Copyright M Live Michigan
Bo Schembechler is an avatar of the glory years of college football. He’s immortalized with a statue outside the football building that bears his name at the University of Michigan. But the old-school coach never led his team to a national championship – so these days, he’d probably be on the verge of getting fired. “If you can’t win, you’re going out,” said Matt Wenzel, who covers Michigan State University football for MLive. “I mean, you can be boring if you win – you can be Bill Belichick. But if you lose and you don’t have that fire, the fans won’t get behind you.” Wenzel started on the beat in 2017, and the intervening eight years have been a whirlwind: players cashing in on NIL (name, image, likeness) deals; a transfer portal that turns rosters over annually; and coaching contracts bloated with buyouts and countdown clocks. College football today is unrecognizable. Here’s a snapshot of the new reality: Arch Manning, quarterback for a middling Texas Longhorns team, is reportedly earning $6.8 million in NIL money, the most among college football players. As of this week, a dozen coaches at schools like Penn State and LSU have been canned midseason – with total contractual buyouts topping $170 million. These aren’t outliers – they’re the new normal. And for those covering the sport, like Wenzel, the shift has been seismic. Michigan State coach Jonathan Smith, in only his second season, is winless in Big Ten play this year and facing a restless crowd of fans, alumni, and donors. Those donors matter, because that’s where the NIL money comes from. “It’s basically become professionalized,” Wenzel said. That in turn has stripped away the old rhythms of the game, for fans and for those covering it. Wenzel said he used to recognize most Spartan players by sight or name. Now, after every transfer window, the locker room feels like a new team. “Every kid is a free agent,” he said. “It’s chaotic.” In the bygone era, football program power rested with the Schembechlers of the sport, and those iconic coaches often were the brand. That power now rests with the source of the money – and with the players who can shop themselves to where the grass is greener. “When you spend your money and don’t get results, you’re going to be upset,” Wenzel said. “The question is, who’s really calling the shots? The AD, the president, or the big-money donor?” The answer is becoming clear. Universities increasingly resemble hedge funds with mascots – betting big, burning cash, and cutting losses when returns don’t come fast enough. You start to wonder: what will become of fan affinity? “You lose the connection to what you think college sports should be,” Wenzel said. “Even if the version we grew up with wasn’t right – the players were powerless – what you have is an overcorrection.” Wenzel predicts a reckoning, eventually: maybe due to donor fatigue, maybe via legislation. But he doesn’t think we’re there yet. “As long as the dollars keep climbing, the system keeps feeding itself.” Bo’s statue still stands tall outside Michigan’s football building. A monument to a time when loyalty, patience, and continuity were virtues. Today, those virtues feel quaint. The game still fills stadiums. But the soul that made it ours? That’s slipping away.
