“No. Not nearly that good,” he said.
I smiled, thinking that he always downplayed how good we were while “godding up” the opponent. All coaches did it, preferring to be the underdog. Less pressure that way.
“We have the talent, but you never know about the chemistry,” he continued. “Good thing is—the older guys really like Reggie. For a kid that talented, he’s very low-key. Not at all flashy.”
“That is a good thing,” I said.
“We’ll see … You never know … There might be some rocky roads ahead for us …”
“What do you mean?” I said, hoping he was just talking about the toughest stretch on our schedule: Florida State and Stanford and Texas. But I had a feeling it had more to do with that helmet-hair lady I’d seen strolling the halls.
Looking agitated, Coach bolted up in his chair, as if he’d been given a shot of adrenaline. “I hate the NCAA. They’re shameless, self-serving hypocrites … They’re evil.”
“Evil?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little strong? I mean the KKK is evil … The Taliban is evil …”
“At least the KKK and the Taliban aren’t pretending to do good,” he interjected. He finished his coffee, putting his mug at his feet.
I looked at him and made myself ask the question. “Coach? Are we really under investigation?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yep. Sure looks that way.”
“For what?” I said.
“For winning,” he said. “Plain and simple. Any program that wins is being investigated in some form or another. It was only a matter of time and our number was up.”
“So you don’t think they’ll find anything?”
“Oh, I’m sure they will if they poke around long enough.”
“Are they … saying anything about you?” I asked, bracing myself.
He shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyway. Right now it’s just charges about a bunch of little stuff you can’t control. Tutors writing papers. Boosters wining and dining recruits. Professors giving a kid a better grade than he deserved … The NCAA generates all this outrage over petty violations to byzantine bylaws—and uses that to justify what they’re doing.”
“And what are they doing, exactly?” I asked.
“Flying on private planes. Taking boondoggles all over the place. Just generally using these kids to make themselves rich. Profiting from the glory of amateur athletics.” He began to speak faster, his voice becoming progressively more bitter. “This entire lofty idea of amateurism is a joke. A smoke screen. A hoax concocted by the NCAA and signed off on by universities so they can exploit young people for their own gain. A kid can’t put scripture or his girlfriend’s name or any personal message in his eyeblack … but they can make him wear corporate logos on his jersey, helmet visor, wristband, pants, shoes … Everyone’s getting rich here. You know the SEC made over a billion dollars in athletic receipts last year? A billion dollars! And the Big Ten is right behind them. Are you kidding me?”
I stared back at him. I’d obviously heard these arguments before, but never so eloquently. And never from him.
“You know how much CBS Sports and Turner Broadcasting paid the NCAA for television rights for March Madness this year? Something like eight hundred million dollars. Three quarters of a billion dollars for unpaid labor by student athletes. These kids generate billions for the NCAA and universities and corporations and even us coaches … but they can’t make a dime for themselves? And don’t give me this crap about scholarships.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I mumbled with a smile, but I don’t think he heard me.
“Ninety scholarships is a pittance compared to the revenue being generated. How is that fair? How is that right? It’s exploitive … It’s … It’s like colonialism—all these things are done for the quote ‘good of the student athlete’!”
I nodded, taking it all in, so attracted to his passion on the subject.
“Or how about this? The NCAA sells DVDs of games … and rights to videogames that relive classic moments in college sports … but the guys who played in those games can’t profit, even after they graduate and are no longer amateurs. Wouldn’t you think that a player’s likeness should belong to him? That if a videogame is made using his face, he should see some of the profits?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
Coach shook his head. “Nope. Not a penny. Remember A. J. Green, the kid from Georgia who sold his jersey from the Independence Bowl so he could go on some spring-break trip with his friends?”