Nestled deep within my closet lies a relic from a bygone era. The well-worn sweatshirt has long lost its thermal benefit. Truthfully, it fits quite poorly. In tune with the fashion of its time, it’s needlessly boxy, drowning my scrawny biceps in excess fabric. The arms gradually taper into a tight, elastic wristband. On the front, the embroidery proudly announces, “10th Annual Malecek New Year’s Day Party 1996.” On the reverse, its message proclaims the agenda for the day, each team in its appropriate color: Penn State vs. Auburn; Tennessee vs. Ohio State; Syracuse vs. Clemson; Colorado vs. Oregon; USC vs. Northwestern.
In 1996, I was seven. What began a decade ago as an unintentional New Year’s Day “Party” following a lively New Year’s Eve gathering has evolved into an open house hosting hundreds of my parents’ friends. Colleagues from work, friends from church, and extended family filtered in and out throughout the day, exchanging pleasantries and Christmas stories over a bowl of chili. But the core group, those Mizzou fraternity brothers and sorority sisters who had been there from the beginning, were ever present in the den. Deliberately removed from the din of the kitchen, they were free from social obligations. The smart ones arrived early to claim the choicest spot with the best view of the dual TV screens my dad spent the preceding day arranging. New Year’s Day was sacred. College football reigned supreme. And the den was its temple.
It was here that my love of college football grew and nurtured. The Mizzou alumni taught me that the Nebraska I Formation was to be both feared and respected. I learned about Colorado’s Fifth Down on that fateful day at Faurot Field. And above all else, I learned that Kansas had no redeeming qualities and was to be hated without question.
Over time, I grew to love the amateurism and rivalry of college football. My horizons broadened when I matriculated to Notre Dame. I learned that USC and Michigan also have no redeeming qualities and were to be hated without question.
As life became busier, I could no longer spend both Saturdays and Sundays in the Fall devoted to football. But it was an easy choice. I eschewed the corporatism, monetization and increasing jingoism of the NFL. College football offered a product freer from outside influence. Its regionalization, tradition, and amateurism produced intense rivalries and united fanbases. It was an uglier product, no doubt, but that was part of the allure. Results were unpredictable and chaotic. But they were pure. A single quote can bring back the memory of a game from year’s past.
“Whoa! He has trouble with the snap!”
“All right, he we go…56-yarder… It’s got… No, it does not have the leg.”
“Down the middle… James… the lateral! To the corner of the endzone! Can you believe that? I’ve seen it all.”
But this is a eulogy, not a tribute.
Ironically, my cherished Missouri Tigers contributed to the issue, forgoing their long-standing rivalry with Kansas to dash off to the SEC where it “just means more” money. The rift that began in 2010 with the Big East implosion has become a chasm and the cause of the Pac-12’s untimely death. The ACC might soon follow.
But greed isn’t limited to big name institutions. The NCAA’s abdication of responsibility over NIL has transformed college sports into a Wild West of pay-to-play. The addition of the transfer portal has only complicated matters. Kyle McCord, the starting quarterback for the seventh-ranked Ohio State Buckeyes, has announced his intention to transfer, opting out of the Cotton Bowl against the Missouri Tigers. He’s not the first to leave Ohio State. Quinn Ewers milked his top of class recruiting profile into an alleged $1.4 million NIL deal at Ohio State to sit on the bench as a freshman and then promptly transferred to Texas where he racked in another million.
Coaches are equally guilty of chasing the bag. Jimbo Fisher jumped from Florida State for a 10-year, $75 million contract at Texas A&M. That contract was upped to $95 million in September 2021 only for Texas A&M to fire him this season. Now Jimbo will be spending his New Year’s Day on the couch collecting the $77.6 million still owed to him.
This year’s College Football Playoff committee’s decision to exclude Florida State is merely the final blow to a sport that lost its identity to the money gods long ago. Fearing another blow-out, the committee chose to slot Alabama ahead of Florida State. Vegas certainly justifies the decision. Playing without their most valuable player, injured quarterback Jordan Travis, Florida State is a 14-point underdog to reigning champion Georgia in the Orange Bowl. In snubbing Florida State, the committee sent a clear message. They valued perceived future performance over prior actual performance. They became football prognosticators and in doing so, they robbed us from the best thing about college football – its unpredictability and chaos. How can we have another Oklahoma versus Boise State when it’s clear that Boise State isn’t going to be given the chance in this new world where money, Vegas, and network contracts matter most?
The sport has gone mad. What chance does a bowl of chili stand against cold, hard cash?
A victim of its own success, the New Year’s Day party became so unwieldy that it was no longer feasible to host. But unlike college football, its resistance to change killed it. Uninvited guests began arriving, confident that each New Year’s Day at the Malecek house would guarantee a bowl of chili and an abundance of college football.
This New Year’s Day, despite my frustration, I’ll still spend it watching the sport I love. At 4:00 PM central time, I’ll turn on ESPN to watch Michigan and Alabama face off at the Rose Bowl in beautiful Pasadena. And I’ll begin to explain to my 6-year old daughter and 3-year old son why the University of Michigan has no redeeming qualities and is to be hated without question. That tradition will endure, even if the sport moves on.
