Big-time college football recruiting is examined in a fictional context.
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Davidson was sitting in the football stadium when the guy jumped off the top of the press box and landed on the concrete steps below. The guy who jumped died. Not much mystery there. How Davidson got to that point in his life is a pretty good story.
Once, in what to Davidson seemed a long time ago, he heard a guy say that the number one fantasy of American males was to “do” a cheerleader. He overheard the comment at a bar. Davidson guessed the guy who was talking owned one of the larger “leisure hotels” in Chicago. Once prostitution had been legalized and controlled by the politicians, society needed a name for each establishment in order to issue the business a license. So, the city government called them “leisure hotels” but they were still whorehouses. At any rate, Davidson remembered the guy saying that every Wednesday evening was “dress-up” night and the paying customers could request that their favorite lady of the evening appear dressed in whatever costume the “john” desired. The number one choice for “dress-up” night was cheerleader. The guy said he owned more cheerleader outfits than most big-name colleges. Incidentally, he said the second most frequent request was for a French maid. You know - the black outfit with the little skirt and the black stockings. Weird. Full-dress nun was also extremely popular.
Davidson was thinking about cheerleaders because he was sitting in a university football stadium and watching some of them perform as part of the half-time entertainment. They do look, well, …enticing, Davidson thought to himself. Young women in tight sweaters and tiny little skirts jumping up and down - whoa, jeez, I need a date. Davidson had been lacking female companionship. For what seemed like a long time.
Davidson had been a college professor and it was just about to dawn on him that he was going to have to swallow his pride and get a “real” job. However, in a stroke of good fortune, the Dean of the College of Business at Northern States University, Dr. Kenneth Stone, visited him at an adult continuing education class he was teaching (for pocket and beer money). Stone offered a position at Northern States. No questions asked. So here he was, sitting at a big-time college football game with the dean of the business school. It is often nice in the Midwest in September. It was a nice day today.
There was no doubt that Northern States was now in the big time. The University had struggled for many years as a poor relation to the big boys like Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, and Wisconsin. Those schools were Division I powerhouses and Northern States was a struggling Division II semi-power. The university was simply unable to compete academically due to its inability to attract quality students and faculty. Northern States faced a “Catch-22” like many schools across the nation. How can a university improve its reputation if its reputation is not good enough to attract the kind of people that will enhance its reputation? You get the idea. The answer? Sports, naturally. Just like Michigan, Ohio State, Florida, and any number of other schools. Northern States would only be able to hire well-known professors and recruit top academic students if they built a first-class sports machine. How do you do that in a relatively short amount of time? You cheat. It’s simple, really.
The idea is to move up to Division I. That means money. Big money. Money for facilities and coaches and equipment and bigger arenas and on and on. The place to start is with the community and the alumni. Administrators regale the Chamber of Commerce, Jaycees, Eagles, Mooses, Lions, and other animals with tales of the riches to be had when people pour in from all over the Midwest to spend money during football and basketball weekends. Then the alumni are hyped by visions of grandeur and how nice it will be to say they graduated from such a prestigious university. Both groups are promised scads of opportunities for jock-sniffing (hobnobbing with the players) and are offered choice seats at all the games (there are no students on the fifty-yard line in Division I college football or mid-court in Division I basketball). These seats are usually granted on a lifetime basis and passed down in wills and bequeaths. Cool. As the money coffers fill up in anticipation of athletic glory, the administration makes the next crucial move.
That usually means basketball. Football requires the recruitment of too many quality athletes. In basketball, all you need is a couple of studs (“thoroughbreds” in the vernacular of the business) and a decent support group to build a winner. However, it also means hiring the “right” coach.
For Northern States that meant Augie “Tip” Johanssen. Johanssen had played eleven lackluster seasons in the NBA, and had been assistant coach and city recruiter for the University of the West for eight years before he had been “let go” for NCAA rules violations. Perfect contender. Northern States is less than one hour from Chicago. The high schools in the city are famous as a large pool of excellent athletes. Very tall, very agile black kids would show up on the first day of high school just as their parents would show up for the first day of their new jobs in the school district. Excellent coincidence. Chicago is a hotbed of basketball talent, and Johanssen had a world of connections in the recruiting pipeline.
