The NFL is known for being an all-powerful, narrative-vice-gripping, billionaires club.  So what usually happens when you get a bunch of super-rich white dudes together that are struggling to control their apparent image problems?  (*Author’s note: it’s called congress.  Hiiiii-oooooh! But Seriously. . .)

You get more even more secrets and ass-covering than even a paranoid Illuminati-crazed whacko could come up with.  At No Coast Bias we’re determined to crack the code and get the behind-the-scenes access that our readership demands.

This is where the NFL Combine comes into play.  The combine has turned into a multi-day hypefest that explodes onto our social media timelines with pictures of fat guys burning through more 40s than in a party scene for a Big Pun biopic, NFL fanbases losing their minds over the measurables of their favorite prospect, and a whole lot of super-athletes being judged by chubby dudes sitting at their office desks (Author’s note: see: Hatch, Chris).

But what about the lesser-publicized events that the NFL uses to try to judge a prospect?  Are there, in fact, secret “measurables” that only the innermost circles of the NFL Combine are privy to?  We dug deep and utilized our secret sources that are connected on the deepest levels of security to find out that there are, indeed, 4 additional events that the NFL tests for at their fabled combine.  Here they are.

1.  The 40 Lawyer Dash


This test is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.  Given the NFL’s recent troubles off the field, this is a speed test in which prospects try to see exactly how quick they can lawyer up should they run into any kind of legal trouble.  How fast can that shifty running back from the Pac-12 manage to find himself a defense attorney?  Can that star linebacker from the SEC get to a prestigious, amoral law firm before TMZ finds out what happened?  This drill is carefully scrutinized by both electronic timing and several corrupt judges brought in to monitor the potential legal proceedings.

2.  The Character-Based Questionnaire


We’ve all heard about the Wonderlic test and we’ve heard horror stories about players with checkered pasts getting questioned by directors of player personnel from various teams.  However, this year the NFL opted for one-question test that allowed them to identify any potential troubles that may occur when the players aren’t on the grid iron.  Because this year: what concerns do they have for you if you’re not Jameis?

3.  The Weed Brick Lateral

Dime-bag lateral

At this point, I’m not sure why this isn’t just a publicly held event like the other parts of the combine.  Every NFL player needs to have a fall guy ready and waiting to say, “Uhh. . .yeah, officer.  That is my weed.  Not the guy driving the Maserati’s.  Totally mine.  Whoops.”  This event tests the dexterity and fast twitch muscles of potential players who are required to quickly dump a brick of weed into the waiting hands of their less-financially-important homeys.

4.  The Goodell Says Jump, You Say “How High.” Vertical Test


This is, for all intents and purposes, the single most important phase of the NFL’s secret combine.  At least, it is to Roger Goodell.  And, if the man seated on the Iron Throne approves of your obedience and approves of your undying fealty, he will not put your name on the black list.  (*Author’s note: And, yes, that is supposed to be kind of a racist version of a double entendre)  If you deny swearing your blood-oath to the master and high priest of all of the National Football League, Goodell will recommend that are you immediately sent to the football hinterlands to languish in misery for all of eternity.  Or as the NFL calls it: you’ll get drafted by the Buffalo Bills.


Last night, Joseph Kahn dropped a ’90s themed atom bomb on my consciousness.  He released what he called a “De-Boot” of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.  If you haven’t seen it: here’s the video.

It’s got James Van Der Beek playing Rocky DeSantos, or as I called him while stuffing my mouth full of knock-off, store-brand Lucky Charms on Saturday morning: The Red Ranger.  Katee Sackhoff stars as Kimberly the Pink Ranger, or as I called her while I was still cramming that cereal into my mouth: “The One I was Madly in love with”

Kahn is mainly known for his work on music videos but also has directed one of my all-time favorite movies, the thoroughly weird, completely insane, and pop-culture packed Detention.  

Image courtesy of:

If you haven’t had a chance to watch Detention yet (*Author’s note: and literally no one I know has) you need to make sure that you check it out.  It defies description in such a perfectly absurd way that I won’t even waste any further text on it, nor distract from the task at hand: namely, praising this intensely badass 15-minute movie.

Kahn’s take on The Power Rangers is bleak, kind of terrifying, and packs in so much fascinating backstory that I found myself re-watching it almost immediately.

