College football has always been more than just a game—it’s a cultural phenomenon, a battleground of pride, and a crucible for tradition. Yet today, as I watch the sport evolve, I can’t help but feel a sense of melancholy. The rivalries that once defined this sport, those electric clashes of history and hatred, are fading into irrelevance. It’s not just nostalgia talking; it’s a fundamental shift in how college football is structured, funded, and prioritized. And if we don’t act, we risk losing something irreplaceable.
Let’s talk about what makes college football unique. It’s not the stadiums, the players, or even the national championships. It’s the rivalries. Think about it: the Oklahoma-Nebraska showdowns, the Pitt-West Virginia bloodbaths, the Kansas-Missouri Border War. These weren’t just games—they were events. They carried the weight of decades-old grudges, regional identities, and the kind of passion that makes fans bleed for their teams. But now? Those matchups are either canceled, sporadic, or scheduled only when it’s convenient for power conferences. That’s not progress; that’s a betrayal of the sport’s soul.
Take the Oklahoma-Nebraska rivalry, for example. Once a fixture of the college football calendar, it was a clash of titans. The 1999 BCS title game between the Sooners and Cornhuskers was the first ever 1 vs. 2 matchup, a moment that defined an era. But since Nebraska left for the Big Ten and Oklahoma jumped to the SEC, the two have met only once in the last decade. And even that game? A scheduling gimmick to pad résumés. What makes this particularly fascinating is the irony: the very institutions that once embodied the spirit of college football are now prioritizing convenience over legacy. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about scheduling—it’s about power dynamics. The SEC and Big Ten are rewriting the rules to suit their agendas, leaving smaller programs in the dust. Sen. Cynthia Lummis’ concerns about smaller schools struggling to retain talent like Josh Allen are spot-on. When you have a system that rewards wealth and donor bases, you’re not building a sport—you’re building a oligarchy.
Then there’s the Pitt-West Virginia rivalry, a feud so intense it still haunts fans today. The 2007 game, where West Virginia’s hopes of a national title were crushed by a Pitt team that barely made a bowl, is etched into memory. But after the Big East dissolved, the rivalry went dormant for over a decade. Even its revival in recent years feels forced, like a museum exhibit resurrected for a photo op. What many people don’t realize is that these rivalries aren’t just about the games themselves—they’re about the communities they unite. When Pitt fans chant ‘13-9! 13-9!’ at West Virginia fans, it’s not just a joke; it’s a shared history. And when that history is fragmented by conference realignment, you lose more than a game—you lose a narrative.
The Kansas-Missouri Border War is another casualty of this modern chaos. This rivalry, born in the 1890s, was a cornerstone of Midwest college football. The 1960 game, where Kansas ruined Missouri’s shot at a national title, and the 2007 showdown in Arrowhead Stadium, where the two teams met as top-five opponents, are moments that defined generations. But when Missouri left for the SEC, the rivalry died. And while a brief revival in the mid-2020s gave fans a taste of nostalgia, the future of the Border War is still uncertain. This raises a deeper question: Is college football still about the teams, or is it about the money? If the answer is the latter, then we’re watching the sport become a transactional spectacle, not a cultural institution.
And let’s not forget Notre Dame’s rivalry with Michigan. Once a staple of college football, this matchup was a collision of blue bloods and traditions. The 1988 game, where Notre Dame’s legendary 19-17 win over Michigan came down to the final minute, is still talked about decades later. But after the 2014 season, the rivalry ended. Why? Because Notre Dame, in its quest for independence, chose convenience over continuity. And now, with the College Football Playoff expansion incentivizing teams to soften their schedules, even the 2033 and 2034 games are in doubt. What this really suggests is that the sport is being reshaped by forces beyond tradition—forces that prioritize profit, ratings, and playoff seeding over the intangible magic that made college football special.
The Senate’s attempts to regulate NIL legislation are a symptom of a larger problem: the sport is in chaos. Nick Saban’s criticism of the current system for prioritizing money over development isn’t just a rant—it’s a warning. When schools are incentivized to chase donors and maximize revenue, they forget that college football isn’t just about winning. It’s about identity. It’s about the rivalries that make fans feel like they’re part of something bigger. If we don’t push back against the forces dismantling these traditions, we’ll be left with a sport that’s polished, profitable, and profoundly soulless.
So here’s my challenge to fans, coaches, and lawmakers: Demand more. Demand that rivalries be protected, not exploited. Demand that college football remembers why it matters. Because if we let this slide, we won’t just lose games—we’ll lose the very essence of what makes this sport worth loving.
