Chaos.
That’s what Kevin Ramaekers remembers. One moment he was kneeling next to the Nebraska bench, praying for a miracle. The next moment the Orange Bowl turf was a circus of confusion.
Ramaekers, the all-Big Eight defensive tackle, saw a Florida State fan hop over the wall and rush the field.
“Some cop on a horse takes off and runs this dude over. I’m thinking, holy s---, we’re gonna be in a riot.”
For three hours, the little engine from the Heartland, the 17-point underdogs, the losers of six consecutive bowl games, had shoved Florida State to the brink and prompted 29 million TV viewers to wonder, “Can Nebraska really pull this off?”
When Byron Bennett made a go-ahead 27-yard field goal with 1:16 left, the answer was yes.
When Florida State’s Scott Bentley responded with a field goal with 21 seconds left, the answer was no.
When a streaking Trumane Bell caught Tommie Frazier’s pass in FSU territory, fell down and time expired, the answer was no.
Bentley and the Seminoles dumped a Powerade jug on Bobby Bowden, America’s most famous coaching bridesmaid. NBC sideline reporter O.J. Simpson (five months before the Ford Bronco) followed Bowden to midfield for an interview.
Tom Osborne wasn’t giving up. The man who had barely missed a national championship 10 years before in the same stadium marched to midfield and found the referee. Osborne held up his index finger. One second!
The ref agreed.
“The game is not over,” the PA announcer said.
Bowden, surrounded by TV cameras and cops, returned to the sideline, miffed and sopping wet. He fiddled with the bill of a new national championship hat he’d just been given. Across the way, Osborne barked at officials who didn’t know where to spot the ball. “Hey, hey, hey. The ball was on the 25!”
Slowly the focus shifted to No. 13 in red, the kicker pacing near the Florida State 40-yard line. Byron Bennett listened to the Seminoles try to distract him. The Texan fired back.
“I’m gonna put you out of your misery.”
Every day after Husker practice, Bennett’s snapper moved to long range and crafted an imaginary scene for him. “OK, Byron, this is for the national championship.” Now they were here. This was the real thing.
Aaron Graham bent over the ball at the 28-yard line, right in the middle of the field. The snap was perfect. The hold was perfect. The kick ...
Over the next two decades, Byron Bennett dropped off the map. Disappeared from the Husker football family. Teammates worried if he was OK. Wondered if he ever got over it. Even Coach Osborne tried to find him. Bennett had a national championship on his right foot — and missed. What does a man do next?
In the Nebraska locker room, Ramaekers hugged the kicker. It’s not your fault. He never saw Bennett again.
“Whatever happened to him?” Ramaekers says. “Where the hell is he?”
* * *
Trev Alberts lived his All-America seasons in a little two-bedroom house off Superior Street. His parents bought the place, but his mom hated visiting. That’s because Trev’s roommate, Byron Bennett, owned a boa constrictor.
Sam.
On Fridays, Bennett stopped by East Campus and picked up a mouse. He and his friends watched Sam eat dinner, then took off for the O Street bars. When Byron hit the pillow, Sam was uncaged on the floor, curled up in Bennett’s clothes.
“I don’t mind having a snake,” Alberts said, “but he used to let that thing just go around in his room. ... They weren’t exactly the greatest smelling of reptiles, either.”
“Byron kinda marched to the beat of a little different drum,” Osborne said.
Bennett signed with Nebraska in 1989, part of a package deal with two high school classmates. A year later, Osborne came to the kicker and said his buddies wanted to transfer home.
Bennett wasn’t going anywhere, even after tearing his ACL as a freshman. In 1991, he won the place-kicking job. His big moment came at Colorado, where it was minus-2 degrees. He made two field goals. He needed a third — a 41-yarder — to break a 19-19 tie with four seconds left.
Bill McCartney called three consecutive timeouts to ice him. Bennett’s foot was already frozen. When it was finally time to kick, Colorado fans peppered the field with oranges and snowballs. Bennett took his three steps into the ball — left foot, right foot, plant foot ...
Blocked.
In those days, Nebraska didn’t attempt many field goals. Teammates and coaches teased the kickers about drinking hot chocolate indoors while everybody else was freezing at practice.
Byron always had a comeback. Alberts nicknamed him “Sparky.” Ramaekers compared his blond sideburns to those worn by Vanilla Ice.
“Byron was the type of guy that I loved, but I wanted to punch him right in the mouth,” Ramaekers said. “He was as big a smart ass as me or Christian Peter. What was he, 5-11, 160 pounds? But he would talk s--- with the best of ’em.”
