Why I Hate “the Warriors”

I’m annoyed.  Here’s the thing:  I thought I was gonna write a quick explanation of why I hate the Warriors, hot take click bait for contrarians.

Because: I do, I hate them!  See, it’s easy for me to feel that, it’s always right there, seething under the surface, clamoring to be voiced. I hate the Warriors. That part is like falling off a log. But an explanation is a different kind of thing. For an explanation I have to think, and when that happens, at least for me, things get complicated.

Why do I hate the Warriors? What about them do I hate?  People ask me this. It’s fair. What’s to hate about a superb team made up of apparently likable players playing well individually and together? What’s to hate about ball movement or great shooting or winning or appearing to have fun? What’s to hate about Oakland having a great team?  What am I even talking about?! People ask me these very difficult questions. And I keep repeating, confirming the stereotype of the egghead academic, that it’s complicated.

Let’s start with what I don’t hate. I don’t hate Steph Curry. His skills are peerless, the precise, but seemingly effortless creativity with which he deploys them is joyful and awe striking, not to mention at times hilarious, and it  manifests at least as much dedication and hours of effort as I’ve ever admired in any other player.  I don’t hate Draymond Green and the ability to adapt to his environment by growing new capacities in leaps and bounds that he’s demonstrated as part of this team. Nor do I hate his brash, trash talking confidence. I don’t even hate the Warriors for beating the heroic LeBron James and the closest thing I have to a hometown club in the finals last year. I don’t hate their crisp pace, or their spacing, or their ball movement. I don’t hate three pointers in particular or great shooting in general. I love all these things. And yet…

And yet, basketball doesn’t just exist within the lines of the court. Basketball is also, for me anyway (and I would argue for anyone, whether they are aware of it or not), a set of stories, stories that convey (and influence) attitudes and beliefs and values. And basketball also is a set of broader societal forces and practices that find their way into the game, moving the minds and hearts and bodies of owners, general managers, coaches, players, fans, and the media. So that while I can watch and admire all that I described above, it’s simply not possible for me to do so without also experiencing feelings provoked by all the other things I can’t help but notice are in play when the Warriors take the floor. (By the way, that, in case you wondered, is why “the Warriors” is in scare quotes in my title.)

I’ve written about this before, so I won’t belabor the point at length, but I can’t help, I’m sorry, but be disturbed by what lurks between the lines of the collective adoration of Steph Curry. It’s not that his skills don’t deserve our admiration. They do, and I believe he is rightly considered the best basketball player alive at this moment.  It’s the way that many (I know: not all) in the media, in the corporate world, and in fandom convey their delight in his success (particularly when it involves licking a saber’s edge over the slain body of the last player they made into an object of worship, LeBron James).

I’m repelled, heretical though it may seem in our country, by the celebration of his Christianity, as though believing in Jesus were a talent or an accomplishment, or evidence of moral virtue, or, um, at all relevant to being a basketball player. And I wonder why in Jesus’s name we, as a culture, give a shit about what Steph believes. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t hate Christians or that Steph Curry is one. I hate that this fact ever appears to his credit in a story about basketball.  Ditto for his having an adorable child and loving her: happy for him that he has one, happy for her that he loves her. Stop talking about it (or start talking about all the NBA players, especially those who didn’t come from two parent households, who are also devoted to their kids).

I’m irritated (not repelled, I’m trying to be precise here) by the open-mouthed marveling at his physical stature, as though with every floater he drops in heavy traffic he were preschooler spelling a difficult word or moonwalking on his parents coffee table, as though he has somehow overcome greater obstacles than other great NBA players.  He’s not, and he has not.  Yes, he is not as tall as the average NBA player, nor as strong, but he’s neither the shortest nor the weakest of his peers. He’s 6-3, was raised amidst material privilege by both his parents (one a former NBA player and three-point specialist), and spent his childhood at NBA practices and games, surrounded and tutored by NBA players. That doesn’t make him a lock to become the greatest player alive (far from it, as I’ve already acknowledged: he’s clearly worked his ass off), but it also doesn’t make him a miraculously prodigious tiny street urchin who wandered in grubby off the street corner and began launching step back threes with unprecedented accuracy.

