A while back, a perfect fall weekend in Arkansas meant one thing: the Razorbacks versus the Texas Longhorns. This was the pinnacle of college football, a time when the leaves had turned to brilliant color, and the air was crisp. The competing anthems—the “Razorback Fight Song” and “Texas Fight”—would blare from every car cruising down Dickson Street. There was a glorious era when this single game carried the weight of national championship aspirations.
This was more than a game; it was a deeply personal rivalry. Many of my teammates had faced off against the same Texas players since junior high, weaving a complex history of competition and respect. This was the fixture where you truly emptied the tank—playing through pain, giving everything, and etching every snap into permanent memory. The “Texas” game was sacred to every Razorback fan and player.
Now, times have undeniably changed. The game no longer holds that same historical significance, and it’s often played later in the season. The Razorbacks are struggling, and Texas has not yet met its high expectations. Structural upheaval, fueled by NIL (Name, Image, Likeness) and the Transfer Portal, has introduced what some call “heresy”—a Razorback one year may don a Longhorn helmet the next. Many feel this transactional nature has destroyed the soul of college football.
But my point is this: We show up anyway.
The truth is, NIL and the Portal haven’t destroyed the game; they’ve simply exposed the brittle, transactional structure that was always beneath the surface. Yes, the teams can feel mercenary, the stakes are often low, and the idea of true, lifelong loyalty seems like a quaint myth. Yet, the core spirit of the game—the reason we stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the cold, perfect fall air—has nothing to do with recruiting rankings or championship significance.
The point is the ritual. It is the visceral, communal roar when the defense makes a critical fourth-down stop. It is the shared experience of that final, agonizing countdown on the clock, regardless of the score. It’s the feeling of hearing that fight song blare one more time—a sound that bypasses the rational mind and connects you directly to every generation of fans who stood there before you. The rivalry lives not in the transient rosters, but in the deep history of the two fan bases. This tradition is too deep and too powerful to be undone by money or temporary despair. The game endures because, for sixty minutes, the only thing that matters is the color of the helmet on the field. That kind of tribal passion is what money can’t buy and time can’t erase. We show up because the feeling of simply being there is the only championship we truly need.
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