In the old days, when the land west of the Mississippi was still considered homeland and not “Mike Gundy’s weird playground,” every new town had a grizzled sheriff to keep the peace – to prevent a series of stagecoach robberies and to maintain order before bar raids. Justice on the frontier got harsh now and then, but that was necessary to establish normalcy.

Today, college football feels just like the Wild West – but unlike back then, there are no guns and tin men to ensure justice.

Exhibit A in the prosecution is UNLV quarterback Matthew Sluka, who blatantly and brazenly announced overnight that he was leaving the Rebels’ undefeated 3-0 football program because “certain assurances made to me were not kept after I enrolled.”

Read that again. A starting quarterback on an undefeated team — considered a potential College Football Playoff squad — has let his teammates down less than a third of the way through the season.

And what can UNLV do about it, you ask?

Nonsense. Nothing. Zero. Absolutely nothing.

What was left unsaid in Sluka’s social media message announcing his abrupt departure from UNLV was the “why,” which was later filled in Wednesday by Sluka’s agent, Marcus Cromartie, who told reporters that UNLV had reneged on a $100,000 verbal offer from an assistant coach.

Welcome to the new world, folks.

In an interview with ESPN, the quarterback’s father, Bob Sluka, said UNLV coach Barry Odom told him the offer was invalid because it did not come from him but from offensive coordinator Brennan Marion.

Welcome to the new world, folks.

Name, image and likeness spiraled out of control almost immediately when it became “legal” in July 2021 – supposedly allowing athletes to make money off their name, image and likeness. Critics of NIL immediately said, “Wait a minute, how on earth are we supposed to control this?” to which the NCAA responded with a collective shrug.

Pay-for-play was there. And believe me, it’s not going anywhere now – no metal sign or six-shooter in the world can stuff the contents of NIL back into the stadium-sized Pandora’s box it came from.

For every Livvy Dunne who appears to be legitimately making millions by appearing on television to advertise stretchy leggings, there are 1,000 Slukas – players who are promised six- and seven-figure contracts just for the honour of signing on the right dotted line.

Sluka began his college career at FCS Holy Cross, played three seasons with the Crusaders and was named a preseason All-American as a senior in 2023 before finishing with over 9,500 total yards and 97 total touchdowns in four seasons.

Sluka eventually transferred to UNLV, hardly a blip in the current transfer portal era, but in Vegas he led the Rebels to their first 3-0 start since the first Reagan administration and got his Group of 5 team starting to get talked about as a contender for the expanded CFP.

But apparently all was not well in Sin City – because Sluka wasn’t getting the salary he was promised. So what did he do? One game before his eligibility expired and his college career was finally over, Sluka announced that he would be redshirting himself (I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but I digress…) and would not play in any of the Rebels’ remaining games in 2024.

“Slacker!” you shout. “He let his team down!” echoed from sea to sea. This is all absolutely true. But there is another side to it, as we all know if we just stop for a moment and think about how this works in our real lives.

You start your new job expecting to get a certain salary, but when payday comes and everyone shows up at Amazon with their paychecks, you’re left standing there waiting for the answer.

What exactly would you do?

I know what I would do. I don’t care about my teammates when it matters – my only teammates are ultimately the ones relying on me to get the win.

So yes, Sluka let his team down in the most dramatic NIL case yet. He’s far from the only one. Players (we’re looking at you, Gainesville…) have come and gone from programs because of NIL deals gone wrong before they even touched the turf.

The current state of college football is becoming more and more like the dusty main streets of the bygone Wild West—except there are no law enforcement officers to keep the peace.

Welcome to the new world, folks.