These kids don’t come cheap. The going rate for a shooting guard is currently $30-40,000 a year as well as a car and a bogus job during the summer. A seven-foot center could cost substantially more and the athletic department would more than likely get caught. If a school wins a recruiting war, you can be sure that the schools that lost out will report some “strange dealings” to the NCAA. It is the nature of the beast. So, the powers at the NCAA slap your program with a two-year probation for recruiting violations. By this time, you’ve got several 20-win seasons under your belt, maybe a couple appearances in the big tournament in March, and your program is an established national entity. The money rolls in from ticket sales, alumni contributions, and licensed products. The university floats a revenue bond sale and uses community funds to build a spanking new, 14,000-seat, state-of-the-art basketball arena named after an illustrious graduate billionaire who chips in a few million for the privilege. Bam! The Lyle T. Spitz Arena. Life is good. For some of the alumni.
For years after it entered Division I, the Northern States football team played “early season patsy” for a number of schools. They were an independent without the protection provided by a conference. The deal is that weaker programs are scheduled for football powers as a sort of tune-up for the coming season. Northern States would travel to places like Colorado and Nebraska and get their heads handed to them. Why? Again, money and exposure. The larger schools pay a big guarantee and the games are always on regional TV if not on a national feed. Then they use the cash as seed money, float another revenue bond, and presto! - a new 78,000 capacity football stadium complete with press box, adjacent parking lot (for alumni tailgaters), and skyboxes (enclosed sections of seats surrounding the upper perimeter of the facility). The biology students don’t have enough test tubes. Tough.
The skyboxes are the key. Again, for reasons of money. A skybox usually encompasses 12-16 seats and is generally self-contained in terms of concessions and other amenities. The boxes are rented yearly by corporations and are used to impress business associates, reward prized employees, or just to show off. Amazingly, the rent for a year is often well over $100,000 and does NOT include the price of the tickets. A license to print money. This phenomenon has not gone unnoticed by those most callous of capitalists, the businesspeople running the National Football League.
Several years ago, the Baltimore Chiefs were beset by a number of problems. Their stadium was falling apart and was located in an undesirable area (read: lots of minority folks). By then seats in the farthest reaches of the end zones were priced at $64 a pop and the sport was increasingly being removed from the working stiff’s ability to pay. In addition, the Native American tribes had never let up on their protests about the “Chiefs” name. A large corporation had purchased the team, like the majority of NFL franchises. Corporations do not like these kinds of hassles. So they decided to move the team to a new stadium in Virginia. In a corporate meeting to decide what to do about the number of complaints originating from the paying fans, a very-junior executive by the name of Charles Simpkins came up with a unique plan.
“Fuck ‘em.” He was from the marketing department.
The other executives seated around the large, oval conference table put down their Cuban cigars and looked at Simpkins.
“Chuck, what do you mean….”
“I mean just that. Fuck ‘em. These slobs bellyache about this and bellyache about that and for what? Why do we put up with ‘em?”
Several murmurs of agreement could be heard around the table. Emboldened, Simpkins continued.
“You guys are all sittin’ here talkin’ about how profitable the skyboxes are and how many you can squeeze into the stadium plan without disturbing the number of seats available for the ‘common’ fan. Well, shit, make the whole goddamn thing out of skyboxes.”
“Chuck, ah, you don’t mean not to have any outdoor seating, do you?”
“Yeah, fuck, that’s exactly what I mean. Build concentric rows of skyboxes and rent all the suckers out to corporations. The higher up the stadium wall, the more prestigious, and the more expensive. Hell, you ever been to a pro fuckin’ football game? Boring. It’s much better on TV. Screw the fans. All they really want to do is gamble and drink, and shit, they can do that at home. For a lot less money. You’ll get all your cash up front from the rentals and still be able to collect on the ticket sales. Tom, you can use your catering outfit to provide all the food and booze to the skyboxes at outrageous markups and not even fool around with a concession contract. Jesus, it’s so simple. We are in business to make money, not cater to a bunch of low-brow cretins who pee on the floor of the bathrooms. The corporation suits will love it. And while we’re at it, fuck the goddamned Indians too. You want a cool franchise? Dress the players in black from head to toe and call the team the Washington Killers or Murderers or Zombies or Voodoo Units or Bulletheads or something scary that nobody can complain about. Hey, Bill, how do you think you’re clothing business will do with Voodoo Units jerseys? Shit, the fuckin’ assholes out there will eat it up.”