Highlights include:

— A trailerparked up Bulk and Skully selling out Kimberly, and her freshly-married Green Ranger lover, Tommy, and the two once-comic foils watching as both rangers get mowed down in a hail of gun fire a la Kill Bill Volume II.  (*Author’s note: Bulk and Skully later OD in their trailer park.  I’m a sick man, for enjoying this so much, aren’t I?)

— The always-racist Black Ranger doing blow and killing a room full of North Koreans

— Incredible special effects that look like they were hijacked off the CGI-studio for (______Insert Michael Bay Movie Here).

— The reappearance of Rita the Space-Witch, replete with her insane head gear and the laugh that used to haunt my Saturday morning day-mares.

Unfortunately, Kahn issues a disclaimer in the print underneath this short-film masterpiece essentially making it well known to all of us that this isn’t an attempt to make this into a feature length film.  He doesn’t want our money (*Author’s note: which is weird and cool) and he isn’t looking to stretch this out.  He’s, apparently, just like the rest of us and has always wanted to see The Might Morphin Power Rangers kick more ass and take more names as grown ups.

Anyway, I’m done writing.  I’ve got to go re-watch the Black Ranger shoot some guys in the head after having a three-way with two chicks.


The Big Ten is really, really dumb.

I know.  That’s not exactly an earth-shattering sentiment at this stage in the game.  But it’s one that I feel bears repeating.  Bolding.  Italicizing.  Hell, maybe even underlining.

The Big Ten is really, really dumb.

I would type it a hundred times if it wouldn’t immediately cause all of you to close out of this post faster than normal (*Author’s note: which is approximately the amount of time it takes Rick Pitino to have himself some black-mailable fun).

The latest in a long slew of ill-advised, half-coherent ideas that threatens the league’s credibility and once again puts a once-proud conference at the end of a whole hell of a lot of punchlines.

In a statement yesterday, the Big Ten announced that they were reaching out to their member institutions about a “year of readiness” that would be designed to hold out student athletes from their freshman year of athletics in order to better acclimate them to college life and to allow them to focus on academics.  (*Author’s note: immediately after typing that, I had to step away from my computer and projectile vomit like a malfunctioning android in Alien.)

This “year of readiness” is just another moment in a “career of idiocy” by Big Ten Commissioner Jim Delany.  Delany, seemingly hell-bent on self-destructing the entire league and imploding any hopes the Big Ten has to capitalize off a recent national championship and a splashy off-season that brought in new blood and big names to the league, continues to bumble and botch the big stage with gusto.

Freshman were made eligible to compete in NCAA sports in the 1972-73 seasons.  I didn’t have a “year of readiness” but, if my math serves me, that was 43 years ago.  There’s a lot of stuff from 1972-73 that we really don’t want to have come back.

Delany just drank a fifth of Vodka, got dared to drive, and hopped into his DeLorean so he could swervingly speed off to 88 MPH in the hopes of recapturing “the good old days.”


Who dared him?  Probably a snooty, pinky and nose in the air while sniffing a brandy, whack job that thinks players like DeMornay Pierson-El and Melo Trimble would be left holding their Econ 101 textbooks on the sidelines while their teammates were out on the field needing their help.

Here’s the only way I could imagine a swine like Jim Delany reaching such an absurd conclusion:


Interior, a lavishly decorated office that looks like it was taken straight out of Scarface:

Jim Delany sits at his desk.  It’s surrounded by paintings of himself.  Directly behind his desk is an elaborate collage showing lemmings jumping to their doom.  In big letters it proclaims: Follow.  At least you won’t be the first one to jump off the cliff!

Delany has a credit card in one hand and he’s making lines out of a pile of a white powder that is placed on a mirror at the center of his desk.  It’s likely just powdered sugar, as it’s a well known fact that Delany’s a culinary expert.  Glory Days by Bruce Springsteen is playing on repeat at maximum volume.

The gold-plated, ivory crusted phone rings on Delany’s desk.

Greatest commissioner in the world, Jim Delany speaking.  Why, yes,
Angela.  Be sure to send them right in.  And how many times have I
told you?  Either call me “All Powerful and All-knowing Commissioner
Mr. Delany” or I’ll send you back to the kitchen where you belong.”

Delany hangs up the phone.  Into the room walk 4 older white dudes that look straight out of an SNL skit poking fun at Congress.  Delany hastily wipes off the mirror and turns down the music.

Gentleman!  Come on in.  Can I interest you in some scotch?
Some segregation, perhaps?

All the old men laugh heartily.

Quickly the mood shifts.  The old white dudes sit down and stare at Delany grumpily.

