I've read yet:
Well, it happened. Northern Illinois broke me.
Over the course of 60 minutes, the youthful exuberance and optimism that I’ve had for the Huskers since the age of Game of the Century II was ripped from my body.
It wasn’t a swift, it-will-only-hurt-for-a-second, pulling of the Band-Aid that held what was left of my spirit together. It was a back alley surgery done by a community college dropout equipped with nothing more than a rusty Garden Weasel and a bottle of expired Robitussin to use as anesthesia.
READ ON
Well, it happened. Northern Illinois broke me.
Over the course of 60 minutes, the youthful exuberance and optimism that I’ve had for the Huskers since the age of Game of the Century II was ripped from my body.
It wasn’t a swift, it-will-only-hurt-for-a-second, pulling of the Band-Aid that held what was left of my spirit together. It was a back alley surgery done by a community college dropout equipped with nothing more than a rusty Garden Weasel and a bottle of expired Robitussin to use as anesthesia.
READ ON