Lastly, I’m repelled (yes, repelled again), by what I view as a pernicious racist subtext in the cult of Steph Curry. Let me emphasize: I am not referring to conscious attitudes held by individuals who adore Steph Curry. I’m talking, as I have tried to demonstrate in my book, about the workings of collective, unconscious dispositions and desires that we have all inherited by American society and the history of basketball.  Unless we actively and explicitly combat these, then it becomes too easy for the celebration of a light-skinned, blue eyed, average-sized guard to come at the expense of dark-skinned, brown-eyed, over-sized black men.

Is any of this Steph’s fault? Mostly, I would say no, it’s not. But it is to the degree that he deliberately reinforces (or capitalizes upon) any of these elements of the narrative that has risen up around his brilliant on-court performances.  I leave it to others to judge whether he has or not, and with that, enough about the Church of Steph Curry.

Next up, I can’t watch the Warriors peerless team play and lights out three point shooting without seeing it as the most advanced current manifestation of a tide that has been slowly swelling in basketball over the last 10 years or so that prizes productive efficiency above all else. This feeling has spurred me to a more extensive research project into all the elements, conceptual, technological and otherwise that have driven this development; which is to say, I’m still learning a lot about it. But in my currently oversimplified understanding of the story it goes like this.

Inspired by the advances in the statistical analysis of baseball, some fans with statistical proficiency began to think about the game of basketball and how to quantify what looked to the rest of us more or less like pure, unquantifiable material flow. In doing so, they isolated “the possession” as the fundamental unit of basketball play and to begin to experiment with methods for calculating the productivity of teams (and individuals) in terms of how the various basketball actions they undertake affect the ability to generate points per possession.

Here let me say: of course they did! Because, I say as someone who is just trying these lenses on for size, it’s cool as hell to see the game through them! (I’m the guy, I’d like you to know, who kept stats of the imaginary NBA Finals series he played against his best friend in the driveway and I’m the guy whose Dad kept stats at everyone of his games and then printed out reams of analysis generated by his IBM XT.) I don’t hate numbers. I love numbers and wish I understood them better. So I don’t fault these individuals. I don’t attribute to them soulless, malign intentions. I turn the game into stories and appreciate it with words, they turn it into formulas and appreciate it through numbers. Live and let live, right?

Definitely.  But I worry that the beautiful curiosity, wild imagination, unorthodox vision, and intellectual energy driving their efforts came also to be recognized for its potential value to owners and general managers seeking to maximize and stabilize the return on their financial investment in players.  How, in essence, these individuals might be asking themselves, do I get the most points per possession for the fewest dollars? Now we’ve gone from a few teams hiring some statistically minded kids to analyze their box scores to a half-dozen cameras perched in every arena in the league surveilling the every movement of players and delivering a torrent of big data to small armies of analysts to crunch and transform into actionable information for executives, coaches, and yes, even players.

Of course, I don’t expect that capitalist owners (or their paid underlings) would prioritize questions other than those related to maximizing their ROI.  And, if you’re comfortable with having the unencumbered freight train of free market logic trundle along, you’re probably thinking I’m naive.  After all, this is just the nature of things in our world. Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it, or its effects.

The Warriors, it seems to me, who lead the league in offensive efficiency, seem not only to be the incarnation of this tendency, but, by their success, seem also to be spurring other franchises to try to figure out how to do what they’ve done—as evidenced by Steph and others telling teams not to try.  This may be fine for many fans, whose favorite team either is the Warriors or is trying to become them. But for me it threatens to turn the NBA, which I have long loved to the degree that it presented me with an alternative to the corporatization of daily life in America, into the advance guard for ever more invasive attempts to make economic efficiency the mother of all values, to maximize productivity, and to create more reliable predictive models.

I don’t mind efficiency, I don’t mind productivity, and I don’t mind predictions. God knows I like to get my work done and to know what shit storm is coming around the bend so that I can prepare for it or avoid it.  But these are strong tides in which we are blithely romping in America today and if we don’t watch out, we may find that they’ve swept out to sea some other things that we used to like to have around: beauty, surprise, chance, and nonsense, to name just a few.

