"God is a alive and well," he told me, leaning over the bar, "and his name is Tom Osborne."

Tuesday afternoon, Kansas City Municipal airport. I am soaking my frustration over a delayed flight at one of those kitschy Cheers-imitation restaurants, when approached by a sun-burnt, 40ish man named Frank, one of the 60 or so Nebraska fans passing through the airport after their trip to Miami and the Orange Bowl. He is in a good mood, as his abrupt introductory remark indicates, and I am pretty pissed off. Believing cheer to be infectious, I decide to partake in a little whole-some midwestern badinage.

SDW: If Tom Osborne is God, who is Newt Gingrich?

Frank: His right-hand angel.

SDW: If he is his right hand angel, who is Turner Gill?

Frank: Point taken.

SDW: What was it like, really?

Frank: Amazing. One thousand miles from Lincoln. A sea of Red. 30,000 fans. In-frickin'-credible. And we even won.

SDW: And you got a tan.

Frank: Yeah? Well, that was beside the point. I was there on business.

SDW: At the same time as the game? That's convenient.

Frank: No, Nebraska football is my business. For 20 years now, I've been following them. Been to all but three games in the last 15 seasons, nine Orange Bowls included. Had a cousin who used to date Dave Remington [former all-American center].

SDW: Dave Remington?

Frank: Yeah, I also own the sweatband Dean Steinkuhler wore in that '82 loss to Penn State.

SDW: Lovely. Anyway, that was a little before my time.