By his senior year, Bennett was the starting punter and place-kicker (Tom Sieler had kickoff duties).
The 1993 season presented no fireworks. No epic wins or gut-punch defeats. Just steady, clutch performances, including one-point wins at UCLA and Kansas. After a win at Colorado, Sports Illustrated featured Alberts (the eventual Butkus Award winner), Bennett and their strange friendship.
“I take credit for Trev,” Bennett told SI. “I get him ready for games. I beat him around the trailer, let him watch some TV and then put him to bed at 11 with a Happy Meal.”
* * *
The oddsmakers weren’t fools. They knew the history.
Since the heartbreaking two-point conversion attempt in 1984, the Huskers had come to the Orange Bowl three times. They’d been blown out three times. Combined score: 72-17. Nebraska’s offense couldn’t execute its trademark option against speedy Miami and Florida State defenses. Nebraska’s defense couldn’t stop prolific Miami and FSU passing games. Bad combination.
One year earlier, against the same Seminoles, the Huskers fell behind 20-0 before halftime. Husker fans feared another New Year’s flop in 1994. Instead, they got a “Rocky” movie.
FSU’s first possession: three-and-out.
Second possession: Alberts, wearing a bulky brace on his dislocated elbow, knocked the ’Noles out of the red zone with a sack. Missed field goal.
Third possession: three-and-out.
“I was like, you know what, we can play with these cats,” Ramaekers said.
(That first-quarter revelation, noticed by players and fans alike, can’t be overstated. It changed everything for Nebraska in the 1990s. “We turned the corner,” Osborne said).
Charlie Ward, Heisman winner and maestro of the nation’s top offense, was frustrated. Bowden was bewildered. The Blackshirts, relentless with their pass rush (five sacks) and stingy at cornerback (1 for 12 on third down), gained confidence by the snap.
Now Nebraska just needed a few breaks.
Following FSU’s third possession, Corey Dixon returned a punt 71 yards for a touchdown. Officials called an illegal block. NBC analyst Bob Trumpy couldn’t find it on replay — “I don’t think there’s a penalty there; I really don’t.”
The second controversial call came after half. On second-and-goal from the 1, FSU tailback William Floyd appeared to fumble just before he scored. Nebraska recovered, but officials signaled touchdown. It was the Seminoles’ only TD.
FSU still led 15-13 late in the fourth quarter when Frazier busted free on an option for 32 yards. Biggest run of the night. NU was in field-goal range.
On fourth-and-goal, Bennett lined up his 27-yarder. He hadn’t made a field goal since Oct. 16, missing four straight. He was 0 for 3 in two previous Orange Bowls.
“How big for this 23-year-old senior,” NBC announcer Dick Enberg said, just before the snap.
Left, right, plant ... Good!
Bennett took off running down the Nebraska sideline, shooting imaginary pistols at the Seminoles. Florida State kickers had missed last-second field goals against Miami in 1991 and 1992. Was Bowden really going to lose on another kick?
Nebraska’s sideline erupted. Alberts. Frazier. Ramaekers.
“I honestly started thinking about what it’s going to be like hoisting Osborne up,” Ramaekers said. “That was my first thought. We got this.”
Amid the euphoria, Husker players heard assistant coach Dan Young yelling on the sideline.
“Byron!”
* * *
“Byron. You have a phone call.”
It’s 22 years after the Orange Bowl, the heart of football season at Rockwall High School outside Dallas. Byron Bennett is grabbing a bite in the athletic office before practice when he hears the secretary. His first reaction: Oh no, an angry parent.
“I’m impressed you found where I was working,” he says.
I am a little bit uncomfortable, I’ll admit. I’m calling Byron Bennett to ask about his defining moment, the night he could’ve delivered Osborne his first national championship and etched his name in college football history. Instead, he became Nebraska’s Scott Norwood, deliverer of heartbreak.
Most of his Nebraska teammates haven’t seen him or heard from him since 1994. A few years ago, Osborne reached out. The coach hadn’t talked to Bennett since the Orange Bowl. He wanted Bennett to know — one last time — that nobody blamed him.
“I didn’t hear back,” Osborne said. “Either my contact information wasn’t correct or he didn’t call back. I don’t know which.”
Has Bennett been running from that night? Has he been hiding from the final 1:16 at the Orange Bowl? We’ll get to that.
First, what happened when Dan Young yelled his name?
