Turner Gill never broke stride. Never looked back. He walked briskly off Tom Osborne Field and entered the southwest tunnel.
All around him, Nebraska fans shouted his name.
“Turner!”
“Love you, Turner!”
“Nice game, Turner.”
Through a doorway and into a long, quiet hallway, the same path he walked daily as a player and as an assistant coach.
On the walls, 42 red plaques document the greatest run in college football history — 1962-2003. The last one on the east wall shows every score from 1983.
Gill, dressed in blue sweatshirt and tan slacks, didn’t notice.
A private man made a very public homecoming Saturday night. He led a bad football team to a respectable defeat.
His quarterback threw for 15 yards. His defense dropped a few interceptions. But all in all, it went about as well as he could’ve hoped.
Chances are, he’ll remember things other than those 60 minutes between the white lines.
Like chatting up old Nebraska colleagues an hour before kickoff. Or jogging onto the field during the Husker tunnel walk — If fans were cheering him, he couldn’t hear them.
Gill downplayed the Nebraska homecoming all week with the media and with his players. Just another football game, he said.
“I think we all realized the type of legacy he left at Nebraska and how people think of him here,” defensive end Toben Opurum said. “I don’t think he wanted to bring his past life or personal life into this ball game. He just wanted us to come out and execute.”
Osborne, who picked Bo Pelini over Gill three years ago, stopped by the Kansas hotel Friday night; Gill wasn’t there. Gill brought his team to the stadium late Saturday morning; Osborne wasn’t there.
“We kinda missed each other,” Gill said.
They talked briefly on the phone. Osborne wished him good luck.
Still, the trip was “awkward,” according to Gill. Awkward standing on the east sideline. Awkward being around the old stomping grounds.
The actual game flew by, and maybe that’s a good thing for the man everyone was watching.
Seven years have changed Gill’s appearance. A little less hair. A little more gray. But it’s still the guy who led the Scoring Explosion, still the guy who coached up Frazier and Frost. Still a family member.
As the seconds ticked away, a Husker fan behind the KU bench held a sign: “We love Turner, but we love the Huskers more!”
Gill fielded questions from reporters.
Asked about Nebraska throwing the ball downfield in the final minute, Gill took the high road: “That’s their football team. They have to do what they have to do.”
He walked back down the red hallway to the old Husker locker room and changed out of his blue.
His family met him outside the stadium. His wife, blue scarf wrapped around her neck, gave him a long embrace, then a quick kiss.
They were talking when a 71-year-old event staffer interrupted and asked Gill for a photo. Turner’s daughter asked if the man in the red ear muffs would like her to snap it — that way, he could stand next to Turner.
The old man threw an arm around Gill and the camera clicked. No flash.
The old man and the young girl searched for the problem as Gill stood there waiting. And waiting. Two minutes passed. He said nothing.
Finally, Gill and the old man walked over to a streetlight and got a better picture.
“That’ll work?” Gill said.
He returned to his wife, gave her another hug and headed to the bus, briefcase in his left hand, postgame meal in his right.
He boarded the third charter bus and took the first seat without saying a word. He leaned back and rested his head for a moment before unfolding a napkin, laying it across his lap and opening his Styrofoam container.
He took a bite.
He might be the greatest Nebraska quarterback ever. Might be one of the program’s greatest assistant coaches. Might know just as much football — Nebraska football — as any man in this business.
But he’s got a long way to go before winning like Bo Pelini. And he may never again set foot inside this stadium on a fall Saturday.
Gill didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.
The driver shut off the interior light and the bus lurched forward, rolling past the South Stadium door Turner Gill opened thousands of times on his way to work.
Gill lifted his arm and turned on the dome light above him.
Standing outside in the cold, I couldn’t see his face.
Only a silhouette.
