I was born with Cornhusker-red blood pumping through my veins. Just like Memorial Stadium as it fills up for each home game, my heart heats up each time I see the Blackshirts take the field. Being a fan of Nebraska is not a choice, it is a lifestyle.
I was born during the buildup to the Huskers rise to national power, 1992. Two years before quarterback Tommy Frazier led Nebraska to the first of back-to-back national championships, I jumped out of the womb just as Monday Night Football concluded and began my path to finding the rest of my allegiances.
By the time I was 6 years old, I would wake up an hour before school each morning and get my fill of SportsCenter. To this day I cannot explain what possessed 6-year-old me to give up sleep for highlight reel dunks and powerful hits, but I was dedicated to being the most knowledgeable sports fan in the classroom.
In 1998, the year I moved away from California (a mistake I rectified by choosing Cal Poly), the Broncos made their first of two consecutive Super Bowls. For reasons I cannot explain, I cheered for the Packers and Falcons in both games and came up empty-handed TWICE.
To add insult to injury the state I moved to was, of course, Colorado. I conceded in 1999 and found my first team, the Broncos, it would be. The city loved them, my classmates loved them and I needed an NFL team to call my own. Cruelly, they have not been to a Super Bowl since.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Mile High City, it is also a massive hockey town. Rockies? Who are they? Nuggets? Always disappointing. The Avalanche are the city’s second team.
My early morning ESPN wake-up calls were replaced by late nights watching Peter Forsberg and Patrick Roy take on the Sharks in the playoffs or, even worse, the Red Wings.
Unfortunately, my fandom did not begin until 2001, after the team went to Game 7 in the Stanley Cup Finals and beat the New Jersey Devils. Call me a bandwagon fan, but it was merely a product of the city that housed my impressionable years.
Though, the winds of change were in store again. Just as I found my stride in suburban Denver, mocking lowly Colorado Buffaloes fans during their annual shellacking by my Cornhuskers, my family and I again headed east, this time to St. Louis.
By this time in 2003, Nebraska was falling from grace. I loved the Huskers, but early season losses left me crying in my room knowing Nebraska would not be making another trip to the big game — a cathartic process that was repeated this weekend as Russell Wilson spanked the Cornhuskers all over the field.
Then, in the spring of 2004, all my newfound friends began talking about spring training, a term foreign to me. As a kid, I never set foot on a baseball diamond. Never hit a ball off a tee or played Little League.
I was a soccer kid through and through: baseball was completely off the radar. That is, until my friends implored me to watch the Cardinals. In St. Louis, the Redbirds ruled the roost. And after watching Albert Pujols and the rest of Murder’s Row (Scott Rolen, Jim Edmonds and Larry Walker), how could you not be a fan?
The team won 105 games that season and walked into the World Series. Unfortunately, they also walked into fate. The Boston Red Sox spoiled the Cards party, but it was all made worth it two years later when I watched from the stands in right field as the 2006 Cardinals redeemed themselves with a Game 5 victory over the Detroit Tigers and clinched the World Series.
It was the first time and only time that I can remember my team winning the whole she-bang.
My devotion has been tested over the years (can you say Brian Griese?), but my teams have remained the same. A solid grouping of Cornhuskers, Broncos, Avalanche and Cardinals that stand together in my heart.
But before I get too sentimental, I need to get back to the NLDS, Albert in St. Louis for maybe the final time? My soul is crushed every time I think about it, but for now I’ll sit back and enjoy “The Machine” at work.