Which brings me to my final point, the relationship between the Warriors increasingly predictable domination of all competition and the annihilation of uncertainty and of the emotional complex (and marvelous, wondering stories) to which it gives rise.  Last week, the Warriors demolished the Cavaliers by 34, the Bulls by 31, and the Spurs by 30. Two of those teams (the Cavs and Spurs) were supposed to represent the only significant challenge to the inevitability of the Warriors winning a second consecutive title this year. So much for that. Even if Nate Silver at 538 only puts their chances of winning the title at 46 % (still 20 percentage points higher than the Spurs), I don’t know anybody who really thinks that the Warriors won’t repeat.  Unless, of course, they get hurt. But even I don’t wish for that.

But that’s kind of the point for me. I don’t want to have to wish for great athletes to get hurt so that uncertainty will be restored to the game. And, in basketball, unlike in my life, I like not knowing what will happen next, or how the story will end. I like the tension in my stomach and shoulders, the quickening of my pulse this uncertainty brings, and I like the emotions of fear, hope, elation, relief, despair associated with these physical signs.  I think of basketball as a story-generating machine, but really, it’s the uncertainty that basketball creates and the emotions that uncertainty provokes that are, I think, the source from which the basketball stories I love have always come from.

The Warriors are on pace to tie the 1996 Bulls record setting 72-10 regular season won-loss record. I’d have hated watching those Bulls teams if it weren’t for the utter unpredictability of Dennis Rodman and the sense his existence allowed that I didn’t know what was happen next, or, to put it another way, what the story would be tomorrow. Hell the very presence of Rodman’s brightly colored, pogo-stick body alongside MJ’s in a Bulls uniform was itself a kind of ceaseless source of nourishment for the imagination delighting in the fragile, fleeting materialization of the improbable

I think I know what the story will be tomorrow, and the day after, and in June, when the Warriors finish off their thoroughly probable title run.

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“Athletics” (Reading In Praise of Athletic Beauty, Post 4)

Having arrived at definitions of “beauty” and “praise,” Hans Gumbrecht moves in the final section of the “Definitions” chapter of In Praise of Athletic Beauty to the question to the task of defining athletic performance.  He wants to know whether “the specific form of athletic performance”—whatever that might turn out to be in his definition—produces “a specific form of aesthetic effect.”  To get there he moves through a number of steps, some complex, some dubious, some really illuminating, that I’m going to track here.  Along the way, he’ll introduce several important concepts: “presence,” “agon (competition),” “arete (striving for excellence),” “tragedy,” and “transfiguration.”

The first move is to shift is actually to redefine the task of definition itself from “thinking about sports as a set of phenomena that are all rooted in a common denominator” to imagining “sports as a network of practices related through” the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s notion of “family resemblance” in which “item A shares some features with item B, and item B shares some features with item C” so that “even though A and C may have no features in common, their shared resemblance to B keeps them all in the family” (p. 58-59). Gumbrecht hopes this more flexible approach will be more productive and encompassing and allow readers to focus on the relations connecting ostensibly very different kinds of athletic performance.  I support this move, and think it inventive and useful, though I wondered whether it would be useful to consider how we determine which features we use to establish the resemblances and whether or not some features should have more weight than others.  But I don’t finally think that doing so would undermine the value of the basic procedure.

Slide37

The next criteria for his definition is that it should do “justice to the aesthetic appeal” of sports from the spectator’s perspective.  To get at this, Gumbrecht first explores the meanings of “performance,” since “spectators in a stadium experience sports as a performance,” albeit one that differs from other kinds of performances like ballet, opera, or symphony. Here, Gumbrecht’s animus for much contemporary work in cultural studies rears up again, calling most intellectual accounts of performance “incoherent, to say the least” (p. 60) Not sure what he’s thinking of here, since he doesn’t cite anyone, and I imagine he’s probably wrong.  But it’s the kind of wrong that gets him somewhere interesting after all when he jumps away from “performance” per se and lands on “presence” as a “possible opening or approach to the problem [of how] to define athletics in such a way as to take into account its aesthetic attraction.

He begins by noting that “presence” derives from the Latin prae-esse meaning “to be in front of” in order to emphasize that presence, for him, involves “immediate sensual perceptions” and, in that sense, “always binds to time and place” (p. 62).  He elaborates this by going on to describe presence as a “dimension” (I think he means something like a facet of or a perspective on something) that can be contrasted to something he calls “the meaning” dimension.  He then describes this contrast along seven categories, an exercise I think might be easiest to grasp in the form of a table.

