Texas fought Ohio State better than anyone — that loss shouldn’t matter 🤠
There are certain games that linger long after the final whistle, not because of the score, but because of what the matchup reveals. Texas vs. Ohio State was exactly that kind of game. It was the type of heavyweight collision that makes college football irresistible, the kind of clash where two national brands don’t just meet—they collide, strain, scrape, and claw until every ounce of energy is wrung out of the players wearing those iconic helmets. Ohio State came out with the win, but if you watched that game with even a sliver of objectivity, you saw something deeper and more important: Texas fought the Buckeyes better than anyone else has all season, and no matter what the scoreboard said, that loss should not count against the Longhorns in the way people are so eager to pretend it does.
The Longhorns didn’t just show up—they showed out. They played with a physicality that Ohio State hadn’t seen since last season’s playoff run, and they forced the Buckeyes into the kind of uncomfortable football they have spent the better part of a year avoiding. You could see it in the way the Buckeyes had to abandon parts of their usual game plan. You could see it in the way Ryan Day kept pacing the sideline, adjusting, recalibrating, trying to figure out how to solve a Texas team that refused to back down. The Longhorns didn’t lose because they were inferior; they lost because football sometimes punishes even the best efforts, and because beating Ohio State requires perfection—and they were simply one notch below that impossible standard.
But here’s the part too many people miss: no other team has pushed Ohio State to that edge this season. Not Michigan. Not Penn State. Not the SEC teams fans love to prop up as if they alone understand real football. It was Texas, a program that has spent years being mocked for the tired “Texas is back” narrative, that actually stepped into the ring and delivered the hardest blows the Buckeyes have felt. If you’re judging teams not just by wins and losses but by the actual quality of their football, then Texas played like a top-four program that night. And it’s time to stop pretending otherwise.
Metrics back this up, but you don’t even need them—you only need your eyes. Texas’ offensive line didn’t wilt under the pressure of Ohio State’s fearsome pass rush. Their receivers created separation that no other opponent has consistently managed. The Longhorns’ running backs found creases against a defense that had spent the season slamming every other opponent’s run game into the turf. And perhaps most tellingly, Texas did something almost nobody does: they made Ohio State’s secondary look human. Not beaten, but human enough to remind everyone that even the best defenses have to find answers when talent meets preparation and confidence.
That alone proves something important. There’s a difference between a team losing because it’s outclassed, and a team losing because the margins of elite football are razor-thin. Texas falls firmly in the latter category. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the nation’s most complete roster, and anyone pretending that all losses are equal simply isn’t watching the same sport.
Of course, college football discourse never stays rational for long. Fans want narratives. They want clear-cut labels. They want to pretend every team with a loss is automatically worse than every team without one. But football doesn’t work like that, at least not at the highest level. Sometimes a loss says more about a team’s championship DNA than an easy win ever could. And when you look at Texas—its talent, its structure, its growth, its composure—you see a team that walked into the harshest environment possible and didn’t blink.
There was no intimidation, no shrinking from the moment. Texas played as if the game belonged to them, and for stretches, it did. When a team can go toe-to-toe with Ohio State’s speed, withstand their defensive clamps, and still find ways to move the ball, you’re not talking about a fringe contender. You’re talking about a program built to last.
And that’s why the loss shouldn’t matter—not in the playoff conversation, not in the national debate, not in the way analysts try to rank programs with false objectivity. The committee says it values strength of schedule, the eye test, and high-level performance. Texas checks all three boxes, and that performance against Ohio State is the perfect exhibit. A loss can only disqualify a team if it exposes something fatal. But the only thing that game exposed was that Texas is closer to being a championship heavyweight than nearly anyone else.
People forget what college football should reward: challenging yourself, taking on the best, and proving you belong with them. Texas did that. They didn’t schedule an FCS team. They didn’t hunt for a cupcake victory. They went after one of the biggest sharks in the ocean and didn’t just survive—they swung back. That mindset deserves praise, not punishment.
The entire conversation changes when you realize Ohio State might very well finish as the No. 1 team in the country. So the question becomes: if the No. 1 team in the nation can be taken to the wire by Texas, why should the Longhorns be punished for playing the toughest opponent anyone has faced all year? Why should a team that dared to test itself be penalized while others hide behind weak schedules and blowout wins that teach us nothing?
There’s a lingering truth that analysts don’t want to admit out loud: some losses are better than other wins. Texas losing a war to Ohio State is infinitely more impressive than watching other teams rack up meaningless wins against inferior competition. And when you talk to coaches, players, and insiders, they’ll tell you the same thing—greatness is defined by how you perform when the margins close to nothing.
One of the most impressive aspects of Texas’ showing was composure. When Ohio State made its runs, when the crowd roared, when momentum shifted toward the Buckeyes—as it always does in Columbus—Texas responded with poise. Their young stars didn’t freeze. Their veterans didn’t fold. They matched Ohio State’s physicality. They countered their athleticism. They executed under pressure. Those are championship traits, the kind that cannot be faked and cannot be learned from 56–3 blowouts against a mid-tier opponent.
Texas showed resilience too. Every time Ohio State landed a punch—and they landed several—Texas got up off the mat and answered. That’s the difference between a good team and a great one: good teams compete, but great teams endure. And endurance is exactly what Texas displayed.
The other storyline people keep missing is that the Longhorns are a team still ascending. Their ceiling wasn’t even fully realized in that game. Their young quarterback is growing. Their receivers are developing into household names. Their defensive line is becoming the kind of unit that terrifies offensive coordinators. And the most dangerous part? They’re gaining confidence from the Ohio State game, not losing it. Sometimes a narrow loss teaches a team more about itself than a month of practices. Texas learned that it can stand in the ring with the best and not flinch.
That’s why Texas remains firmly in the playoff picture, no matter how loudly critics protest. You cannot watch that performance and conclude that the Longhorns are anything less than elite. Not capable—elite. Not dangerous—elite. Not promising—elite. They are already one of the best teams in the country, and the loss against Ohio State only reinforces that reality.
If the playoff committee is honest about what it values, then Texas should be judged as a team whose résumé is strengthened, not weakened, by the fact that its one loss came in a battle against a possible national champion. If the committee wants to reward teams that prove themselves, Texas should be at the front of the line.
This is the part where the conversation always circles back to the same question: what is the purpose of the postseason? If it’s truly about finding the best teams—not the most convenient ones—then Texas passes every test. Their loss to Ohio State shouldn’t stain their season. Instead, it should serve as evidence that when the lights are brightest and the opponent is strongest, Texas doesn’t shrink. They rise.
And in a year where parity reigns, where even the big brands show cracks, where contenders wobble from week to week, that kind of consistency becomes priceless. Texas may have lost the game, but they won something more valuable: proof they belong among college football’s elite.
When you look at the full picture—the fight, the physicality, the execution, the resilience, the refusal to be overwhelmed—it becomes obvious that the loss against Ohio State doesn’t belong in the “punish” column. It belongs in the “respect” column. Texas fought the Buckeyes better than anyone, and that alone tells you who they really are.
This isn’t the Texas of old. This isn’t a team built on hype. This is a program with real muscle, real discipline, and real upside. And if you’re ranking teams based on truth instead of narratives, then the truth is simple:
Texas didn’t lose ground that night—they gained it.
And the loss shouldn’t matter. Not even a little. 🤠
