STATE OF FRENZY

One of the best things about my job is I rarely have to be anywhere at an early hour. One of the worst things about it is listening to college football coaches.

So here I am at the Holiday Inn in Omaha at 6:40 a.m., getting ready to hear a speech by Nebraska Coach Frank Solich.

Sacrifices, sacrifices. But if you want to understand how deeply Cornhusker football runs through this state, you’d better start at the Big Red Breakfast. If Nebraska football is a religion, and Memorial Stadium in Lincoln is church, then these breakfasts are the Bible studies.

There are about 400 people here this morning, paying $20 a head. Did I mention it was 24 degrees outside? The ballroom tables are filled with people with short hair (men and women) wearing red and white.

It’s an hour before sunrise, two weeks before the Rose Bowl, and Arlen Howell is wondering if Nebraska’s defense can get to Miami quarterback Ken Dorsey.

Just then the food is put out, and if the Cornhusker front line moves the way those fans stepped to the buffet table, Dorsey’s in trouble.

Tim Gzehoviak and Dean List of Omaha are sitting at my table, and they’re coming to Pasadena for the game. I ask them what Nebraska football means to them.

“It’s the ultimate,” List says. “It brings people together as friends, as fans, as one big football family.”

That’s why they have sold out 247 home games, dating to 1962.

There are no major professional sports teams. There’s no credible rival (i.e. a Nebraska State) to split allegiances. This is it.

On Saturdays in Lincoln, “It’s more than a football game,” Gzehoviak says. “It’s a whole-day event.”

The day before, Nebraska tight end Tracey Wistrom said: “During the football season, there’s just something about the state. Everybody seems to be a little more happy. Everybody just seems to look forward to football games. That’s what a lot of people live for. Some of them just love the football season. We have some of the best fans in the world. You’re going to see that when we play in Pasadena. I promise you we’re going to have more fans than Miami will.”

Some estimates place the invasion of Cornhusker fans at more than 60,000. And you thought the Rose Bowl looked red when Wisconsin came to town.

As the Cornhusker faithful make their way through eggs, pancakes, hash browns and ham, Solich steps to the podium. He receives a standing ovation.

Solich tells them he’s proud of the team, that it’s practicing well, that it deserves to be in the Rose Bowl. He offers a scouting report on Miami and offers praise for his quarterback, Eric Crouch.

He thanks the fans.

“We really believe the fan support is unmatched in the country,” he says.

“There are some teams that feel they should be in the bowl game, you add up their support and it’s 47,000 [per game].”

Hmmm. Big 12 champion Colorado, which beat Nebraska and feels slighted from the bowl championship series rankings, just happened to average 47,504 fans this season.

The Nebraska coaches and players seem to have a need to justify their invitation to the BCS “championship game,” often without prompting. The fans don’t share that obligation. They take it as a right, and think everybody else (especially Colorado) should stop whining. Why the sense of entitlement?

Perhaps it has to do with these four words I overheard that morning: “God is a Husker.”

Patti Griffiths, who just turned 71, is wearing a red Nebraska sweatshirt, red sweatpants and hi-top sneakers with a Nebraska logo on them.

“Red underwear,” she adds. “All the way.”

That falls under the category of too much information. Her red purse sits on the table; a football is tucked under her arm.

When I mention the topic is Nebraska football, she gets excited and starts waving her hands.

“OooooWOO!” Griffiths says.

At home she has a “Big Red” room lined with a red carpet and filled with autographed footballs, programs, a Nebraska cheerleader Barbie doll

“Every piece of Nebraska memorabilia you can get your hands on,” Griffiths says.

That’s where she watches the road games on television. When the Cornhuskers are home she’s in Lincoln, where she has a pregame beer and then passes out cookies during the game--especially if the Huskers are behind and need to rally.

She and her husband will be coming to Pasadena as well.

“You betcha,” she says.

I’ve got a shorter journey in my immediate future, a little drive west to the town of Wahoo.

You’re never too far from Nebraska football, no matter what route you take through the state. A bank’s billboard near Interstate 80, the main east-west thoroughfare, says “Go Big Red” in the corner.

Along a smaller road, past the farms, a mailbox post has a miniature plowshare that says “NU #1.”

I arrive in Wahoo. There’s not much to it. Population 3,942. A little national pub for being selected as a home office for David Letterman’s top 10 list. There’s a couple of local cafes, plus a Burger King and Subway. The Dairy Queen will be closed until Jan. 17.

But on those certain Saturdays in the fall, the traffic comes to a halt at the intersection of 5th Street and Chestnut Street, where State Highway 77 makes its way through the town’s only stoplight. It’s the caravan of cars heading down to Lincoln.

“Everybody’s got either a red sweater or jacket or something red,” says Jane Stastny, who holds the distinction of being Wahoo’s licensed massage therapist. “Every car I see, red, red, red.”

Thirty to 40 of Wahoo’s own are expected to join the exodus to Pasadena. You’ll find some sort of Nebraska paraphernalia on every block. Flags, wind socks on the porches. A clock with an N along each hour. A little cutout of the school’s mascot, Herbie Husker. One family’s mailbox was shaped and painted like a Nebraska football helmet.

You can find a lot of this merchandise at the Warehouse Surplus and Variety Store in town.

Someone beat me to the Nebraska lampshade in the window just before I walked inside.

Nebraska, Nebraska, Nebraska. The fans are not the loudest or the most obnoxious. Their stadium isn’t the largest. They’re just kind of there

In trying to make some small talk with the woman working at the variety store, I ask what has to qualify as the dumbest question of my career. Maybe it was the mind-numbing effects of the early wake-up and football speech.

“So, are there a lot of Cornhusker fans in town?”

“You’re in Nebraska,” she said. “Get real.”

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J.A. Adande can be reached at his e-mail address: j.a.adande@latimes.com.