Screen Shot 2016-01-25 at 11.34.49 AM

This is quite condensed, I know, and does not really illuminate (or do justice to) Gumbrecht’s full exposition of the contrasts.  But he does provide the following, summary paragraph to try to get at the importance for him of the analysis:

Counter to many academic (and highly incompetent) ‘readings’ of sports, athletic competitions do not express anything and therefore do not offer anything to read. They fascinate us with bodies ‘that matter’ (a useful pun invented by the philosopher Judith Butler), bodies that adapt themselves to multiple forms and functions. By interpreting these bodily forms and functions and transforming them into meanings, we run the risk of reducing, if not destroying, the unique pleasure we take in athletic events. (pp. 68-69)

As before, though I suppose there may be something, in a theoretical sense, to Gumbrecht’s perception of the perils involved in the meaning dimension, I also think he throws the baby out with the bathwater.  I’m not sure (because, again, he offers no citations) what sort of incompetent academic readings he has in mind.  Its probably the most persistently perplexing aspect of this book so far, Gumbrecht’s complaints about scholarship in sports studies.  I’ll just stick to saying that I see no reason why a single account of an athletic performance cannot both “praise” (in the sense he already established of gratefully laying bare the complexity of forms involved and relating them to function and effect) and “interpret.”

In any event, Gumbrecht proposes “that we may call any human body movement a performance as long as we see it, predominantly at least, in the presence dimension” but quickly recognizes that “performance and athletics are not coextensive”: not every performance is an athletic performance.  So what makes sports performances unique and distinguishable among all performances?  Gumbrecht’s finds the answer in two ancient Greek concepts: “agon” (competition) and arete” (striving for excellence).

He elaborates his conception of agon by describing it as the “domestication of potentially violent fights and tensions through institutional frames of stable rules” whereas arete by contrast “means striving for excellence with the consequence (rather than the goal) of taking some type of performance to its individual or collective limits” (p. 70).  He argues that the latter is the dominant component of athletic performance, first, by reasoning that you can have arete without agon but not the other way around and second, to try to avoid making the praise of athletic beauty about praising competition rather than excellence, which, he fears “would confirm a vision of sports that has given them a bad reputation among so many intellectuals” (again, who is he reading that’s provoked such a powerful combination of fear and loathing?).

Once more, I simply see no reason to choose between them.  In some performances, one may predominate over the other, certainly.  But I see nothing intrinsic to athletic performance that should require the assertion of a definitive preference.  On the contrary, I would say that part of my fascination in sports is the complex intertwining of these two dimension in athletic performance.  Agon facilitates arete and vice-versa, without either one subsuming the other, as in this example, which I borrow from one of my students:

Either way, both agon and arete are pursued by athletes within formal constraints (rules) and informal conventions (fair play) that spur their effort and ingenuity and generate uncertainty and risk, which, in turn give rise—and here I think Gumbrecht does a great job—to  moments that we may experience as dramatic, epic, tragic, or heroic (he uses these terms pretty much interchangeably here) (p. 77).  What I like about the argument here is that the beauty of athletic performance can be found as easily in loss as in victory, something I’ve always found important to assert against the more commonplace emphasis on victory alone as the measure of athletic greatness.  But displacing the partisan centrality on victorious outcomes is not the same, I repeat, as displacing the importance of competition to the beauty of athletic performance.

Gumbrecht himself, oddly, seems tacitly to acknowledge this when he expounds upon what he means by drama.  He redescribed drama in terms of “transfiguration of great athletes within our immediate perception, and later, our memory.”  Transfiguration involves, he says, a removal from one’s original place (side note: it would be interesting to think this through with the concepts of metaphor and translation, both of which, in different ways, involve such movements).  Like Jesus or Elijah, then, he says, “athletic competition [my emphasis] can transfigure bodies and their movements, making them shine in the particular light of triumphant victory or tragic defeat.  Rather than assigning [again, why the dichotomy?] assigning specific meanings to bodies and their movements, victory or defeat gives them something like what the Christian tradition used to call a halo—and what today we might call an aura” (p. 78)  Instead of auras or halos, though, we recognize the transfigured athlete, or rather perhaps constitute the athlete’s transfiguration, by way of what he calls “the gesture”: “a specific, concise movement, a critical moment in a dramatic narrative” that makes “the pathos associated with these dramatic moments more visible and more memorable” (p. 79).  Gumbrecht concludes with a series of personal memories of such gestures, all of which, tellingly, come in defeat, an experience, of course, that would be impossible without agon and insignificant, perhaps, without the arete that was exhibited in the course of competition.

