The Last Hurrah

Maybe. But up to the end he still couldn't pull away. No one would have blamed Osborne had he cruised through the preparations for his final game, giving the reins to his handpicked successor, assistant Frank Solich. But Osborne remained as focused as ever, and when the Rose Bowl ended, he called a team meeting. "The door is still open, at least a crack," he told his players. "It's open, and we've got to take advantage."

Two hours before the Orange Bowl kick-off, he ran, alone, onto the field at a near-empty Pro Player Stadium and looked around. He'd had so many moments, good and bad, in Orange Bowl games—missing the two-point conversion against Miami in 1984, losing to Florida State in '94, beating Miami for his first title in '95. But Osborne hadn't come on field to reminisce. He was trying to read the wind.

Osborne will be remembered as the sport's ultimate detail man, a coach whose exhaustive conditioning program, deep rosters and conservative offenses left little to chance. But what's lost in nearly all depictions of Osborne is the ruthlessness he musters come game time. His manner conveys a brainy, Bill Walsh style of ball, but his best teams always have relied on savagery. Opponents get hurt when they play the Huskers. "It's a physical style of football, just knocking people down," Osborne said last week. "Eventually that takes a toll."

Last Friday night a parade of Volunteers limped off the field. Osborne kept pushing for more. At halftime, with Nebraska up 14-3, he told his team, "Winning isn't enough." The Huskers had to make a statement to have a chance at a championship. Tennessee had to be broken.

In reply his offensive linemen told Osborne they could sense the Volunteers weakening—just as Miami had buckled under the force of Nebraska's tougher, better-conditioned athletes in '95. The linemen begged him to start running the ball between the tackles, right down Tennessee's throat. First drive of the third quarter Osborne called 12 plays, all but one a face-crunching run up the middle. Nebraska marched 80 yards. Senior quarterback Scott Frost scored to increase the lead to 21-3. It wasn't enough. Now Osborne confronted his defense.

"I've never really seen him the way he was tonight," said Nebraska senior defensive tackle Jason Peter. "He came and got in everybody's face. That's very rare. Coach Osborne usually just says, 'Come on, let's go.' But he just grabbed me and said, 'Enough is enough! You guys have got to go out there and get the damn ball back. We've got to score some more points!' When we heard that, we didn't want to do anything but win this game for him."

On the next series the Tennessee offense lost seven yards and punted. The Volunteers were done. Osborne kept hammering away: fullback Joel Makovicka over guard, Frost over tackle, junior tailback Ahman Green over and over until he had run for 206 yards. Tennessee coach Philip Fulmer, who'd spent the week praising Osborne's good nature, sounded puzzled after the game. Then again, he'd never played an Osborne-coached team. How was he to know he would be coming face to-face with the man's passion? "He's a great gentleman, I think," Fulmer said. "He wasn't being too kind there in the second half."

With 4:24 left and the score 42-9 and the Nebraska corner of the stands shouting, "We're No. 1!" Osborne's players were hugging, holding up index fingers. Osborne kept speaking softly into his mouthpiece, staring at his options on the list of plays in his hand. It was all coming to an end, and everyone was beginning to maneuver behind him. His son, Mike, carrying a video camera, was stopped at the end of the Huskers' bench. "But that's my father," he told the security guard. Tennessee scored. Peter and Wistrom began dragging the ice bucket down the bench. The crowd chanted, " Osborne!" Osborne adjusted the microphone on his headset to make sure he would be heard.

The players dumped the ice on him with half a minute to go. Peter hugged Osborne, who stared at the player as if Peter had gone insane: What, now? During the game? Then Osborne turned back to the game, watching with soaked pants as the seconds ticked away. When the game ended, everyone came at him as he headed for the middle of the field—cameras, TV reporters, players. If only he could disappear.

He shook Fulmer's hand, but now Osborne was the center of a jostling crowd, moving like a man carrying a beehive. He mounted a podium in the stadium's southeast corner, where he squinted up at the still-packed Nebraska stands. He took the Orange Bowl trophy. He said he was proud of his players, his staff, the fans. A bitter-sweet moment, he called it, and before the crowd could react, Osborne ducked and was off, striding fast down the field.