As a culture, we ascribe monumental importance to the sports we watch. An excellent athlete is not just good at their sport, but a legend. Breaking a record is not just an achievement, but rewriting history. A widespread change in tactics is not just a new way to play a child's game, but a revolution. Making your sport's hall of fame is not receiving an honor, but an enshrinement, the moment an individual achieves immortality.
More than a century of grandiose sports coverage has set the standard that 22 men fighting over a ball is a titanic occasion. Countless books, films, and docuseries about any athlete, coach, team, or game you can think of have helped make this language as natural as any other part of discussing sports. Everything that happens is on the grandest, most superlative scale. You can draw a line from Grantland Rice and "the Four Horsemen" of Notre Dame to John Facenda's NFL Films voiceovers to ESPN's 30 for 30 series to a team using a timeout before their first snap being labeled "the most electric moment in college football history" on YouTube.
Romance is a major part of getting into sports. Someone has been playing under the name and colors of your team for likely a lifetime or two. Millions have been spectators just like you, learning the rules and the songs and whom you are supposed to love and hate until it becomes part of you. You convince yourself that what happens in your stadium is a life-and-death concern because at its best, it sure feels like life. We make real, long-lasting memories and social bonds while sitting on a metal bleacher.
Yet part of growing up is realizing how unimportant it all actually is. I mean this both as a matter of maturing — not turning a bad result into someone else's problem — and as what must occur to you when you just take a look around.
However and whenever you start paying attention, you always do so in media res. Sports are endless. Before you were born, your team was playing. They may play until well after you die. When you are not watching, a season happens the same way that it does when you are. The world goes on largely unaffected.
Each season, especially in college football, is so ephemeral. Even if you center your whole Saturday or even your whole weekend around a game, by Monday, you are back in reality. You have the same responsibilities and problems you did before the game. You can look forward to the next one, all the way through the national championship in January, but your life is still your life, and the game is just a game. There are no brightly colored heroes and villains, no grand narrative, no tidy resolution of a final score.
If you are suffering, football is a momentary escape, not a cure. If you are worried masked government agents are going to illegally snatch one of your family members off the street, or if you are about to lose food stamps so rich people can pay less in taxes, whoever wins the Axe game on Thanksgiving weekend doesn't actually matter. The real world is on fire, as the hazy skies over the Twin Cities this summer demonstrated literally. To avert your eyes even for a few hours can feel like an act of complacency. I cannot tell you with certainty that it is not. Football is just football.
Even when one tries to frame football as potentially important within its own context, the stakes can be small. Minnesota's record since Glen Mason's first season is 179-166-1, not dramatically better than .500. You can easily argue that the 2025 season might be a step on the way to something bigger, but a lot needs to go right for that to be true. This year, like all the others, will pass — not without its own highs and lows, but almost definitely without great consequence.
In many ways, the sport's off-the-field storylines have worn me down. I do not have it in me to read about how exactly the House settlement works, the short-lived presidential commission on college sports, continuing conference realignment, or each effort of dumb corporate synergy by the suits in charge. To different degrees, these things still matter to me. I want the athletes who create profit for their schools to be justly compensated instead of being subject to whatever anti-labor solution Ted Cruz will inevitably put forth in Congress. I want college sports to go back to a regional focus. I want Brett Yormark to never say another word in public. But life is hard. I cannot let each example of the sport's capitalist rot occupy my mind when there are bigger concerns.
Yet I let football occupy my mind constantly. Despite its messy and scummy business, and despite the fact I probably should spend my time in a way that more materially improves myself and the place I live, I still intensely engage with football because it's what I know how to do. We only get a dozen Saturdays every fall. Whether they deserve to be remembered as myth, or if it is all just a game, they help us maintain some vigor for life. I don't know what that is really worth, but it feels like it's more than nothing.
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From this point on, you will find a more straightforward preview of the Gophers' season. For each area of the team — offense, defense, special teams — I've linked the position previews I published over the last few weeks and offer a predicted depth chart. I also ask 10 big questions facing the 2025 Gophers, divided between the three units.
Offense
Position previews: receivers and tight ends ・ running backs ・ quarterbacks ・ offensive line
Predicted depth chart:
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How ready is Drake Lindsey?
It's the most obvious question, but a necessary one. Drake Lindsey has thrown five passes as a college quarterback, and only one was versus an FBS defense. Everyone in the program praises Lindsey, but when that is the public approach of any team with a first-time starter, that praise is a mostly irrelevant data point. There is no telling what Lindsey will be.
Realistically, he will probably not be so good that the Gophers make the Playoff or so bad that they miss a bowl game. There remains a chasm between those two extremes. However prepared Lindsey is will determine much of how this fall goes.