As Buckeye fans, we live a pretty charmed sporting existence. Ohio State has not lost more than two games in a season — including the postseason — in 15 years, and that was the Luke Fickell season, which barely counts. The Buckeyes have won 85% of their games this century, including three national titles and 11 Big Ten championships. Ohio State is college football's most stable, recession-proof program.
This year, I am looking forward to something that has been in relatively short supply during much of the Buckeyes' 21st-century dominance. I want to be nervous.
I want to spend a Saturday afternoon with the vague, nagging sensation that I could throw up at any moment. I want to be so invested in what I am watching on screen that I forget to breathe for an uncomfortably — and dangerously — long time. I want to go into a game and have something more to worry about than whether my favorite team is going to win by 40 or 50 points.
Back in May, I wrote about why I was legitimately excited by the possibility that Ohio State could lose three or even four games this season. Now, of course, I don't actually want them to lose any game, but the possibility that they could makes the prospect of tuning in each week, especially for the season's half-dozen or so marquee matchups, that much more exciting.
The Buckeyes go on the road to play Texas, Iowa, Indiana, and USC and host Illinois, Oregon, and Michigan. Six of those teams are ranked in the preseason poll (Illinois is receiving votes), and three are in the top six. When you factor in games against competent Nebraska and Northwestern teams, there are legitimate opportunities for stress sprinkled throughout basically the entire season.
That doesn't mean that all of those games will come down to the final possession. Some might even end up being blowouts in Ohio State's favor. But every year, television talking heads and internet prognosticators spend entire weeks convincing us that the Buckeyes' trip to play some random 6-3 Big Ten team is the superest, sneakiest upset pick in recent memory, only for Ohio State to be up 31-6 midway through the third quarter.
But this year, there are enough legitimately excellent opponents, hostile environments, awkward scheduling spots, and teams with comparable talent that it seems almost impossible for Ohio State to sleepwalk through the regular season. Regardless of what their eventual record is, I think that's a good thing.
Obviously, winning is fun. I am not going to sit here and pretend that I have somehow spiritually transcended caring about the scoreboard. If Ohio State beats every team by 40 points on the way to another national championship, I promise that I will find a way to weather such a terrible burden. But there is more to being a fan — and being a human — than just the momentary dose of dopamine that comes from accomplishing something that was never really in doubt to begin with.
Sports aren't compelling if every game is a foregone conclusion. We love sports, and college football in particular, because they open us up to a much wider range of emotions than we normally experience in our day-to-day lives: anticipation, frustration, relief, anger, surprise, fear, joy — sometimes all within the span of three hours and usually because a 20-year-old we have never met caught or dropped a pass.
The strange downside of Ohio State's overwhelming consistency is that winning can stop feeling like an accomplishment and start feeling like the status quo. Beat an overmatched opponent by 35? Fine. That's what you were supposed to do. Win by 17? Why couldn't the offensive line block anybody? Why did the secondary give up that touchdown? Is everything collapsing?
At some point, we can optimize the joy right out of fandom, and where's the fun in that? To me, victories simply mean more when losing feels possible.
Think about the Ohio State wins that live deepest in your memory. Chances are they weren't 56-7 wins in which the Buckeyes had their third-string quarterback handing the ball off by the middle of the third quarter. They were games where something went wrong; games where your stomach hurt; games where Ohio State had to survive something. They were Holy Buckeye; they were 85 yards through the heart of the south; they were Scoop and Sawyer.
The struggle is what gives the victory texture, what gives it meaning. Wins are simply more satisfying when they follow uncertainty and adversity. To me, that is what fandom is all about. The possibility of heartbreak is part of what makes our bond with the team stronger and their accomplishments sweeter.
And as we saw last season, if teams don't face adversity in the regular season, when they finally do find themselves in harrowing situations, they might not have the scars and calluses to finish the job. Ohio State will be better prepared for December and January this year if it spends September, October, and November playing games in which mistakes actually have consequences and winning isn't a foregone conclusion. There will be moments when the Buckeyes have to respond to a turnover, a blown coverage, an opposing crowd losing its mind, or — heaven forbid — actually trailing in the second half. And frankly, I think going through some of that adversity is good for us fans, too.
That is part of what makes fandom so ridiculous, and so meaningful. Regardless of how inspirational (or infuriating) my little blog posts might be, I have absolutely no impact on whether Ohio State wins or loses. Yet I can still tear up when the Buckeyes raise a trophy, and occasionally when they don't.
That is the deal we make when we care about something we can't control. Giving your heart to anything — a person, a career, a cause, a passion, a football team — means accepting the possibility that it might get broken. Take away that risk entirely, and you also take away some of what makes the reward mean something.
So no, I never want Ohio State to lose. I don't want them to have three losses, or two, or even one. I want the Buckeyes to go 16-0. I just want to spend a few Saturdays genuinely wondering whether they will.
I want opponents to land punches and for Ohio State to have to punch back. I want fourth quarters where the outcome is still undecided. I want to pace around my living room, complain about officiating, question every play call, and spend three hours allowing the decision-making of people born after I graduated from OSU to dictate my emotional well-being.
Because when the clock finally hits zero after one of those games, winning feels different. It isn't simply the expected result arriving on schedule; it's relief, exhilaration, exhaustion, and joy all boiling over at once.
That is what I am looking forward to this season. Not just seeing whether Ohio State can win every Saturday, but feeling like, for once, they might not.
