Let me start with a question: What’s more exciting, watching a top-10 team dismantle a Group of Five opponent, or seeing them battle it out with another elite program? If you’re like most fans, you’d pick the latter. Yet college football’s current scheduling model seems determined to make the former the norm. It’s a paradox that’s been gnawing at the sport for years, and Nick Saban’s recent comments about playing 12 Power 5 games per season feel like a rare moment of clarity in a system built on self-interest.
Here’s the thing: College football is in a death spiral of its own making. Coaches, athletic directors, and even fans have collectively decided that the College Football Playoff (CFP) is the holy grail. That’s fine—everyone wants to see the best teams compete. But the way we’ve arrived at this point is absurd. Teams are cherry-picking schedules to maximize wins, not to test themselves. The USC-Notre Dame rivalry’s collapse? A symptom of this mindset. Both programs likely saw the game as a potential loss that could hurt their playoff chances. So they let it die, prioritizing algorithmic rankings over tradition. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it reflects a deeper cultural shift: the sport is becoming a transactional exercise, not a celebration of competition.
Saban’s proposal to play 12 Power 5 games is radical, but not because it’s unrealistic. It’s radical because it demands that programs abandon the comfort of guaranteed wins. Imagine Ohio State opening against Michigan instead of some mid-tier G5 team. Or Texas facing Oklahoma in Week 1 rather than Texas State. These are the kinds of matchups that create legends, not just highlight reels. Yet the current system rewards mediocrity. Why? Because the CFP selection committee values wins over quality. If you’re a coach, why risk a loss against a ranked opponent when you can pad your record with a walkover? The irony is that the CFP’s expansion to 24 teams (a move that’s already being debated) might actually make this problem worse. More teams in the playoff means more incentive to avoid tough games, not fewer.
What many people don’t realize is that the scheduling crisis isn’t just about football. It’s a microcosm of how college sports have become a corporate machine. Conferences are breaking away, name, image, and likeness deals are rewriting the rules, and yet the fundamental issue remains: nobody wants to lose. This isn’t just about pride; it’s about money. A game against a top-15 team generates more revenue, more exposure, and more hype. But at what cost? When the most anticipated games are conference championships or playoff semifinals, the regular season becomes a snooze fest. The Florida State-Georgia series cancellation is a chilling reminder that even storied rivalries are now subject to the whims of a playoff system that prioritizes predictability over passion.
Saban’s solution is refreshingly simple: play the best teams. But here’s the catch—this requires a seismic shift in priorities. It means accepting that your team might lose, that your schedule might be less forgiving, and that the path to the playoff isn’t a straight line. It’s a gamble, but it’s also a return to the sport’s roots. College football was never meant to be a guaranteed win every week. It was meant to be a test of character, a showcase of grit. When you watch a game like the 2006 Ohio State-Michigan showdown, you don’t remember who won—you remember the intensity, the stakes, the sheer audacity of playing for everything in one game. That’s the kind of magic the current system is eroding.
So why won’t this change? Because the people in charge are too afraid to disrupt the status quo. Coaches fear losing their jobs. Administrators fear losing revenue. Fans fear missing out on the illusion of control. But the truth is, the sport is dying a slow death of complacency. Until someone—like Saban—dares to challenge the system, college football will keep churning out predictable, unexciting schedules. And when that happens, the fans who once filled stadiums will eventually stop showing up. That’s the real tragedy: a sport that once defined American culture is now a victim of its own greed and fear.
