It Was Never Going to Be Free
The University of Texas at Austin is regarded, alongside Texas A&M, as ["an outlier in the Big-12"].
Their total revenue of $387.6 million last year exceeded the individual total revenues of every other public-school conference, including the twelve-school Big Sky.
But the true income of an NCAA Division 1 university — the part that never makes the headlines — comes from donations.
And that is precisely what University of Texas president Greg Fenves intends to talk about today.
Right now, the University of Texas stands at a critical crossroads.
A fork in the road that will decide hundreds of millions of dollars.
#. December 18, 2017
#-1. Austin, Texas, USA
#-2. University of Texas at Austin
#-3. President's Office
"Michael!"
"Greg. It's been a while. Last year's party, was it?"
"Roger's party, yes."
"Haha. I remember."
Greg Fenves warmly ushered the man called Michael into the president's office.
This man's name was Michael Dell.
Founder of the IT conglomerate Dell Inc., and Chairman and CEO of Dell Technologies.
And, at the same time, one of the richest men on the planet.
He had dropped out of college at just nineteen with a net profit of $200,000 to his name, yet he continued to pour generous donations into the school he once attended — Texas at Austin.
The reason was simple: he was a passionate supporter of the Texas Longhorns football team.
In fact, the Texas football program was currently famous for incorporating cutting-edge technology provided by Dell Inc. into its training regimen.
The two men had first met at a party hosted last year by MLB's retired superstar, Roger Clemens.
Roger Clemens, too, was a Texas–Austin alumnus.
"I know how busy you are. Thank you so much for coming."
"Haha. This is an annual thing by now, isn't it?"
"…"
"So? What's the plan?"
Michael Dell cut straight to business — he wanted to hear the vision for the football team that Greg Fenves had laid out.
And accordingly, the donation amount would change.
As it always did.
"As I'm sure you're aware, this year we—"
"You landed three 5-Stars."
"…"
"Honestly, I expected more."
Michael Dell acknowledged that landing three 5-Star prospects before July had been good, but expressed disappointment that the Longhorns hadn't managed to bring in any additional elite talent.
And Greg Fenves looked contrite.
In the way the two men carried on this conversation, it was obvious who held the leverage and who didn't.
Of course, socially speaking, Michael Dell was the bigger man regardless.
Then Michael Dell went after the head coach himself.
"Tom Herman's leadership is lacking."
"He's improving steadily."
"Sure, this season's results have been decent, but with recruiting like this, you'll be back in the middle of the pack next year. You bring in the most money in the Big 12 every single year — isn't this too little to show for it?"
"…But we have a clear plan."
"And what is that?"
Greg Fenves, sweating through his shirt, asked whether he might call in someone else to give the briefing, since Michael Dell wasn't thrilled with the current state of things.
When Michael Dell asked who,
"Tom Herman,"
was the answer.
The president of the University of Texas was sweating bullets — that alone told you how much hung on today's meeting.
Every year, NCAA D1 universities receive distributions from their conferences, including broadcast rights fees, and generate additional revenue through ticket and merchandise sales.
But the most important source of income is alumni donations. Occasionally money arrives out of pure goodwill, but such sums are negligible.
Alumni who have succeeded socially and economically open their wallets only when a single proposition is fulfilled.
Football.
The success of the football team, to be exact.
Indeed, Texas, which enjoyed great success under Mack Brown through the mid-2000s, was pulling in donations reaching hundreds of millions of dollars a year.
Yet despite the massive inflation since then, the university's donations in 2014 and 2015 — seasons of mediocrity — had fallen below what it had received back in the mid-2000s.
And when Tom Herman's first year showed no visible signs of a turnaround, this year's donations to the university amounted to a mere (?) $103.6 million.
But what if a talent capable of guaranteeing success were to arrive?
Donations could leap tenfold or more overnight.
And this was no idle wish.
Built on past records, it was a figure professionally analyzed and produced by capable Texas–Austin graduates, gladly offered in service of their alma mater.
Free of charge, of course.
To explain all this, Greg Fenves had summoned the very man Michael Dell found disagreeable — Tom Herman — to the president's office.
Click.
