The American Football Coaches Association is finally getting its comeuppance—four bold moves that threaten to rewrite the soul of college football. I’m talking about a season that ends before New Year’s Day, conference championship games go dark, and the only playoff window is a six‑day stretch between games. Let me tell you something about this proposal, because it’s not just calendar reform; it’s an unmitigated disaster for the very notion of college football as we know it.
I’ve watched this league since before these kids were born—since when “The Gridiron” meant more than a Saturday night ritual and less than a TV schedule. I saw the 1992 Big Ten championship game between Illinois and Michigan State, where the stadium roared louder than any NFL broadcast. That was real football. Now we’re being told that by moving the season earlier, we can “better support student‑athletes.” Let me tell you something about those kids, because I’ve seen them bleed on turf and in locker rooms while their parents watch ESPN highlights for a second job.
First, ending conference championship games? That’s not just an inconvenience; it’s a betrayal of every fan who has ever imagined a March Madness‑style showdown on the biggest stage. The SEC’s 2016 title game between LSU and Alabama was a statement: “We’re still elite.” When that game disappears, we lose the drama, the stakes, the legacy-defining moment that defines conference dominance. And let me tell you something about those conferences—SEC, Big Ten, ACC—they built their revenue engines on those games. If you remove the championship, you remove the headline that drives cable contracts and merchandise sales.
Second, reducing open weeks from two to one? That sounds like a win for student‑athletes, but it’s actually a logistical nightmare. Imagine a 12‑team CFP where every team is supposed to play on schedule while a portal of talent floods in. The transfer window runs Jan 2–Jan 16; if the season ends on Jan 5, how many transfers will be stuck waiting for a game that never happens? That’s not student‑athlete support; that’s a bureaucratic stunt.
Third, preserving an exclusive window for the Army‑Navy game in December but allowing postseason games to play the same day? This is pure theater. The Army‑Navy rivalry is a tradition that has survived wars and pandemics because it is a statement: “We’re still fighting.” If we force the CFP quarterfinal on New Year’s Day—yes, I said it, caps for impact—we turn that historic moment into a commercial break. And let me tell you something about viewership: last January 19th, Indiana vs. Miami was a blood‑curdling reminder of why fans stay tuned past midnight. But if the CFP is crammed onto Jan 25, we lose the momentum and the buzz.
Fourth, reducing the minimum days between games to no fewer than six? That’s not about pacing; it’s a death sentence for revenue. Six days means at least one week of silence on the field where fans are paying premium tickets, merchandising, and streaming subscriptions. The NCAA already says these changes will “align with the academic calendar,” but that ignores reality: student‑athletes are not toddlers waiting for nap time. They’re professionals with careers to build. And let me tell you something about conference commissioners—they care more about revenue than a child’s schedule.
Now, where does this leave the CFP? The proposal says “further expansion is possible.” Let’s be honest: 16‑team and 24‑team models are both being debated. A 24‑team playoff ending in January would be a nightmare for scheduling logistics. I said last week that the quarterfinal on New Year’s Day has proven valuable from a viewership aspect; why abandon that? If we push the semifinals to Jan 19 and the championship to Jan 25, we keep the drama but not the chaos.
Bohl is right—players want to transfer fast. I’ve watched Indiana go 37 days between its Big Ten title game and CFP quarterfinal, then another ten days before facing Oregon. That’s not development; that’s a medical emergency for the roster. The portal is a two‑week window, but if postseason games drag on, players are stuck in limbo. This isn’t empathy; it’s self‑interest.
But here’s the real issue: revenue. Every conference wants more money, and every network wants a bigger audience. Yet this proposal sacrifices both for an academic calendar that doesn’t exist. I’ve seen the SEC’s 2019 championship game generate $45 million in TV deals; that could fund scholarships without cutting games.
The AFCA’s plan is a thinly veiled attempt to appease critics while protecting its own power structure. Let me tell you something about Craig Bohl—former Wyoming coach, now AFCA executive director. He’s been on the sidelines of this league since before I was born, and he knows when to play and when to hold back. But here we are: “more access,” he says, while the world watches the season shrink.
I’ve watched every CFP game; I’ve seen the quarterfinal in January 2018 between Clemson and Oklahoma, where the stadium lights dimmed and the nation held its breath. That was a statement of greatness. Now we’re being told to cut that out because “student‑athletes need less time.” It’s absurd. If you truly want to elevate quality, don’t eliminate the championship; expand it.
And let’s not forget legacy. Coaches like Dan Lanning, who built Oregon’s dynasty with discipline and depth, will see this as a threat. I’ve seen his playbooks—six‑day windows, no conference titles, early season starts. That’s not just a calendar change; that’s an attack on the very DNA of college football.
So what does this mean for you, the reader? It means your next Saturday night is likely to be a quiet one, with fewer games, less drama, and more commercials. It means your favorite coach might have his championship game erased from history. It means the only “season‑ending” moment will be the last game of January 19th.
I’ve been on fire lately—my hot streak has been unbroken since I wrote about Boyd’s injury being a meniscus tear caused by playing with kids. That article was a banger because it showed how fragile our sport is when we let emotion dictate decisions. This proposal? It’s an act of negligence against the game itself.
Let me tell you something about the future: if this passes, college football will become a series of isolated games rather than a continuous narrative. We’ll lose the magic that keeps fans up at 3 a.m., we’ll lose the drama that fuels rivalries for decades, and we’ll lose the revenue that funds scholarships.
This isn’t about student‑athletes; it’s about power. It’s about conference commissioners who want more money but are willing to sacrifice tradition. It’s about networks that crave ratings but are indifferent to the human cost.
So what will you do? Will you cheer for a season that ends before New Year’s Day, or will you fight to preserve the very thing that makes college football worth watching?
I’ll be here, writing columns, calling out the absurdities, and reminding the world that this isn’t just about calendars—it’s about legacy. And if you think I’m overreacting? Let me tell you something: I’ve watched every game since 1984; I’ve seen miracles and tragedies. This is a tragedy waiting to happen.
Now go ahead, make your choice. The season may end early, but the fallout will last forever.
