and knew him and were touched by his love in FM, AM, and in real life encounters.

On Monday afternoon, the radio clicked off.

On Monday afternoon, that iconic voice – braille to a generation of fans that could not see the action on the field – came to a stop.

But make no mistake: that voice, the voice, will continue to echo for quite some time.

(Feature image courtesy of:


Shawn Eichorst had a pretty eventful 2014.  The Nebraska Athletic Director fired and hired, got paid an F-load of money, took some shots in the local media, and even got called the C-Word by a former employee.  Ultimately, it was a pretty wild year.  So what does a guy like Eichorst do to make sure that 2015 is an even better year?  He buttons down his button-up, loosens up his press-releasing fingers, and cranks out a list of New Year’s Resolutions.

Once again utilizing our top secret informants that are hidden deep inside the athletic department (*Author’s note: suck on that, Jay Glazer!) we were able to obtain a copy of Shawn Eichorst’s New Year’s Resolutions.Eich


Nebraska Cornhusker defensive coordinator John Papuchis is a master motivator.  He first got on the mic to spit hot fire prior to Nebraska’s game against the Miami Hurricanes in early September.  Then, in an effort to fire up the team, he once again stepped into the booth to show off his lyrical chops prior to the Wisconsin game.  But with two smash hits that had been tearing up the charts for months, what would coach Papuchis do?  His mentor and head coach Bo Pelini was fired on November 30,2014 and so Papuchis had one last chance to rally the troops and show what he was made of.

It begs the question: what does a man who knows his time has come do to send off one last parting shot?  He.  Brings.  The.  Heat.

Here’s John Papuchis’ third and final diss track, as he takes aim at the Trojans and — as usual — says his own name a lot.  Utilizing a secret source in the inner circles of Nebraska football, we were able to obtain an exclusive leaked copy of Papuchis’ latest single.  Shots fired!  (*Author’s note: the lyrics are transcribed below)


To all the Trojans at the bowl with red and gold
I’m going all in, Ho, so you gots to fold
Who’s the bro who keeps it chill, when everybody’s getting canned?
I’m the man with the plan, and the Whoop-ass can
So let’s crack it open, and let’s have us a taste
Here’s my resume, son, so just copy and paste
Defensive P. Diddy, I can’t stop, won’t stop
Treat your QB like the beat, just wait for him to drop
Stadium full of Real Housewives, Call ‘em Bethanny Frankels
Let’s be clear, it’s Ameer, breaking Josh Shaw’s ankles
I’m more Mack than Lemore, watch more film than Cannes
Might be playin’ USC but I’m the real Trojan man
Charlie’s Angels 2, man, we’re coming full throttle
Only time I respect Sark is when it’s Cutty in a bottle
Yeah you might have Miley, but I’m Heating: Pat Riley
So what Snoop ‘s on your side, I got a Cable Guy

(I love it when you call me Papuchis)
Throw your hands in the air, if yous a true player
(I love it when you call me Papuchis)
To my defense sacking QBs and I’m blitzin’ with Newby
(I love it when you call me Papuchis)
If you got a job up at your school, then just hire me  fool
Casue I got a defense tonight that will be rolling with JP

It’s Papuchis’ defense, let me make that clear
It’s time for bone-crushing hits, those are called Pap Smears
Agin’ like fine wine, here comes our dope D-line
To San Diego which is German for a Whale’s Vagin
Trojan women looking like Mickey Rourke in the Wrestler
Here comes that blitz, comin’ for a Kessler yessir.
Running circles round you suckers, winnin’ the race
Carving up your o-line like it’s Bruce Jenner’s face
More ill than ebola, always a high rolla
John Papuchis Jr. has got 20’s on his stroller
Ain’t no way that Papuchis and his boys gonna fail
Even though Pelini’s gone, we had a BoGo sale
Will we win, of course I’m a human Trojan horse
And luck? May it be with you, like it’s Jedi Force
Bouncing back for a win, got a team like flubber, tell those Trojan Men that JP don’t wear a rubber.

