Nebraska football coach Matt Rhule traded his trademark red hoodie for a grease-spattered apron Sunday afternoon, and the results were as fiery as one of his halftime speeches.
Teaming up with former Husker All-American guard Brenden Stai, Rhule slammed spatulas—and plenty of good-natured trash talk—at Omaha Steaks’ inaugural Smash Burger Cook-Off in Dingerville, the pop-up fan village two blocks north of Charles Schwab Field where the Men’s College World Series paused for a between-games breather.
The Father’s Day showdown doubled as a launch party for Omaha Steaks’ new 3.2-ounce pre-smashed patties, so a smoky, beefy perfume hung over the Millwork District. Eight two-person teams—from local radio hosts to retired pros—had 15 minutes to turn those thin disks of aged beef into something judges would crown champion, scoring on technique, presentation, creativity and, of course, taste. When the sizzling finally settled, Rhule and Stai came out on top, pocketing a President’s Club gift box, a $250 Omaha Steaks card and year-long bragging rights.
Rhule, rarely shy with a mic, claimed his experience collapsing pockets translated perfectly to flattening beef. “I’m basically the Tom Cruise of smash burgers—action hero, a little butter, all my own stunts,” he cracked, to roars from the crowd and the cowbells clanging inside Charles Schwab. Stai—whose 1994 national-title ring still draws glances—played the straight man, calmly seasoning beef balls and timing his smash like a pulling guard exploding through the B-gap.
For Stai, the cook-off was personal as well as playful. The 53-year-old still lives in Omaha and once ran a small catering outfit after his NFL career. “I’ve flipped more patties at tailgates than I ever pancaked linebackers,” he said, recalling long Saturdays outside Memorial Stadium. That muscle memory showed: his smash landed with a hiss and curled into a crisp, mahogany halo almost as wide as his 10-inch palm.
Though the duo kept their recipe secret—Rhule hinted only at “a crunchy surprise”—judges praised their burger’s lacy edge and mid-bite cheese pull. Stai later confessed they’d snuck in practice reps on a Blackstone outside the football facility. “We brought game-plan tempo,” he laughed. “Coach said if we lost, summer workouts start at 5 a.m. Winning felt healthier for everyone.”
Beyond the playful competition, the afternoon felt like a community block party. Little-leaguers balanced free sample sliders while parents nursed Kros Strain lagers. Every few minutes a college-series home-run siren blared, sending fresh waves of crimson jerseys into the pop-up village. Omaha Steaks staffers dished out thousands of patties, eager to prove their new product can turn any balcony grill into a diner-style flat-top. Company spokesperson Kathleen Al-Marhoon called the cook-off “a celebration of flavors, community and baseball spirit.”
For Husker fans, the day offered an off-season glimpse of their coach as both foodie and motivator—a reminder that, in Nebraska, football and beef are never far apart. As Rhule wiped streaks of melted cheese from his forearm, a teenager hollered, “Same energy in November, Coach!” Rhule raised his prize burger like a trophy. “Don’t worry,” he grinned, “I’ll keep the grill hot.”
