There was a time when college football players talked about tradition. About legacy. About bleeding school colors.
That time ended somewhere around the third time a sophomore running back entered the transfer portal while still wearing his old team’s hoodie in the Instagram announcement.

Today’s modern college football player has evolved. He is no longer tied down by petty concepts like “commitment,” “development,” or “the fans who bought his jersey.” He belongs to something far greater.

He belongs to the Portal.

Every December, like clockwork, the faithful emerge with identical statements:

“After a lot of prayer and discussion with my family…”

This is always followed by a transfer announcement to a rival school offering a slightly nicer apartment, a leased Hellcat, and an NIL deal from a local orthodontist who doesn’t know the rules but is willing to learn very quickly.

I’ve always been fascinated by the prayer part.

I imagine it goes something like this:

Player: “Lord, I just want to know Your will.”
God: “My son, your offensive line is trash. Also, your current NIL collective is broke. Go where the money flows like milk and honey.”
Player: “But what about loyalty?”
God: “Have you seen your Venmo balance?”

And thus, another commitment is born.

The modern transfer doesn’t leave because he was misused, misunderstood, or underappreciated. No, he leaves because his current program failed to recognize his true calling: being WR2 somewhere else for 40% more cash.

These players aren’t transferring schools — they’re upgrading subscriptions.

College football is now Netflix. Loyalty lasts one season. If the algorithm stops serving you touchdowns, you cancel and move on. “I just felt like God was leading me to a new platform with better content.”

Fans, of course, are told to respect the decision.

“Please respect my decision,” the player writes, moments before blocking half the fanbase and deleting every photo that includes the old logo.

The irony is beautiful. Coaches leave programs overnight for “family reasons” (which coincidentally match the exact amount of their new buyout), and players finally said, You know what? Same.

The only difference is coaches don’t pretend divine intervention was involved. They just say, “This opportunity was too good to pass up,” which is refreshingly honest.

Meanwhile, players insist the Almighty personally weighed in on whether they should take the $250,000 NIL deal in Austin or the $275,000 deal in Miami.

Somewhere, a theology professor is weeping.

By next year, don’t be surprised if transfer announcements include full spiritual testimonials:

“God placed it on my heart to enter the portal.”
“The Lord closed one depth chart and opened another.”
“I’m trusting His plan (and my agent).”

And fans will still pretend this is about education.

The truth is simple: college football has become free agency with dorm rooms. Alma maters are temporary. Fight songs are rental agreements. And loyalty lasts exactly as long as the first NIL offer clears.

But don’t worry — they prayed about it.

And apparently, the Lord really wants everyone to get the biggest bag possible in their final year of eligibility.