The door opened, and in stepped Tom Herman, who extended a respectful hand toward Michael Dell.
"Tom Herman."
"I've heard a great deal about you. You did fine work this year."
"Haha. It can only get better."
A brief exchange passed between two men both hiding their true feelings.
Tom Herman then took his place at the prepared presentation spot.
The office slowly darkened.
"We have a two-year re-recruiting plan."
"Did you say two years?"
"That's right."
As Tom Herman nodded,
Herb Hand, who had accompanied him, played the video.
On the screen, the figure of a football player appeared.
"This is the one."
"…Dwayne Moi Stone."
"You know him?"
"Of course I do. Is there anyone in America right now who doesn't? He may not be Tom Brady or LeBron James yet, but he's definitely more famous than Mike Trout or Clayton Kershaw. Outside of California, anyway."
At Michael Dell's remark,
Tom Herman nodded in genuine surprise.
Because that had been exactly his own assessment.
Dwayne Moi Stone's current fame effortlessly eclipsed that of most MLB superstars.
Part of it was that baseball had lost its grip on the younger generation, but Moi — who had been generating stories since childhood — had become hugely popular on the mainland as well.
The proof was simple.
Jersey sales.
In 2017 alone, Dwayne Moi Stone's Kahuku High School jersey was the 27th best-selling jersey across high school, college, and NFL football combined.
Among NCAA D1 football fans, it had already become a trend to wear their own team's jersey with Moi's name and the number 14 printed on the back.
"That was just in case you didn't know."
"You're trying to bring him in?"
"That's the plan, for now."
"Is that… even possible? From what I hear, his recruiting terms are rather demanding."
"Difficult, yes. But we have to try."
Tom Herman answered with a look of grim resolve,
then turned to Herb Hand again.
The screen changed.
"These are the names of players graduating high school next year. As every year, there's a deep pool of talent. Baylor Kupp. From Brockham, and the best tight end of next year's class."
Baylor Kupp.
Darnell Wright.
Garrett Wilson.
Kenyon Green.
Top prospects for the offensive side of the ball.
After reciting their names, Tom Herman explained that once they landed at least three of them, they would build a certain kind of generation together with the players they'd recruit again in 2020.
The King's Era.
Moʻī means "King" in Hawaiian — and that was the inspiration.
That was the name Tom Herman had chosen.
The goal of this generation was, of course, a National Championship, with the bare minimum being to become the best team in the Big 12 with no more than two losses a year.
Though in truth, even that would count as failure.
Nothing less than a National Championship would do.
The briefing lasted about twenty-five minutes.
When it ended, Tom Herman bowed respectfully once more and left the office.
Two men remained.
And Michael Dell spoke first.
"So? How much do you need?"
Greg Fenves's face lit up at once.
Today, Texas secured a conditional pledge of at least $200 million.
#. December 19, 2017
#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA
#-2. University of Georgia
#-3. President's Office
The day after Texas at Austin belatedly jumped into the DFM race, conversation was in full swing in the University of Georgia's president's office as well.
"The university's future looks bright."
"Haha. We always do our best."
"Then I'll look forward to it. Well then."
Georgia's president, Jere Morehead, is highly regarded for running the university well.
Because he handles football operations — which accounts for roughly half of everything an NCAA D1 president must manage — exceptionally well.
This year, too, Georgia was rated as having ["recruited better"] than Clemson, which had landed the biggest name in high school football, Trevor Lawrence.
Despite various concerns, Georgia brought in Justin Fields, rated alongside Trevor Lawrence as the top quarterback, and added six 5-Stars and ten 4-Stars on top of him.
Especially Jamaree Salyer.
Zamir White.
Cade Mays.
Trey Hill.
James Cook.
Of all the additions to the offensive side of the ball, word was that landing these five had been the best result of all.
For one reason and one reason only.
DFM.
Viewed through the lens of Dwayne Moi Stone,
they were the single best possible selections.
And as if to prove the point,
today alone, pledges totaling $36 million in donations had come in.
But it wasn't over yet.
"How many are left?"
"Six, sir."
"Phew. You know what that means, right?"
"?"
