I don't want to do this.
Due to my vital role in NU athletics and the contract that I signed dictating my silence on all internal issues concerning the University, I am most likely assuring my termination by coming on this board and stating what I am about to. It is worth it. I can stay silent no longer.
Bo went to a little arcade in a strip mall about 3 weeks ago with his kids. After entrusting his children with a total stranger covered with tattoos associated with South American gangs, he found himself tucked into the corner of the room, staring down a thirty-five year old Skee Ball machine. Bo went to WAR with this machine...hours he spent. Under handing balls up the slope. Screaming with neck tendons flared, eyes wet and shimmering with an almost homicidal type of mania. Scaring children, women...costumed mice and other woodland creatures. After five hours, victory was Bo's. All time high score. The CHAMPION.
So back to Lincoln. Bo, sprinting into the office of the AD, runs past Shawn Watson and Barney Cotton with barely a second glance. He didn't notice them, for they couldn't have been farther from the front of his focus. Tom is on the phone when Bo comes raging into the office. One hinge is ripped from the corner of the door upon his violent entrance. Not only does Bo fail to notice this damage, he strides aggressively to Tom's chair, takes the phone from the Doctor's hand and slams it into the receiver. Shards of plastic sliver into the air and one strikes Osborne on the hand. His eyes slightly widening with surprise, Tom calmly asks his frenzied HC, "What is the meaning of this, Bo?"
Bo can barely speak straight. "Skee Ball! When the wolves of war are at the moat, you have to sacrifice a pawn or two! I mean it!" Tom is perplexed. He can't draw any connection between hungry wolves and Skee Ball, but he can see he has a problem. His young charge is a helluva defensive coach, but he might also be clinically insane. "Take a Xanax, Bo, and come back in 40 minutes." Bo takes it without even being aware of it, like you or I breathe. He leaves. Tom settles into his chair to think.
One hour and twenty-seven minutes later, Tom Osborne and Bo Pelini emerge from Tom's office. Bo looks drained, pale, and placated. Tom, looking like a man who has dodged only the first of many lightning bolts certain to strike from any angle at any time, slips a note into my pocket. I am to make a purchase, to be delivered Wednesday afternoon. Bo, naturally, brought the team together to inform them of this imminent and program-changing event.
Skee Ball in the locker room, folks. The Insider 2 is coming out in a couple months. It's about me.