How the Ohio State–Michigan Rivalry Became My Annual Reckoning

I grew up in a house where autumn meant two things: raking leaves and preparing emotionally for the last Saturday in November. My father was a loyal Buckeye, his loyalty stitched deep into the fabric of our weekends. His radio would blare “O-H!” chants through the kitchen while I sat at the table, pretending to do homework but secretly eavesdropping on his commentary. For him—and, eventually, for me—the Ohio State–Michigan game wasn’t a sporting event. It was something closer to liturgy.

Over the years, I started to understand that this rivalry carries the weight of something far greater than football. When I first visited Ann Arbor, it felt like stepping behind enemy lines. Every maize-and-blue sweatshirt was a taunt, every banner a reminder of all those close losses that my dad still dissected like open wounds. Yet there was also admiration in his voice when he spoke about Michigan’s precision, its pedigree. Rivalry, I realized, works best when respect and resentment share the same room.

As a kid, I believed the outcome of the game could shift the emotional tides of an entire state. When Michigan won, the atmosphere back home felt subdued, like a gray post-storm sky. When Ohio State prevailed, people honked in traffic, and strangers in grocery stores exchanged knowing nods. College football in the Midwest isn’t background noise—it’s civic theater. The rivalry between these two teams has become the heartbeat of an identity that defines generations.

In college, I met friends who self-identified by their colors before their majors. My roommate was from Detroit, a lifelong Wolverine who saw my scarlet hoodie as an open invitation for banter. We debated quarterbacks as if they were philosophers, exchanged YouTube clips the way others traded study notes. When Ohio State beat Michigan in 2018, he refused to leave his dorm for two days. But when the roles reversed in 2021, he taped the final score to our door. I didn’t tear it down. Rivalry isn’t just opposition—it’s the ritual of remembering where you come from.

There’s a generational texture to this game that fascinates me. My father still curses Jim Harbaugh the way his own father used to curse Bo Schembechler. Meanwhile, the younger fans treat Ryan Day’s play-calling like scripture under revision. When I watch the game now, I can see all of us reflected in the stands—students screaming, retirees tearing up, children pretending to be the next Archie Griffin or Charles Woodson. The matchup is like a mirror, showing our ages, our allegiances, the way time both divides and unites us.

It’s strange to think how football, in all its collisions and pageantry, can hold that kind of emotional gravity. But Ohio State vs. Michigan does because it isn’t just about sport. It’s about geography, class, family tradition, and—let’s be honest—resentment born from repetition. Every new generation inherits the feud, reshaping it with memes and social media barbs, yet the core remains the same: pride disguised as hatred.

When Michigan triumphed again in 2023, I didn’t react with the fury of younger years. Instead, I found myself nodding, recognizing the poetry in balance. Rivalries need both sides to win sometimes, or they lose their tension, their meaning. Watching the Wolverines celebrate, I understood my father’s old grudging respect. It takes both sides to make the myth work.

The thing about the Ohio State–Michigan rivalry is that it doesn’t end when the clock hits zero. It lingers. It reshapes your week, dictates your Monday small talk, and determines whether your local bar feels like a homecoming or a courtroom. For those of us who’ve grown up inside it, the game is both anchor and mirror—it tells us who we are and reminds us who we’re not.

Now, as an adult living away from the Midwest, I still block off that Saturday in November. I stream the game from my couch, miles from Columbus, yet the old nerves remain. I make the same halftime phone call to my dad, even when we don’t have much to say. We talk about missed tackles, questionable calls, and players’ names that sound too modern for our comfort. The connection isn’t about agreement; it’s about continuity.

Each year, as the final whistle blows, I realize I’m less interested in victory and more in the ritual itself. The rivalry has outgrown the scoreboard—it’s become a language I share with people I love, even when we’re on different sides. Sometimes I think the real scoreboard measures something deeper: how willing we are to keep showing up, wearing our colors, believing that this one Saturday still matters in a world that moves too quickly to care about much else.

So yes, the Ohio State–Michigan game is still my reckoning. Not because of what happens on the field, but because of everything it recalls—the voices, the laughter, the faces in living rooms long gone quiet. The rivalry reminds me that belonging often comes dressed in competition, that identity can be built on both pride and pain. Every November, I return to it like a ceremony, knowing that the outcome will sting or soar, but either way, it will still matter.