All this draft talk and mock drafts and Mel Kiper pontificating just makes me think about what we’ve lost. They’re all sitting there in their studios talking about “development” and “NFL pipelines” like it’s some new concept. We were doing that when Lewis Field still had the grass sidelines and the south end zone was a hill. The pipeline wasn’t a sales pitch, it was a result. It was what happened when a kid came in as a freshman, sat in the stands for the Nebraska game in ’88 and felt the place shake, and spent four years building something with the guys in his locker. You didn’t develop for the league, you developed for the guy next to you, and the league was a byproduct. Now it’s just a transaction. A line on a recruiting brochure. They’ve commoditized the very soul of the thing.
I think about the sounds that are gone. The specific, deafening roar when Thurman Thomas would break through the line and hit the second level. It wasn’t a generic cheer. It was a collective gasp that turned into a tidal wave of noise that started in the old orange seats and rolled all the way up to the press box. You could feel the concrete vibrate. You knew everyone in that stadium, from the students in the east stands to the old farmers in the west, had just seen the same thing and were connected by it. What sound does a portal transfer make when he scores? The same generic applause as anywhere else. There’s no history in it. No shared struggle. It’s just a highlight for his personal reel.
The smells, for heaven’s sake. The mix of popcorn, stale beer, and crisp fall air in October. The scent of charcoal from the tailgates in the gravel lots that used to surround the stadium, lots that are now fancy buildings. The stadium itself used to have a smell, like old concrete and anticipation. Now it’s just a sanitized, corporate venue. They polished the character right out of it. They took down the old signs, expanded the suites, and made it look like every other stadium in the Big 12, or whatever we’re calling this fractured league now. They traded atmosphere for amenities, and they lost the magic.
The new kids will never know what it was to watch a player grow. To see a raw, skinny kid from Texas take his first snap, make his first big mistake, and then, three years later, will the team to a win over Oklahoma in Bedlam right on that field. That story unfolded in front of us, season by season, game by game. It was a novel we all read together. Now? You get a transfer’s highlight tape from his old school. He plays a season. Maybe he’s great. Then he’s gone, off to the next paycheck or the next draft projection. It’s a short story, and a forgettable one. There’s no weight to it. The stadium used to hold the weight of all those stories, all those careers. It felt heavy with tradition. Now it just feels like a temporary rental space.