Donaldson wasn’t told he was part of the process. Holding a photo, he waited for the DC-6 to unload. The last man off carried a topcoat. He was mid-40s, round and balding. Years later, Sports Illustrated would compare him to a “dumpy baker.”
It was Roberts all right. Donaldson shook his hand and directed him to the car.
They drove back to campus. By instruction, Donaldson stopped to show his guest Memorial Stadium, capacity 31,000. Then to the men’s dorm at Selleck Quadrangle, where Mr. Roberts visited dorm rooms and the cafeteria. Finally, Donaldson escorted him to a dark room. Waiting inside were reels of Nebraska football films.
Donaldson — like the rest of Nebraska — would soon learn Mr. Roberts’ real identity. It would take years, however, to fully grasp Bob Devaney’s impact.
He restored vision and confidence to a fallen program. He established a culture that outlived him. Devaney’s greatest legacy: He made Nebraska a national name while binding its people together. He enlarged the tent while pulling those inside closer.
He made Husker football bigger and smaller.
In other words, it’s a good thing Hank Foldberg turned down the job.
OWH