There are hot takes in college football, and then there are bad takes. The recent argument from 680 The Fan that Clemson’s iconic entrance is a “colossal waste of time” might be the dumbest of the season so far.
The radio hosts didn’t hold back:
“Can I say the quiet part out loud about a great college tradition?” one said. “Clemson packing their players into buses and driving around to the other side of the stadium and then waiting and waiting and waiting — guys in full uniforms on buses. That is an incredibly inconvenient, colossal waste of time and your players’ attention.”
He went even further, questioning the safety of the ritual.
“I watch Dabo every time,” he added. “Dabo is an old guy who used to be a receiver, like the toe of one coaching shoe was going to hit a blade of grass and suddenly, like that hill is going to be a Who concert. I’m telling you, it’s going to go bad at some point. It just hadn’t yet.”
A Tradition Bigger Than Efficiency
Here’s the problem with that critique: Clemson’s Hill entrance was never designed to be efficient. It was designed to be electric.
To dismiss it as a “waste of time” is to misunderstand what makes college football different from the NFL. It’s not just about how quickly you get from the locker room to the sideline. It’s about goosebumps. It’s about history.
The Safety “Concern”
Yes, The Hill is steep. Yes, the players sprint down in full gear. But to call it an inevitable disaster? That’s fearmongering. Clemson has managed the entrance for decades without serious incident.
By that same logic, should Ohio State stop dotting the “i” in Script Ohio because someone might trip? Should Army and Navy cancel the march-on because cadets could stumble? Risk is a part of pageantry. It’s also part of what makes these moments unforgettable.
And let’s be honest — if Dabo Swinney, now 54 and sprinting like a man half his age, can make it down safely every Saturday, maybe we don’t need to bubble-wrap one of college football’s great traditions.
Why the Hill Matters
For Clemson, the buses and The Hill aren’t just showmanship. They’re the culmination of preparation, a moment where players connect with fans, history, and each other before kickoff. Generations of Tigers have lived for that sprint. Opponents have admitted to feeling their knees shake when they see 80,000 fans roaring as Clemson storms the field.
Take that away, and you take away a piece of the sport’s soul.
Final Word
The 680 The Fan crew may think Clemson’s entrance is “outdated” or “inconvenient,” but that’s the kind of thinking that strips college football of what makes it special. The Hill isn’t about logistics. It’s about magic.
And if you can’t understand why 25 seconds of chaos in Clemson, South Carolina, matters so much, maybe the problem isn’t with the tradition — maybe the problem is with your perspective.