Old White Dude #1
Jim, we need to talk. . .

Anything for my friends at the Angry Honkies Of Large Entitlement

Old White Dude #2
We know we can count on you, Jim, to always have time for
AHOLES.  We need to talk about the Big Ten.

I’ve told you guys before.  I’m not changing the name.
We’ve got, what?, like. . .
(He snorts loudly, dips a finger in the white powder residue
and rubs some on his gums while he attempts to count)
10 schools?  So we’re sticking with it.  It’s math.

Old White Dude #3 stands up and places his hands on Jim’s Desk.  He takes off his toupee and fans himself with it in frustration.

Old White Dude #3
I’ll stop you right there, Jim.  That’s exactly the problem.  Math.
The students don’t know it.

Old White Dudes 1, 2, and 4

Old White Dude #3
And they’re not learning it.

Old White Dudes 1, 2, and 4
(Again, in unison)

Old White Dude #3
And, as card-carrying AHOLES, it’s our duty to harken back
to a time when things were simpler.  Purer.  A time when
a man’s word was his bond, our politicians were only looking
out for the American people, and all wars were justifiable.
A time when racial politics weren’t so fraught, and student
athletes were students first and then athletes.

Delany is swept up in the rampant old-man-rage-current and staggers to his feet!

By God, you’re right!  The ’70s were the best!  Watergate?
So what!  Vietnam?  Big deal.  And people of all races got along
so much better.  You know what?  The ’70s got me.  They always
have.  What we need is to go back. . .


I’m talking way back.  I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.
What we need is to stop our student athletes from playing
their first years on campus and get them back to focusing on
important things.  Like paying $18,000 a semester to take Intro
to Psychology.

(Slapping his hands on the desk)
Gentleman: I know what I have to do.

Old White Dude #4
We’re glad you listened to reason, Jim.  Do the right thing.  And
I’m not talking about that horrid movie by that Spike Lee guy.
Atrocious thing, that.  Trying to make us think about things we
don’t like.

Exactly.  No more thinking.  Just acting.  Or better yet, re-acting.
Preferably reacting immediately, blindly, and with little regard
for human decency.  Good day, gentlemen.

The AHOLES all walk out laughing.  Delany closes the door and heads back to his desk.

In the lobby, the old men pull off their masks, Mission Impossible style.

It’s Bob Bowlsby, Mike Slive, Larry Scott, and John Swofford!

Did he just. . .?

Do exactly what we wanted him to do?  Yes.  Yes he did.

So what you’re saying is that the ACC has a chance?  With Jameis
leaving I was getting kind of worried. . .

All the other conference commissioner’s look at one another and laugh hysterically.


That’s legitimately the only way I could see this scenario playing out.  An elaborate, Illuminati-style conspiracy at the hands of the other, smarter commissioners to trick Delany’s broke-ass into flushing any remaining chance at talented young players in the Big Ten down the B1G Crapper.


Valentine’s Day is almost here.  So what better way to celebrate than by printing off and handing out some of the official Burnpoetry Sports-Themed Valentine’s day cards!








The NBA is hosting a fashion show this Friday for the NBA All-Star game.  The event, which will later air on TNT prior to Saturday’s night All-Star festivities, will feature real NBA players doing the modeling as well as commentary from some of TNT’s on-air personalities.  Which.  Is.  Hilarious.  The Twitterability of this event should land it in the pantheon of goodbad ideas and will undoubtedly make fashion experts out of all the schlubby bloggers who sit behind their keyboard without ever having worn a single man-scarf or fedora and who still think that hooded sweatshirts are cool (*Author’s note: see: me.)

So I figured, why wait.  Let’s try to see what we might be able to expect on Saturday when the general public is treated to NBA players strutting their fashion stuff on a runway.  Here are just a few ideas on what we may see.

Model: Tyson Chandler

Designer: Spud Webb’s Tailor

Sporting the latest look from Spud Webb’s tailor, Tyson Chandler shows us exactly what happens when a Schmedium suit lands itself on an XXL frame.  Chandler shows that it’s not the cut of the suit, but whether or not that suit would work if you had to ford the river on the Oregon Trail and still wanted to look sleek and sexy.  Is he running to Noah’s Arc with two animals under each arm, trying to avoid the world-ending flood?  Or did he borrow this suit from fellow NBA great Mugsy Bogues’ closet?  Either way, you can be sure of 1 thing: he looks dang good.