(I love it when you call me Papuchis)
Throw your hands in the air, if yous a true player
(I love it when you call me Papuchis)
To my defense sacking QBs and I’m blitzin’ with Newby
(I love it when you call me Papuchis)
If you got a job up at your school, then just hire me  fool
Casue I got a defense tonight that will be rolling with JP


On November 30, 2014 Nebraska head football coach Bo Pelini was fired.  Two days later he held a closed-door meeting with a group of his former players.  The audio of what he said was leaked to the media and has made waves throughout the state.  The Omaha World Herald recently released the audio version they heard of the coach ripping into the University and the athletic department.

Here’s the Bo Pelini audio they didn’t release.  The extra raw audio.

(*Author’s note: We’ve included the lyrics below, to assist with understanding Bo’s nasty rhymes.)

Straight outta Youngstown, crazy motherfucker named Bo P
Call me Grumpy and my brother be Dopey
When I’m pissed off I shoot my lips off
Favorite finger is the middle one that flips off
I’m out son, so who’s coming with me
To Youngstown State with no Hate, and an AD
Who knows football, man, this dude’s the best
He’s always looking so sexy in his sweatervest
MC Pelini and I’m spitting hot fire
If you come around my ass, I’m gonna frisk you for a wire
Shots fired at Eich, man, I’m bustin’ like a Gat
Called him a pussy I ain’t talkin’ bout my cat
So. . . step it up, now, Harv
Bring your turkey ass up because it’s time for me to carve
I’ll tell the whole university to grab on deeze
But mad respect for you if you repping McD’s
Crewneck and a flat bill hat
Chompin on my gum like I’m Ozzie with a bat
And Eichorst?  He never want us to win
With beady ass eyes and his pastie skin
In abandoning ship, so good luck with your wreck
Miss Eichorst’d sure look pretty in my used Crewneck.
Youngstown State will be on the attack
I’m the white D’Angelo, time for a comeback.
If you’re a Beaver-loving hippy from Oregon, better duck
Cause I got 9 wins and zero fucks.
On my gum, yo, chompin’ with a frown
But when I come back boy, I’m coming straight outta Youngstown

Straight outta Youngstown, another crazy ass verse
Back to haunt your team like the Bieber Curse
Got a closet full of Khakis for all my outfit switches
To all you snitches, you know you’re getting stitches
Call me honkie LeBron, ‘Cause I’m goin’ Home
Got a team to coach, where my mouth can foam
A school where the AD doesn’t dress in skirts
And nobody gives a fuck about the color of your shirts
Yo, Ryker? Let’s go cause some strife
And if we get convicted, I’m pleading the Fyfe
And to JP? I’m really gonna miss you
It was never my intent to hurt or diss you
Forgive me son, for I know not what I do
But for old time’s sake, here’s one last fuck you!
Done pointing thumbs, it’s time to point a finger
Perlman brought in Eich as a motherfuckin’ ringer
Beat so dope makin’ all the ladies Twerk
And as for you, Chatelain you can suck my Dirk
Put your ass in full nelson like Jordy
Go ahead, come at me, I’m a man I’m 40
‘Comin for you suckers like I’m Raid for a Roach
Might just make T-Magic my next QB coach
Even though I got the axe I still got it made
150K a month, Your boy is gettin’ paid
Blah, blah, blah, the glories in the deed
I’m using my buyout money to help Carl buy some weed
Got money on money, like I’m Richie Rich
Now I’m outtie, to make the FCS my bitch
Straight outta Youngstown.


Barney Cotton is the head coach of the Nebraska Cornhusker football program.  Read that again.  I know, I know.  Not for long.  But, in the interim, he’s the man running the show for a program that made $30 million dollars last year.

So what does a guy with fleeting power, a ticking clock before he ends up coaching at a DII school somewhere, and a pile of people wondering what this team will look like when they meet up with USC in the Holiday Bowl do with all of that on his plate?  He stays organized.  He plans things out meticulously.

Utilizing a top-secret informant within the inner workings of the Cornhusker football team, we were able to obtain a screenshot of Barney Cotton’s laptop showing just how incredibly precise his planning is for the day ahead.  Take a look.

(*Author’s note: as usual, the formatting sucks. Click on the image and all shall be revealed.)