“Coach Young comes up to me and goes, ‘Byron, I want you to kick off. And I’m like, really? I haven’t kicked off in five or six games. But I know the plan. Kick it away from (Tamarick) Vanover. So that’s what I tried to do. It was an absolutely horrible kick.”
Out of bounds at the 16-yard line. Florida State took over at the 35. Three plays later, it was fourth-and-1 at the 44. One stop and it’s over ...
William Floyd got the first down by six inches — it still eats at Osborne.
Next play, Ward found Warrick Dunn, who dashed to the Nebraska 33 and absorbed a late hit out of bounds from Barron Miles. Next play, a pass interference on Toby Wright moved FSU inside the 5. (Nebraska had 115 penalty yards.)
With 24 seconds and no timeouts, Bowden elected to kick on second-and-goal. In trotted a true freshman named Scott Bentley, the nation’s top kicking recruit from Aurora, Colorado, who had turned down Notre Dame (his dad’s alma mater) and Nebraska — the Huskers weren’t real popular in Buffalo country.
Before the 1993 season, Sports Illustrated put Bentley on the cover. The story headline: “Sure Three.” But in 1993, Bentley had been anything but sure, missing nine extra points and seven field goals.
He made this one. 18-16, Florida State. Across the field, Bennett felt snakebitten.
“As many kicks as I’d made in my career, I’d never made a game-winner,” he says. “That was the one time I was gonna be able to do it and it was gonna be the Orange Bowl my senior year.”
With 21 seconds left, Nebraska never should’ve had another chance. Frazier was not a passing quarterback. “It looked like we were just done,” Osborne said.
But after a squib kick and two incompletions, Frazier connected with Bell down the middle. Could he get into field-goal range before time expired?
Yes!
No!
The clock showed zeroes. The Seminoles rushed the field. Bowden got doused. A fan got run over by a horse. As officials sorted it out, Bennett’s swagger got the best of him.
“There was some jaw-jacking going on with Florida State guys. ... Hindsight, I would’ve been in my net kicking the entire time”
Bennett’s routine included three fundamentals.
1. Pick a target way beyond the uprights. Try to kick the ball on that line. Visualize it.
2. Take a deep breath.
3. Keep your head down.
His mind was the problem. From the moment Bell hit the turf, five minutes and 18 seconds elapsed before the 45-yard field goal. Too much time for a kicker to think. Not nearly enough time to recover from the rush 20 minutes earlier.
“When I stepped out on that field for the second time, I felt like the life had been sucked out of me from the first field goal. I felt weak. It was the weirdest feeling I’ve ever gone through. ... It’s really hard to get that adrenaline back up again so quickly.”
His duck-hook never had a chance. It was 30 feet wide left.
Afterward, Bennett answered questions from the media. Osborne expressed hope that a few voters might pick NU No. 1. Alberts blasted the officiating. Bowden, a man who knew what it felt like to lose by the thinnest of margins, tried to comprehend the consequences of fate.
“It was just our time; that’s the only thing I can say,” Bowden said. “It was just our time. Because Nebraska played as good or better than we did.”
* * *
Long after midnight, Bennett pulled up a chair on his parents’ hotel balcony in Miami. He stewed over the loss “into the wee hours.”
His teammates preferred to grieve on South Beach. They went to Mickey Rourke’s bar and met the actor. I want you to give something to the kicker, he said. The next day on the plane, the Huskers handed Bennett an autographed sweatshirt. Beneath two boxing gloves, Rourke scribbled “Stay strong.”
“I still got it framed at my dad’s house,” Bennett says.
He landed in Lincoln and sought sanctuary near Worms, Nebraska. A hunting trip with linebacker Phil Ellis got off to a rocky start.
Ellis’ high school friend walked in and said, “God, that piece of s--- Byron Bennett.”
The blond Texan stood up and reached out his hand: “Hi, I’m Byron Bennett.”
Alberts, the star of the Blackshirts, didn’t know what to say to his roommate that week. Teammates didn’t blame him. Bennett didn’t lose the game.
“But how do you not feel like you did when you’re that guy?” Alberts said.
It wasn’t just the “what if” of making the final kick. It was the “what if” of Florida State’s winning drive.
“Had we stopped them on defense,” Alberts said, “he would’ve been remembered as the guy who kicked the field goal to win Tom Osborne’s first national championship. I mean, think about that for a minute.”
A few days after Bennett’s miss, criminal justice degree in hand, he packed up his Dodge Daytona — Sam curled up in the hatchback — and they drove back to Texas to start a life. One day a box of letters arrived at his door. They were postmarked from Omaha and Lincoln and little towns he’d never heard of. He counted them. 100. 200. 250.