Image courtesy of:

Model: Chris Andersen

Designer: Ted Nugent

Showing off the latest in camouflage chic, Chris Andersen shows off that not only is he “the birdman” but he’s also probably leaving the arena and going pheasant hunting immediately.  When you watch this paragon of cool walking thee runway, we know just what you’re saying to yourself: Wait, where did he go?  Oh, there he is.  Damn, that’s fashionable.  And, boy, would you be right.

Model: LeBron James

Designer: Whoever came up with the wallpaper at your parents’ house

LeBron James has a net worth somewhere in excess of 450 billion, trillion, bajillion dollars.  So what does a guy who has a bigger checking account than God do when he’s in the mood to try something new?  Probably borrow some designs from my parents’ bathroom wallpaper guy, give them to whomever designs the Olympic Ice Dancing team’s uniforms and then demand they make it “More red.  Like, blood from The Shining red.”  Is he paying a moving homage to the clothing in Memoirs of a Geisha or is he just trying to make you feel nostalgic for your Grandma’s closet?  We may never know.

Model: Russell Westbrook

Designer: King Arthur’s Personal Armorer

Russ Westbrook is one of the NBA’s most dynamic young talents.  The only thing Middle Aged about him is this period piece he’s rocking that is a nod to his favorite off-court pastime: renaissance fairs.  Is Westbrook expecting someone to challenge him to a duel?  Is that why he looks like he’s about to saddle a white steed, grab a lance, and charge into a blistering jousting battle?  And for all you ladies wondering what’s underneath?  We can only assume: chain mail!  Also, does he have his family crest in that murse?  It’s too small for a broadsword.  Prithee, sir Westbrook.  What hast thou in yonder man-purse?


Image courtesy of:

Model: Paul George

Designer: A Country Music Singer on Acid That’s Listening to Trip-Hop

Confused?  Me too.  But you know who’s not?  Paul George.  He knows exactly who he is, in this stunning ensemble that is designed to make you feel like you’re staring a little too hard at those Mossimo shirts from 1995 that somehow rose to prominence.  Is Paul leaving the arena tonight and going to a disco party that’s being hosted by blind aliens aboard their Studio 81 themed flying saucer?  Or is he trying to pull our eyes out of their sockets and to his Little Mermaid colored pants?  Good question.  Regardless of the answers, he’s going to leave one retinal-scarring fashion statement forever seared into your cerebral cortex.  It begs the question: was Paul George’s leg really injured in that gruesome tumble during Team USA’s scrimmage this summer, or was that just the recurrence of an old injury he suffered after falling from his stunt-wired position as a human disco ball at Burning Man?

Image courtesy of:

Model: Tony Parker

Designer: Realistically?  Probably Tony Parker.  He is French, after all.  Don’t they all have some kind of fashion line?

Tony Parker, master of dribble-drive penetration and potentially doing his teammates’ wives, is also known for being a seriously handsome dude.  So feast your eyes on the latest in distressed pleather couture.  What’s couture, you ask?  I have no idea.  Just ask the French guy with the purse.  The idea for this vintage jacket was first developed when Tony Parker accidentally stumbled into a spare room of his mansion and witnessed Indiana Jones’ jacket making sweet, sweet jacket-love to a leather vest designed for mid-life crisising women.  Fashion fusion immediately sprung from the loins of those two star cross’d closet lovers and Tony tossed it on just in time to head down to the game.

Image courtesy of:

Model: James Harden

Designer: A Twelve-Year-Old girl who fell asleep while watching Powder Puff Girls

Wearing the latest in Tweenage-girl rhythmic gymnastics attire, James Harden shows off exactly what can happen when you match an inimitable beard with a flair for My Little Pony design concepts.  Never one to shy away from a slicing drive to the hoop or a mess chest opening that looks like it was most likely crocheted by a woman during her weekly book club meetings, Harden brings an edge to a shirt that can only be described as a cotton candy worm hole.


For some fans, tonight’s Nebraska V.S. Wisconsin game has lost some of its luster.  The Huskers have been wildly, irreconcilably, inconsistent.  The entire season has a gigantic *comma* except tagged on after virtually any declarative statement you wish you could make.

They have rarely shot well *COMMA* EXCEPT when they explode for a 62.8% shooting night against Northwestern.

