Let’s start with the obvious. College football has become professional wrestling with better vocabulary. The helmets glint brighter, the villains snarl louder, and every season finale feels scripted by a room full of caffeinated madmen throwing darts at a map. This year’s College Football Playoff bracket hits all the right notes on the pandemonium piano. Indiana, America’s perennial basketball school, sits atop the heap like a kid who accidentally won the spelling bee. Miami, that neon washed relic of past swagger, snuck back into the party through a side door. And Notre Dame? Well, the Irish are where they always are this time of year, polishing their golden domes and wondering why god hates forward passes.

Now, consider the collateral damage. Somewhere, Lane Kiffin is smirking into a sweet tea, having bolted Ole Miss for LSU before the selection committee could pin scarlet letters to his visor. The Group of 5 crashed the velvet rope with two teams, which caused more pearl clutching in certain zip codes than news of a caviar shortage. And Ohio State, our reigning overlords, brought their usual imperial swagger, only to trip over Indiana in the Big Ten title game like Gatsby face planting into his own champagne fountain.

Which brings us to the Hoosiers. Bless them. They’re the guy who shows up to a knife fight with a stale baguette and wins. Indiana football has spent decades being the punchline to jokes told in Bloomington dive bars. Now they’re top seed, Curt Cignetti grinning like a man who just found a winning lottery ticket in last week’s laundry. Rooting for Indiana is like adopting a three legged rescue dog. You know the odds, but your soul needs it to work. They’re the antidote to Alabama’s machine, Georgia’s grind, Ohio State’s entitlement. If they win it all, every underfunded program from Pullman to Piscataway will start believing in fairy dust and offensive line play.

But let’s not pretend Ohio State is some tragic hero. The Buckeyes lost exactly one game all year, yet people discuss them like they’re Alexander weeping over no more worlds to conquer. Winning back to back titles in this playoff era would cement Ryan Day’s legacy, sure. It would also inspire? Well, nothing but a deep, existential dread for everyone outside Columbus. Watching the Buckeyes chase history feels like watching someone eat steak at a vegan potluck. You can respect the effort, but boy does it kill the vibe.

Georgia, meanwhile, skulks back into frame like that ex who texts at 2am with “u up?” vibes. Kirby Smart’s Bulldogs already got their rings, bless their hearts. But the SEC’s bruised ego needs soothing after the Big Ten started colonizing their title turf. Rooting for Georgia is rooting for tradition, for defensive tackles named “Bubba,” for coaches who still diagram plays on napkins. They’re good. They’re also about as exciting as a tax seminar.

Then there’s Alabama. Oh, Alabama. Nick Saban left and took the aura with him. Kalen DeBoer inherited the throne and discovered the castle’s plumbing is shot. This isn’t your daddy’s Crimson Tide. The offense sputters like a lawnmower on wet grass. The defense doesn’t terrify small children anymore. Alabama fans cling to the past like it’s a life raft in open water. If you back them now, you’re either a true believer or enjoy watching slow motion train wrecks with a soundtrack of banjos.

Oklahoma is the tragic poet in this opera. Twenty five years since their last title, still chasing ghosts in shoulder pads. John Mateer’s broken thumb became the Sooners’ broken dream, and now the offense moves slower than DMV lines in July. Rooting for Oklahoma is rooting for perseverance, for comebacks, for vindication of all those “Wait Till Next Year” bumper stickers fading in Norman driveways.

Which brings us to the real glue holding this circus tent together. Hate. Sweet, sticky, nourishing hate. Notre Dame fans sharpening voodoo dolls shaped like committee members. SEC diehards muttering dark curses at Big Ten media deals. Texas A M boosters wondering if their yacht money might be better spent on actual witchcraft. Everywhere you look, someone’s nursing a grudge, a betrayal, an old wound salted by tonight’s rankings reveal.

That’s the magic trick, see. College football thrives on manufactured outrage and tribal grudges older than some stadiums. The playoff didn’t dilute the poison, it just bottled it prettier. We get the same dynastic fears, the same underdog fantasies, the same bone deep certainties that everyone else cheated. This year’s bracket just gave us fresh faces to project onto. God bless college football, the only reality show where the stakes include grown men crying over 18 year olds blocking punts.

So pick your poison. Back Indiana’s crazy underdog journey. Laugh at Alabama’s awkward transition era. Sigh at Ohio State’s inevitability. Or just grab popcorn and wait for the inevitable debate about whether a 12 team playoff would solve everything. Spoiler. It won’t. Nothing ever does. And we’ll be back next year, same time, same channel, screaming into the same abyss about rankings and respect and why our team got hosed. It’s beautiful, really. The chaos, the passion, the absurd theater of it all. College football isn’t just a sport. It’s a public therapy session disguised as extracurricular activity.