"Schools like ours have to scrape it together, ten dollars at a time."
"Haha. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?"
"Do that. Much obliged."
Georgia had no shortage of successful actors and media figures among its alumni, but it was a little thin on tycoons capable of writing nine-figure checks.
Which was why they always had to collect small (?) donations, one by one.
But.
Morehead wasn't worried in the slightest.
Because right at that moment—
Riiing—
-Mr. President?
"What is it?"
-A Mr. Dan Amos is on the line.
"Oh, that man. Put him through."
Aflac.
There existed a Georgia-based insurance company, founded in 1955.
Aflac employed over 11,000 people, and its duck — the very symbol of its identity — was known to nearly everyone in America.
And its CEO, Dan Amos, was considered the wealthiest and most successful of all Georgia alumni.
His assets were reported to be at least $280 million, though not a soul anywhere took that figure at face value.
"Dan! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Unlike Morehead, who opened the call warmly,
the voice on the other end came back distinctly curt.
-I hear Georgia isn't in the lead.
"I beg your pardon?"
-I checked into it myself. In the Dwayne Moi Stone recruiting sweepstakes, Georgia isn't out front. Damn it, Jere. If you don't land that boy, consider your donations — all of them — gone.
Click.
"…"
He stated his piece unilaterally,
got angry unilaterally,
and hung up.
But there was nothing to be said in return.
In matters like these, the one writing the checks was always absolute, and Georgia would have to win people's hearts back with results.
$67.4 million.
$111.7 million.
The former was what Georgia had raised ahead of the 2017 season after finishing last year 8–5; the latter was the pledge for next year, secured while sitting atop the SEC as champions.
If they beat the Big 12 champion Oklahoma in January and reached the final to become National Champions, they could expect donations to grow anywhere from two to three times over.
And the pledges received from alumni today were money earmarked separately, to be paid out upon successfully recruiting Dwayne Moi Stone.
Of course.
No one could be one hundred percent certain that Dwayne Moi Stone would lead the team to success.
There were countless cases of a freshman hailed as the best high school player in America being branded, within mere months, the biggest bum in college football.
But to the football-crazed,
none of that mattered.
Their alma mater's football team had landed a star.
That alone was enough to make them hope for better days.
Even though nothing would ever come back to them for it, hordes of successful men gladly paid astronomical sums for the expensive hobby called football.
It was no accident that a football team's success meant a university's success.
Truly, a football team's success is a university's success.
"Whew. We have to land that boy. No matter what."
The raw face of NCAA football recruiting.
It was never focused on the sport itself.
The focus was always on capital.
#. December 23, 2017
#-1. On the flight from Hawaii to Dallas
#-2. Somewhere over the Pacific
When I first made my proposal,
my parents refused.
So did Grandpa and Grandma.
And Aunt Mel too.
["Perhaps you should listen to what Mr. Mel has to say?"]
["What?"]
["Ahem. N-nothing, nothing at all."]
Coach John Morse, who'd butted in for nothing and hadn't even gotten his money's worth out of it, I'll be shoving to the back of my mind for a while.
Anyway.
With my participation in the All-American Bowl confirmed, I'd judged that rather than building my body back in Hawaii, it would be better to seek out a famous trainer in Texas for lessons.
So I said I wanted to go to Texas alone.
Naturally, my parents said no.
Sending a sixteen-year-old boy from the Hawaiian islands off to the mainland by himself was simply unacceptable.
But I desperately wanted to go.
And while I was in the middle of arguing my case—
["Ah!"]
["Hmm?"]
A brilliant idea came to me.
So I picked up the phone and dialed right away.
And in the end—
["Ha… do you really have to go this far?"]
["Please, please, please, pleeease. Pretty please?"]
["Honey?"]
["Moi? I need you to promise me a few things."]
["Yes, ma'am! I promise!"]
With my parents' hands and feet both firmly tied,
I found myself boarding a plane bound for Dallas.
Hawaii to Dallas: seven hours and thirty minutes.
The ticket cost $146.
The fare came out of the money I'd been saving up, and I'd originally intended to pay for the training costs myself too, but my parents wouldn't allow it that far.