They have played tenacious defense *COMMA* EXCEPT when they gave up 37 second half points to a lousy Minnesota team on the road. (*Author’s note: which isn’t a ton of points, but they certainly struggled to stop a not-good Pitino squad from manhandling them)

You can play this same, admittedly weird, punctuation game with virtually anything you try to say about this team.  And it’s exactly this kind of roller coaster style, stomach-churning peaks and eye-bulging valleys that have led many of the casual fans to renege on their new-found love of Husker hoops.  It’s been tough to get a bead on this year’s team.  We’re good, then we’re bad.  We seem to have figured it out, then we appear to have gotten all of our offensive talent Monstar’d away in some cruel joke.  It’s maddening.  It’s eye-rolling.  It’s all the things that last year’s miracle run didn’t prepare us for.

The fact is: we have no idea what team will show up tonight against the #5 team in the country.  Since it’s a home game, you have to believe that Nebraska can scrap and claw and battle their way into a full-on streetfight.  The climactic scene from Rocky V comes to mind.

So if you’re one of those fans, new to caring and new to watching Huskers basketball.  If you’re one of those people who hopped on the bandwagon approximately 11 Months ago when this program began to pick up steam and now you’re seriously considering jumping off the bandwagon in an unceremonious crash-landing on the pavement outside Pinnacle Bank.  If you’re one of those people who doesn’t think this game matters tonight, let me tell you why you’re wrong.

Let me tell you why you should sit back down and hang on tight.  At least for just a little longer.

Here’s why this game tonight matters:

1.  Because if you don’t already hate Wisconsin, you should.

Not only are these bovine-enthusiast, cheese-curd chomping, Northern invaders quickly becoming our arch-nemesis in the Big Ten.  But they’re doing so with a team full of white dudes that dance like this:

(Highly disturbing image courtesy of:

And a coach who resembles The Grinch so closely in both his demeanor and his physical appearance, that you literally expect him to take a time out during the game just so he can break and enter into Cindy Lou Who’s house and pretend to be Santa Clause.  Forget the fact that they’ve thoroughly embarrassed us on the football field (*Author’s note: I realize that this is an impossible statement given the state that we live in) and forget the fact that their dairy cows are cranking out enough methane gas that they’re slowly and surely turning our O-Zone layer into the Swiss version of the cheese that they produce.  This is about passion and pride, hatred and volatility.  It’s about Bo Ryan

And the chance to see him attempt to murder a referee with his eyes and to watch his counterpart on the Husker bench appearing to *GASP* actually enjoy himself.  We need to take down Wisconsin.  Because they’re Wisconsin.  And because they tried to knock our state’s bomb-ass export business and they messed it up by not even Googling it or saying, “Hey, what if I check Wikipedia?”

2.  Tim Miles has earned your respect.

After sticking out a miserable first year, then striking while the iron was white-hot and going on a recklessly enjoyable NCAA Tournament run against all odds last year, Tim Miles deserves a fan base that comes correct even when the chips are down.  What happened last year, what we were able to finally enjoy after so many dog days and cellar dwellings, engenders a little loyalty.  A little passion.  I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense to totally buy into this team at this moment and for this game.  Sometimes you just need to slam an adult beverage, scream until your lungs implode and hope that the student section storms the court like it’s a Hardwood version of Normandy Beach.  Now, who’s with me?

3.  There are few things better for an angry fan base than pulling an upset against a team with title aspirations.

I know, I know.  Even if we do win this game, Wisconsin still appears primed for a deep NCAA Tourney run.  But why not allow ourselves the devious pleasure of messing up their well-laid plans?  Why not let us worm a little doubt into the minds of our foes when they need confidence the most?

Why not be B-Rabbit in the final rap battle of 8 Mile, laying out all our problems and angst and then still standing there with two middle fingers extended in spite of our black eyes and seemingly insurmountable odds.  Defiance is fun.  Let’s give it a shot.

So in conclusion, don’t go pulling the rip cord yet.  We’ve got too many chances to battle.  Too much fun to have.  We’ve got too many plans to ruin, attempted stretch runs to slash and burn.  We get to be the anarchists even if we’re not sure exactly what the future holds for Nebraska.  Don’t worry about NITs or CBIs or any other acronyms that might drag you down into “what-ifs” and “what-happeneds”.  Forget wagons with bands and fans with one foot out the door.

Instead, grab this game — grab tonight– and have a little fun.  It doesn’t look like we’re going to have the season we wanted to in 2015 *COMMA EXCEPT* with this team?  You never know.


If you don’t like Terran Petteway, you can suck it.