Bennett didn’t want to read them. He felt like he had to.
Byron,
Abe Lincoln said, “the better part of one’s life consists of friendships.” Not only have you made many friends on your team, rest assured that you have many friends in the state of Nebraska. ... You and your teammates are true champs.”
— Harry Brown
Dear Byron Bennett,
At the ending field goal, I know that you tried your best. You were lucky to get at least one field goal.
Your #1 fan forever,
Katharine Tidemann (10 years old)
P.S.
Could you please send me an autograph?
Two hundred fifty letters, all but one of them positive.
“It was kinda like therapy.”
Bennett never kicked again in competition. He tried out for a few professional teams, then accepted a job as a Dallas parole officer. One day he met a man on probation named Michael Irvin — the All-Pro receiver told Bennett he was rooting for Nebraska against FSU. Of course.
Back in Lincoln, the 1994 Huskers wore “1:16” on their workout shirts. Every time they ran steps or sprints inside Memorial Stadium, they looked at the scoreboard, saw “1:16” and knew exactly what it meant.
Finish.
On Jan. 1, 1995, they found themselves in the same stadium in the same situation. One win from a perfect season and a national championship. Trailing an old nemesis (Miami) by eight points in the fourth quarter. This time they won.
“I will take it to the grave,” Ellis said. “If he makes that kick (in 1993), we don’t win the next two national championships. We worked our asses off because of that miss.”
Bennett watched the Orange Bowl celebration in Dallas from a friend’s apartment.
“I’ve had people make mistakes and be like, ‘Well, you’ve got a national championship.’ I’m like, ‘No, no I don’t.’ But I’m glad that group of guys did it. They got over the hump and didn’t have to rely on a kicker.”
* * *
About the time Osborne retired with a third national championship, Bennett joined the profession. He gave up law enforcement for the high school classroom. Students asked him daily about New Year’s 1994. What was it like?
Bennett found that truth was the best teaching tool. That little positives — even if they don’t make the front page — add up. When an opposing coach called time out to ice his kicker, Bennett waved him to the sideline. Directed him to the net.
Three or four times, Bennett says, his kicker went back out and made the game-winner.
“If it helps them out, then maybe it was worth it.”
He knows about Buckner and Bartman and all of sports’ scapegoats. He’s heard of kickers who couldn’t get over a single failure — it ruined their lives.
“I wasn’t gonna let that happen. I know I was a good kicker and that was just one moment in time you wish you could have back.
“It’s not that I didn’t feel bad about it. It’s not that it didn’t stink to be Byron Bennett for however long. But I’ve got a wonderful wife. I’ve got two beautiful children. I’m going to work every day.
“I teach history. I know that missing a field goal is not one of the things that is gonna go down in history as one of the worst things. But at the time, I knew the significance of it. I knew exactly what had been done. Who had been let down. My teammates, my family.
“Somehow I came to the realization that, hey, you gotta keep going. That this isn’t gonna define you. You’re gonna do good things in life. You’re gonna influence a lot of people. And you’re gonna use this experience for good.
“I think I’m seeing that for my son now. When he has a bad day, I’m able to tell him it isn’t the end-all, be-all. You’re gonna get up; the sun’s gonna rise tomorrow.”
Recently, Bennett climbed into his attic and found the “mother of all trunks.” He forgot he had it. Inside, he found his letter jacket, old VHS tapes, pictures with Alberts and Will Shields and Brook Berringer. Postgame photos with mom and dad. He showed his son.
“See, I was young once.”
Bennett brags that 11-year-old Lake is one of North Texas’ best young golfers and hardest-throwing pitchers.
“He can kick, too.”
It’s hard to get away on a weekend — coaching high school in Texas is a seven-day gig. But one of these years, Byron says, he and Lake will pack up the Dodge Ram — Husker sticker on the back window — and drive up to Lincoln together. Catch a game.
“I want to see all the new stuff. I see it on TV. I’m like, golly, I’d hardly recognize the stadium.”
Occasionally, he talks to a few teammates — Graham, Sieler, Alberts — but he hasn’t been to Lincoln since 1994, before three national championships, before chaos gave way to clarity. At least one old friend is waving him home.
“If you talk to Byron again, tell him hi. Tell him he’s getting a big hug from Ramaekers. And punch him in the kidney for me.”
Contact the writer:
402-649-1461, dirk.chatelain@owh.com, twitter.com/dirkchatelain
* * *
Video: 1994 Orange Bowl
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