Wasson: Ohio State Moving Past Ryan Day Would Be Insanity… and Possible
The decision seemed absurd, like a surreal dream, but the whispers in the hallways of Ohio State’s football headquarters grew louder by the day. There was talk, not of rebuilding, but of rethinking. The Buckeyes had tasted success under Ryan Day—plenty of it—but the taste of victory over Michigan, that elusive College Football Playoff title, remained bitterly out of reach.
In an isolated office high above the stadium, the conversation was unfolding. Athletic director Gene Smith, usually a calm and measured presence, was pacing, his mind torn. The upcoming season, despite a strong roster and Day’s proven ability to recruit, was shaping up to be another crossroads. Ohio State had come to expect nothing short of excellence. The pressure to win had grown beyond the simple pursuit of championships; it had transformed into a culture of entitlement, one forged over decades of dominance.
Day had already secured his place in Buckeye lore with consistent wins, impressive comebacks, and turning out NFL-caliber talent. Yet, the question remained: Was he the man for the job, the one who could finally lead Ohio State to the promised land after Urban Meyer’s shadow loomed large over the program? His record against Michigan was a glaring blemish, a fate no Buckeye could forget. His inability to capture a national title—especially with so much talent—had some murmuring that maybe, just maybe, it was time to move on.
The alternative was almost unthinkable. Ohio State football was a monster of tradition, a behemoth defined by ruthless competition and unyielding standards. The idea of firing Ryan Day seemed reckless—insane even. There was no rational argument against his success in a vacuum. He’d been competitive in every facet: recruiting, coaching, developing players, winning 11 games every season. Yet the ever-present specter of Michigan, like a constant itch on an otherwise perfect season, refused to go away.
Smith knew the dynamics. He knew what the media would say, what the fans would scream. But he also knew that in this business, especially in the upper echelons of college football, results were what mattered. Championships. That’s what Ohio State fans lived and died by. No one cared how many wins a coach racked up if they didn’t result in an ultimate payoff.
But to fire a coach who’d only had one bad season against the Wolverines? The move would be outrageous. Who could they hire that would guarantee a better outcome? The field was slim. Sure, there were big names out there, but none with the same combination of recruiting prowess and understanding of Ohio State’s culture. To rebuild would be to risk the very fabric of the program.
Yet, a growing faction within the university was no longer content with close calls. They wanted more than near-misses and moral victories. The Ohio State way was built on excellence in every detail—on crushing opponents with a savage consistency. Anything less than that, to some, would be a failure. And failure, no matter the degree, could not be tolerated. It could be a call for drastic action. A change that defied logic.
The idea of moving past Ryan Day, though insane, was also possible. Ohio State had seen it before—legends had been replaced. The coaching carousel had spun for decades, and no one was truly irreplaceable. Even Meyer, one of the greats of college football, had left. Day, despite his potential, had to face the music. Could he take the next step? Or would he become another reminder that at Ohio State, mediocrity was unforgivable?
And so the decision loomed. Would Ohio State push forward with Day at the helm, praying for that elusive championship? Or would they dare to risk everything and take a chance on a new future—one filled with uncertainty, but also a glimmer of hope? In the world of college football, even the unthinkable could become reality.
