Champaign, Illinois: The Real Deal on Its Location, Weather, and Restaurants

Let's get one thing straight. Ryan Day stood at a podium in Champaign, Illinois, after his No. 1 ranked team beat a decent-but-not-great Illinois squad and tried to sell us a story. The story goes like this: a road win in the Big Ten is tough, character-building stuff, and we should all nod along and be happy with the 34-16 final score.

“We did what we had to do to win the game,” he said. “That’s the bottom line.”

Give me a break. That’s the kind of line a CEO uses when quarterly profits are down but they avoided total disaster. It’s corporate-speak for “Please don’t look too closely at the details, because they’re ugly.” The Buckeyes won. Great. They’re 6-0. Fantastic. But if you watched that game and think this team looks like a world-beater, you’ve been drinking too much of the scarlet and gray Kool-Aid. That performance wasn't a display of championship mettle; it was a warning light flashing on the dashboard.

A Defense Dragging an Anchor

Thank god for Matt Patricia’s defense. Seriously. Without them, this game is a coin flip. The offense was outgained 295-272. Let me repeat that for the people in the back: the No. 1 team in the nation, with a roster of five-star Ferraris, got out-muscled yardage-wise by Illinois. It’s a stat so absurd it feels like a typo.

The only reason Ohio State wasn’t in a dogfight was because the defense decided to play pickpocket all afternoon. They generated three turnovers, effectively handing the offense the ball inside the Illinois 40-yard line three different times. The offense's average starting field position on their first eight drives was their own 49. That’s not football; that’s a charity event. It’s like being given a million-dollar inheritance and then bragging about how you built your business from the ground up.

Jermaine Mathews, playing out of position in the slot, looked like a man possessed. He blows up a pass that floats into Payton Pierce’s hands for the first interception of Luke Altmyer’s season. Then, for good measure, he comes on a blitz and just rips the ball out of Altmyer’s hands in the third quarter. His teammate Davison Igbinosun said, “Jermaine is that boy.” No kidding. He was the only boy on Saturday who looked like he was playing with his hair on fire.

Then you have Kayden McDonald, a big defensive tackle who apparently decided he’d had enough of this nonsense. He straight-up mugged running back Ca’Lil Valentine, snatching the ball like a playground bully taking lunch money and recovering it himself. It was brutal, dominant, and exactly what this team needed. But when your 300-pound tackle has to create his own offense, what does that say about the actual offense? What happens when they play a team that doesn't just hand them the ball three times?

This Is Supposed to Be Fun, Right?

I feel like I need to ask a genuine question: Is this offense fun for anyone to watch? I mean, besides the accountants who love efficient, low-risk asset management. The game plan felt like it was designed by a committee of lawyers. Short passes, grinding runs for three yards, and a whole lot of punting if the defense hadn't provided a short field. The longest touchdown drive was 63 yards, and it took them 14 plays and over seven minutes to do it. It was methodical, sure. It was also painfully dull.

Day called it “unselfishness.” Okay, I guess. I call it neutered. You have Jeremiah Smith, who put a move on an Illinois corner for a touchdown that was so filthy it should have been illegal. The kid juked inside, then outside, and was so open that quarterback Julian Sayin could have walked the ball over to him. It was a glimpse—just a tiny, fleeting glimpse—of the explosive potential this offense is supposed to have. And then it was back to the grind.

This is a bad sign. No, "bad" doesn't cover it—this is a five-alarm fire drill disguised as a victory. You don't win a national championship by playing not to lose. This conservative, plodding style feels like a throwback to the Kyle McCord era, except without the constant, heart-pounding anxiety. It’s just… there. It exists. It wins against outmatched opponents, offcourse. But it ain't inspiring a damn bit of confidence.

Maybe I'm just a cynic. Maybe I'm the one who doesn't get it. I see people looking for Champaign, Illinois hotels to come watch this team, and I have to wonder why. You could be doing literally anything else. Go to Portillo's. Find Olive Garden Champaign Illinois. I don't know, sit in your car and listen to a podcast. That might be more entertaining than watching this offense methodically suck the life out of a Saturday afternoon.

So, This Is What a Championship Team Looks Like?

Look, a win is a win. I get it. You don't hand back victories because they weren't pretty enough. But let’s stop pretending this was some kind of gutsy, character-defining performance. It was a deeply flawed team getting bailed out by its dominant defense. That formula works against the likes of Illinois. It will get you absolutely shredded by a real contender. This wasn't a step forward; it was a team spinning its wheels, and if they think this kind of effort is good enough, they're in for a rude awakening.