Lifelong Ohio State Fan Commits to Leaving the Buckeyes Behind, But Can He Truly Let Go This 2025 Season?
For most fans, college football isn’t just a hobby—it’s religion. And for die-hard Ohio State supporters, it might be even more than that. The scarlet and gray run through their veins. Saturdays in the fall revolve around tailgates, Buckeye leaves, and blocking out everything that doesn’t involve touchdowns in the Horseshoe. So when a friend—let’s call him Chris—declared with unwavering conviction that he was stepping away from Ohio State football this season, jaws dropped. Not because we didn’t believe he was frustrated, but because the very idea of Chris turning his back on the Buckeyes felt like the sun refusing to rise.
Let’s get one thing straight: Chris isn’t some fair-weather fan. He’s the kind of guy who schedules weddings, vacations, and even dental appointments around the Ohio State schedule. He’s got an autographed Archie Griffin jersey framed in his den and a tattoo of Brutus on his calf. He can recite scores from the past twenty years and tell you the name of every starting quarterback since Craig Krenzel. For him, fall doesn’t start with the equinox—it starts with kickoff.
But last season broke him.
The 2024 campaign didn’t lack excitement. The Buckeyes were talented, sure. They had explosive athletes, an elite defense, and all the preseason hype you’d expect. But it was the third consecutive loss to Michigan that pushed Chris over the edge. And not just any loss. It was another late November collapse, riddled with questionable coaching decisions, preventable turnovers, and that gnawing feeling that Ohio State had the better roster but still got outplayed.
For years, Chris brushed off criticism of head coach Ryan Day. He defended Day’s record, pointed to high-powered offenses, top recruiting classes, and Big Ten Championship appearances. But now, he’s done. Done with Day, done with the excuses, and—according to him—done with Ohio State football.
Of course, it’s not just about one game. It’s the accumulation of heartbreak, of having national championship expectations only to fall short when it matters most. Chris talks about the 2022 Georgia playoff loss like it was a personal tragedy. “That was the team,” he says. “That was the year. If that kick goes in…” his voice trails off like someone reliving a car accident.
Then came NIL, the transfer portal, and a rapidly evolving college football landscape that made him feel more disconnected from the game he fell in love with. “It used to be about tradition, loyalty, pride,” Chris said during one of his long rants. “Now it feels like free agency. It’s just not the same.”
So this offseason, he made the boldest declaration of his fandom: no more Buckeyes.
He says he won’t watch a single game this year. He’s muted Ohio State on Twitter, canceled his Big Ten Network subscription, and even removed the Buckeye flag from his front porch. For a man who once skipped his own cousin’s wedding because it conflicted with the Penn State game, that’s monumental.
“I just need the space,” Chris explains. “I’ve realized this team has too much power over my mood. When they lose, I’m miserable for days. That’s not healthy.”
To some extent, it’s easy to understand. College football fandom—especially in powerhouse programs—is an emotional rollercoaster. The highs are euphoric, but the lows can feel existential. When you tie your identity to a team, their failures feel like your own.
But here’s the thing about Chris—and maybe all die-hard fans like him: deep down, I don’t think he can quit.
Because it’s not just about football. It’s about memories. It’s about sitting with his dad watching Troy Smith torch Michigan, or storming the campus after the 2014 national title. It’s about autumn Saturdays spent surrounded by friends, sharing beers, yelling at refs, and living and dying with every third down conversion. Those aren’t just sports moments—they’re life moments. They’re woven into the fabric of who he is.
In March, Chris swore off spring ball coverage. But a week later, I caught him quietly watching highlight clips from practice. He claimed he was “just curious,” but I saw the glint in his eyes—the old spark. He still cared. When the Buckeyes landed a five-star quarterback in June, he tried to play it cool. “Doesn’t matter to me anymore,” he said. But I noticed the subtle smile. He was lying—to himself more than anyone else.
Now, as summer wears on and the 2025 season creeps closer, I’m watching him wrestle with his convictions. He’ll claim he’s done, but then ask, “Who’s starting at corner this year?” He’ll scoff at hype videos, but he’s still checking schedules. He says he won’t watch the season opener, but I know he’ll “accidentally” turn it on while flipping channels.
The truth is, fans like Chris can’t truly walk away. Not fully. Because fandom isn’t logical—it’s emotional. It’s not a switch you can just flip. Especially when the team you’ve loved your entire life is as culturally ingrained as Ohio State.
Still, I admire his attempt. It’s an act of self-preservation. A way to reclaim peace of mind, to find emotional balance. Maybe by stepping back, he can learn to engage without being consumed. Maybe he’ll return as a calmer, less reactionary fan. Or maybe he’ll be right back where he started the moment the Buckeyes beat Michigan this year.
And if they lose again? Well, he’ll probably start this whole cycle over.
But here’s what I know: when that familiar fight song plays, when the “O-H” chants echo across the stadium, when the leaves start to turn and the Buckeyes line up for the first snap—something in Chris will stir. Something that no loss, no frustration, no changing landscape of college football can take away.
Because once you’re a Buckeye, you’re always a Buckeye.
Even if you try to pretend otherwise.