It came to pass. At first people were shocked at the stadium design and particularly the lack of sound in the facility. It was eerie not to hear any cheering. People got used to the idea, and the Virginia Vandals were making money hand over fist. There were five “Simpkin” stadia in the pros now and more on the way. It didn’t escape the notice of certain columnists in this country that pro football these days looked less like a game and more like a gladiatorial contest staged for the patrician class. That observation was dead on. Rise and fall of the Roman Empire, baby, and right here in your hometown.
It should be mentioned that all this worked for the colleges in the same way. Students and faculty alike clamored to bask in the reflected glow of athletic “bigness.” A degree from Northern States was going to be considered the equal of a degree from Michigan or Wisconsin, and the faculty was going to earn the University a reputation as one of the top research institutions in the nation. All according to plan. Now Davidson was part of the process. He needed the job and it didn’t take him over a second to accept the position. Ethics, smethics. A man has to eat.
Northern States was a consistent loser in football. The basketball team was doing fairly well but football was a disaster. The crowds began to dwindle after the initial awe of Division I competition passed. The school was losing money rapidly and….
Davidson’s eyes were drawn to the press box on the other side of the stadium. The press box was at the highest point on the far wall. Davidson thought he saw movement on the top. He kept watching until a figure appeared and stood up on the precipice of the press box, at least one hundred feet from the concrete seats below. Davidson elbowed Dean Stone and pointed to where the person was standing. It was a long distance, but Davidson was sure it was a man. The man was yelling something. It took a few moments, but during a lull in the action, some people near the press box heard his voice. They looked up and began to point and shout. The reaction reached most of the stadium like a wave.
The reporters in the box were sticking their heads out trying to see the man, but were unable to see him due to the overhanging roof. He walked another step toward the edge and the crowd gasped in unison. Davidson could not hear what he was yelling, but he was waving his arms like Moses trying to part the sea. Directly below him fans began to move to the side. Quickly. Davidson understood. The guy intended to jump and he didn’t want to hit anyone down below. Highly considerate.
In the press box, another man was leaning out directly under the jumper’s position. He had a reverse collar on that was visible to Davidson. A priest. He had a television cable tied around his mid-section. Davidson almost laughed. He guessed the priest didn’t trust God enough to lean out on his own without extra insurance.
The guy on top of the press box waved his hand in dismissal of whatever the priest was saying. Undoubtedly it was some platitude about a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Yeah, like people actually listen to that crap.
It was one of the most bizarre things Davidson thought any person had ever witnessed. The entire stadium was focused on the man on the edge of the press box. Even the football players were standing in the middle of the field looking at the potential jumper. The only things not pointed toward the man were the network cameras. The talking moron-heads in the booth were probably saying silly bromides about not encouraging such activities. Okay.
The silence. It was almost deafening. You could even hear the birds. Then it happened.
The man spread his arms and pushed himself up on this toes. He teetered for a moment, and then began the slow descent forward. It seemed as if you could hear the rush of the wind below his chest as he fell forward. He somersaulted once, twice, and then hit the concrete on his back. The sound was something no one in that stadium would ever forget. Ever. Still the silence.
Then pandemonium. People began yelling and running for the exits. Davidson could not figure out this reaction. Stone made a quick move to his right, but Davidson grabbed his coat sleeve. Stone looked at Davidson with a panicky face, and then immediately calmed down. Both men stood still looking at the scene unfolding before them.
Not one person approached the body of the man who had just killed himself. Not for what seemed like a long time. Then the paramedics arrived. He was dead. That was obvious from even the other side of the stadium.
Davidson couldn’t sort out his thoughts. What would make a man do that? What could be so bad? How will they decide the outcome of the football game? Will this be on Sport Center? Who was the guy? Did it hurt? Will anyone be unhappy he is gone? Does it matter? Are the cheerleaders sad?
They finished the game in almost total silence about forty-five minutes after the suicide. The administrators who had stuck around could not figure anything else to do. Northern States was undefeated, for Christ’s sake. We cannot sacrifice the season for one loon who takes a dive off the press box. The Eagles won the game. The world was safe again for football fans everywhere.
Read more about MR. FOOTBALL and James W. Bovinet HERE.
Copyright 2008 James W. Bovinet. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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