Thread by @402_Chris

(I wrote this last year, about Scott Frost & the #Huskers' 0-4 start. Still applies.)

THREAD

Imagine, if you will, that you are from a small town somewhere in rural Nebraska. A tight-knit, fiercely proud community.

Where "everyone knows everyone" is as certain as the one-finger-steering-wheel-wave you're going to get when you inevitably make eye contact with someone driving down the main drag of town.

Now, imagine that you left that town and went on to achieve unprecedented success. You are a hotshot brain surgeon that appears on CNN as a guest panelist, or you're a startup company mogul that's making millions off a hot new app.

Imagine if that little town, with all the proud parents and awestruck locals, held a special day for you. They wanted to present you with The Key to their little city, with the Mayor and your old high school band playing a song, as you walked onto a dais.

Now, picture walking up that stage.

The music is playing.

The crowd cheering.

Local newspaper taking photos as you walk towards that giant-ass gold key on the first annual "_____(Your Name Here)_____ Day!"

Now imagine that, as you're walking, your pants fall off. All the way.

Not just down a little bit, like you're in need of tightening up that belt loop.

I mean off-off.

Down to your ankles.

And that you're wearing the most embarrassing underwear possible.

Whether that's a fiery red, silk man-thong, or a pair of Justin Bieber granny panties from his tweenage years (*Author's note: do those exist?) that have moth-holes in them.

You hear the tuba player, and the 17-year-old trombone player make one of those embarrassing I'm -all-out-of-oxygen-due-to-shock "schmmmmborrrrnnnggh" noise with their instruments and everyone stares at you in utter horror.

It doesn't make those other achievements vanish. It doesn't mean that you won't pull those pants up, grab that key and then proceed to give a tear-jerking inspirational speech before writing a check that donates enough money to the local school's gymnasium.

...that they rename the entire damn floor in your honor.

But, the here and now kind of sucks, regardless.

That's Scott Frost and his return to our Nebraska Cornhuskers.

That's our hometown kid, coming back to make good after conquering the world outside the cannon-shaped confines of our 1.8 million person small town of a state.

And those are his pants, our pants, really, that are twisted down around the ankles while everyone stares in saucer-eyed stupor at how poorly things have suddenly gone.

So, if you're frustrated and think that we've underperformed? You're right. If you feel like Scott Frost has struggled as a head coach at his first power five school? That's valid criticism, too. And, for what it's worth, I agree.

But thinking those things -- that Frost is a young, relatively inexperienced head coach who has faced only mere flecks of adversity on his way to superstardom --  AND that we're going to be fine eventually can and should coexist.

The Sea of Red doesn't have to be black and white. Not on this one.

It is okay to sit on the fence, while the fence is still under construction.