If you think that his shot selection is bad or that he is too emotional on the court or that he’s (_____Insert idiotic Twitter criticism here from someone who just started watching Husker basketball during march of 2014.) then you can suck it.

Lee Barfknecht of the Omaha World Herald came out with a phenomenal piece today deriding the critics of Nebraska’s best player since 1998.

It was well-researched.

It was classy.

It was all the things I’m not and don’t have to be because I have approximately 17 people who read my work on a weekly basis.  In that piece, Lee pretty much statistically and anecdotally tore apart any of the low-level grumblings from Husker fans who may or may not be placing blame for Nebraska Basketball’s mid-season struggles on the tattooed shoulders of Petteway.

I’m here to tell that Lee is right.  And Lee wrote a good, just, fair article.  I’m here to tell you, again, that if you don’t like Terran Petteway: you can suck it.


I’ll summarize what Barfknecht wrote: Petteway’s numbers, on the whole, are up.  His leadership is unquestioned.  His work-ethic is unparalleled.  His beard is totally f-ing dope.  (*Author’s note: Alright, so I made up that last one.)  So, where are these critics coming from?  What asinine, unintelligible, douche-rumblings are taking aim at the human adrenal gland that injected life into the post-mortem carcass of Nebraska’s basketball program?  What ill-thought, moronic, Twitter stumblefuckery would lead to a columnist at a respected journalistic institution to have to actually sit down and key-clatter his defense for a player of Petteway’s ilk?

I’m not entirely sure.  But one thing is for certain: it’s probably the same guy who shouts out in teeth-gnashing angst when Petteway jacks up a difficult three pointer that doesn’t go in and gets frustrated that we’re not playing basketball the way his YMCA squad did back in 1988.  If you’re looking for him, it’s the same guy who is verbally raising the roof when Petteway hits a similar bail-out, ass-saving three a possession later when a struggling Husker offense needs a miracle.

Yes, Nebraska was able to go on a miraculous run that no one saw coming.  They got magma, scorching, face-meltingly hot.  And that run was due, in large part, to Terran Petteway and his ability to take and make insane shots.  Petteway’s first season with Nebraska was The Chronic.  It was the best debut album of all time.  There’s a reason it took Dr. Dre 7 years to make his next record.  The expectations after a phenomenal debut are incredibly hard to live up to.

But Terran has more than lived up to those expectations.  He’s delivering 2001 right now.  But some people are too dumb to listen or not smart enough to care or they haven’t even considered just whipping out their f-ing smart phones to Google his stats.  Because the stats don’t lie.


And the stats tell us that Petteway is taking more shots and shooting almost exactly the same percentage as last year.  They tell us that he’s averaging 34 minutes per game, being asked to do more while the team has struggled offensively to find their groove, and he’s still averaging more assists, rebounds, blocks, and steals than last year.

His PER is higher (*Author’s note: Google it if you have to, I’m not explaining to you why you need to know more about basketball)

His effective field goal percentage (*Author’s note: the stat that takes into account that a 3-pointer is worth more than a two pointer, and is crucial in explaining why Terran is so good at what he does. Terran shoots 46% of his shots from 3-point range, so having a good percentage in this category punches holes in the myth that he’s not shooting well.) has risen.

In short, by any measurable number other than turnovers (*Author’s note: again, he’s being asked to do more.), Terran Petteway has gotten better than he was last year.  No one does more for his team, or is asked to do as much, as Terran Petteway.  His usage rate is 9th in the country.  It’s the only one on the top 10 list from a Power five conference other than a dude from Colorado.

As for his emotions? Do they run rampant?  Yeah, at times.  But doesn’t Nebraska need a little fire?  A little heat-of-the-moment, flex-to-the-crowd-after-a-dunk-passion?  Isn’t it that same heat that thawed out a fanbase last March and warmed up fingers that were frost-bitingly cold from years of below-freezing mediocrity and negative interest?  Give me the guy who cares, even if he cares a little too much, over the robotic anti-hero that stares blankly into space after every play.  We’ve had that guy at quarterback at this university before and it was far more maddening.

Image courtesy of:

So: this gut-level, visceral reaction to any Petteway haters?  Justifiable.  The statistical gavel-banging on the judge’s bench, telling everyone to shut the hell up or you’ll be held in basketball contempt?  Justified.  The article by Lee Barfknect?  Hot fire.

If you don’t like Terran Petteway, I think that at this point you know exactly what to do. . .