The One & Only(66)

Some of my earliest and most vivid college football memories have nothing to do with loving Walker or hating Texas but with being mesmerized by the scandal of the highest order at SMU, my introduction to the corruption in the sport I loved. I was still in diapers when Eric Dickerson and Craig James, a.k.a. the Pony Express, galloped onto the scene, becoming one of the most prolific backfields in history. And I certainly was too young to remember Ron Meyer, with his long sideburns and slick suits, in anything other than old footage. But by the time Lucy and I were in the first grade, I was paying attention, and it was absolutely clear to me that the Mustangs were in trouble. Big trouble. It was all grown-ups seemed to talk about, whether at neighborhood block parties, or the country club, or church. I didn’t fully grasp the ins and outs of NCAA rules and regulations, but I knew they were big-time cheaters. During one of Coach Carr’s first tutorials on the subject, he likened SMU’s brazen rule breaking to Lawton playing banker in Monopoly and stealing the orange five-hundred-dollar bills, willy-nilly. He explained that there were wealthy boosters involved, the kind who swaggered around in mink cowboy hats, bragging about Saturday’s game as if they had played in it themselves, and giving players loads of cash to play for their school. I heard the outlandish stories about the cars and jewelry, livestock and houses, that these men, known as the Naughty Nine, bought for players and their families. Coach shook his head and said things about SMU such as “They’re the best team money can buy” and “They have no shame.”

Then, just three days after my seventh birthday, on February 25, 1987, the hammer fell. I was home sick from school, or at least I was pretending to be sick so I could watch the televised press conference. David Berst, the director of enforcement of the NCAA, announced that SMU was guilty under the “repeat violator” provision and would get the most severe punishment allowed. The death penalty. No scholarships, no practice, no games for a whole year. The entire program shut down. Even though everyone knew they were guilty as hell, it was still shocking. So shocking that Berst himself fainted right on television.

Later that night, I heard Coach Carr tell my dad, who was in town visiting me, “We shouldn’t be so surprised. Everyone knows … we do execute people in this state. If you ask me, it’s a lot easier to follow the rules.” My dad, of course, replied something along the lines of “Yeah. If you’re going to cheat, you better be damn good at it.”

Now fast-forward twenty-six years, and Walker was in possible trouble. Not of the SMU magnitude, but trouble nonetheless. And in an unsettling twist of fate, I was no longer watching it on television. Rather, it was my job to report it. My job to write a story that could, potentially, damage Walker football. I told myself that it would all be fine. Because Coach Carr was still the good man he’d always been.


That evening, after talking to J.J. and Galli, I went over to Ryan’s and told him about the NCAA story Smiley was making me write.

“Do you think there is any truth to it?” I asked him, after filling him in on everything.

“Probably,” Ryan said, hitting a golf ball across a putting green in his basement. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, taken aback by his answer.

“I mean … if you’re consistently winning at this level, you’re probably cheating along the line somewhere,” Ryan said. “And even if you’re losing, and you’re trying to win, you’re probably still cheating. At least on the margins.”

“Coach Carr does not cheat,” I said. A statement of absolute fact.

Ryan gave me an infuriating smirk, then knocked the ball into the hole. “Okay, then.”

“He doesn’t,” I said, a little pissed off.

He shrugged, then squared his shoulders for another shot. “I know you think he’s the second coming of Christ, but the man isn’t perfect. He may not be bankrolling his players, but I’m pretty sure he looks the other way now and then. He has to.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Sure he does! He’s the CEO of a major corporation and his employees are a bunch of dumb kids. He has to look the other way. It’s a matter of survival.”

“Give me one example,” I said. “Of Coach looking the other way.”

“Okay. Do you remember Cedric Washington’s Cadillac Escalade?” Ryan asked.

“Yes. No. Not really. But whatever. Go on,” I said. Cedric had been a wide receiver during our era, a year behind Ryan, and almost as heralded, leaving school a year early to enter the draft.