Someday, I'll pay them back. No question.
That much was only right.
"Excuse me, but…"
"Hmm?"
"Do you happen to play sports?"
"Oh — yes. Football."
"That explains it. You're nearly twice my size."
"Haha. Is Dallas home for you?"
"Huh? How could you tell?"
Well.
Because anyone could see you'd just spent the week being a tourist.
"Ah. It's showing, is it?"
"How was Hawaii?"
"Fantastic. I kept wondering why I hadn't gone sooner."
"That's great to hear. It really is a wonderful place."
Playing football
means you can make a friend anywhere.
Even here, on this plane, I'd already received a chocolate bar, a banana, and a drink from a total stranger, and a woman passing through the aisle recognized me, disappeared for a moment, and came back with paper and pen.
So I signed for her.
"Wow. You must be famous."
"A little. Hawaii's a small town."
"A little, my foot. Do you know this?"
"?"
"This boy was causing a stir even before he started playing football. And the moment he took up the sport last year, he became the No. 01 recruit in the 2020 class rankings. You'll regret it if you don't get his autograph."
The woman who had first treated me with simple kindness
scratched her cheek, looking embarrassed.
So I spoke up first.
"Shall I sign for you?"
"Oh — would you?"
"As many as you like."
The cabin got a little rowdy as more and more people around us turned to look, and then a flight attendant approached and suggested I move seats.
Huh.
Am I getting kicked out?
"We'll be upgrading you to first class."
"Oh. You really don't have to—"
"It's necessary. For safety reasons."
"…"
At the words for safety reasons,
there wasn't much I could say.
I shrugged at the woman I'd been happily chatting with, grabbed my bag, and slowly followed the flight attendant.
Someone seemed to be filming me.
Eh, does it matter?
First class — a place I'd flown plenty in my past life,
but a first for this one.
"Ohh. Roomy."
"By the way…"
"Hmm?"
"Would you sign a few for us later, too?"
"…Haha. Of course."
Somehow,
it was never going to be free after all.
Still, a few autographs for an upgrade was a bargain.
Peace returned after I'd settled into my new seat.
There were only a handful of people in first class.
I briefly considered watching a movie or reading the book I'd brought, but a better idea came to mind, so I pulled out my laptop.
Lately I've been organizing my list of prospective universities.
There are so many that I need to keep it straight somehow.
Right now I was updating it with this year's recruiting results.
And the section I was logging at the moment: offensive guards.
Georgia and
Texas A&M took some good talent there.
A&M quietly did well for itself.
Clemson seems to have gotten the favorite.
Reading the room, we're done — bye-bye there.
Alabama's a lock to come calling, though.
Siiiigh.
Honestly, Nick Saban I just can't read.
It'd be lovely if some other school stepped up instead.
"Just a little more. A little more."
And.
My current No. 1 in my heart is—
"Hm?"
Some time between one entry and the next, I realized we were already flying over the mainland.
As I looked out the window, a familiar building came into view.
Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport.
I'd known it all along, of course —
buildings look exactly the same whether it's my past life or this one.
"Excuse me, Mr. Stone?"
"Yes sir."
My reflexive answer made the flight attendant laugh,
and feeling a touch sheepish, I took the pen she offered.
A few more autographs.
And then—
Click.
After every passenger had deplaned, I took photos with the captain and flight attendants, collected my luggage, and passed through the gate.
And there—
"Mo—i!!"
Not far away,
I spotted someone waving.
"Grandma!!"
A retired author living in Colleyville, a town about an hour's drive from Dallas.
That's right.
My mother's mother.
My maternal grandmother.
The person I'd called to get my parents' permission
was none other than her.
"Oh, Moi. It's been so long."
"Three years, Grandma. I'm sorry."
"Oh, hush. You're not hungry, are you?"
"Did you really think that thimble-sized in-flight meal was going to fill me up? It's not even funny, honestly."
"Haha. Come on, let's go. We're getting something delicious."
Hello, Big-D.
In Dallas — known to the fans of its rival teams as "Big Dick" (take that however you like, or as one hell of a dumbass) — I'd be spending my time for the foreseeable future.