There’s a different kind of religion in Columbus. It’s not whispered in chapels or chanted in temples — it thunders from the Horseshoe, pours from bar taps on High Street, and hangs in the air like burnt charcoal and beer foam. On autumn Saturdays, this city becomes a living, roaring shrine to Buckeye football.

This isn’t a place where fandom is casual. You don’t just watch Ohio State — you belong to it. From generations of tailgate traditions to the precise, poetic swirl of Script Ohio, every beat of game day is choreographed by pride, memory, and obsession.

Here, your Uber driver can recite the 2002 championship lineup. Your barista’s wearing a Troy Smith jersey under her apron. And whether you’re at a frat house kegger on Lane or at an alumni cookout with grilled brats and 90s hip-hop, one thing’s guaranteed — someone’s yelling “O-H!” and expecting an “I-O” in return.

Columbus doesn’t care who you were before you got here. On game day, everyone’s Buckeye born and bred. And by the time the sun sets over Olentangy River, you’ll know: there’s no place — no crowd, no chaos, no culture — like this.