What The Answer Taught me About the Dismissal of David Blatt

As the Internet caught fire with reactions to the news, clever kids tripped over themselves to photoshop images of Tyronn Lue, who was once famously stepped over by Allen Iverson after a made jumper, stepping over David Blatt.  Okay, why not.  But in the midst of the mass euphoria/hysteria, there was Allen Iverson himself, stepping into the Twitterverse, as he rarely does, with this:

Screenshot 2016-01-23 13.05.23

Was it a joke? Was he being ironic? Maybe. I don’t know Allen Iverson personally so I couldn’t really tell you for sure.  But actually, I think that’s sort of the point.

To me, this Tweet, whatever Iverson may have intended, tells me that there is something deep and intimate shared by NBA players that we, who are not them, often fail to recognize. To us, Lue is mockable roadkill left in the wake of the speeding rebel genius Iverson (he was for me too until I saw this tweet). But Iverson seems to step in here to say that we don’t understand anything, or rather, that we and our views—to the degree that we fail to see their limitations—are rrelevant.

That’s why he addresses Lue directly.  “Love you” he says to Tyronn Lue in the presence of 980,000 followers.  He may have delighted in making that shot, and in stepping over Lue, but that delight, I believe I understand, was not at the expense of the loving bond they share, but rather a function of it.  I think it can be hard to understand that from the outside; hard to understand, I mean, what it must be to be among a group of a few hundred young black males suddenly experiencing riches and fame and adoration and pressure in a world that otherwise mostly seems to fear and despise them, at least if mass incarceration and police violence is any indication; hard to really grasp the solidarity that experience, those experiences, engender.

So what? Well, I’m not an NBA player, or a young black man, so I’m sure I can’t presume to say with any kind of certainty.  But from the vantage point that Iverson seemed to me to have pointed to here, and which I can at least intellectually comprehend, here’s how the whole thing with the Cavs, Blatt, and LeBron looks.

It’s probably fair to say that the expectations for, and pressure on, David Blatt changed after he accepted the job. He thought he’d be coaching a young team and trying to shape them into contenders.  Then LeBron came back, management traded the young players to create a Big 3 out of James, Kyrie Irving, and  Kevin Love, and merely contending was no longer enough.  The job description changed: the Cavs had to win a championship. Racking up wins in the woeful Eastern Conference and making it through to the Finals wouldn’t cut it if the now-full-strength Cavs were still—as was appearing to be the case—likely to go down in the Finals.  So, while that may have been tough for Blatt to adapt to, it remains the case that he was still collecting paychecks and that the change in expectations were not unreasonable.  That is why it is totally irrelevant, if not disingenuous, for critics of the decision to wring their hands over the fact that Blatt had the best won-loss record of any fired coach in history, or that the team, depleted by injuries, made the finals last season.  Who cares? And who says that was because of Blatt anyway? Why do you say that was because of Blatt?

Those upset that so seemingly successful a coach as Blatt should have been fired explain what otherwise seems inexplicable by presuming that LeBron James had something to do with it, even if he was not, as the Cavs maintain, explicitly consulted.  We might ask why we presume this when there is no evidence. But my gut response to the speculation is, nonetheless: ya think?  Of course he had something to do with it! I should hope so!  He might not be the best player in the league this year (though, as I’ve argued before, we should think hard about our delight in his having been surpassed by Steph Curry).  But he’s been the best player on the planet for a decade and, contrary to some wayward speculation, he’s far more crucial to the Cavs hopes of winning a title anytime soon than was David Blatt. More important than whether LeBron had a role in this or not, is the question of why those not on the team are so invested in maintaining a putative hierarchy in which players don’t express their dissatisfaction about their coaches publicly or in any way that might cause management to fire the coach.  So, why? Why are you so invested in that hierarchy?

Trailing closely in the wake of the collective garment-rending and breast-beating for David Blatt is the head-shaking and finger-wagging at LeBron James for what these observers take to be his egomaniacal savior complex.  LeBron may or may not have such a complex.  I don’t know him.  What I do know is that before he returned to Cleveland, before he left Cleveland, before he called himself King, or tattooed himself with the word “Chosen,” these same people now complaining about him had already called him “the Chosen One.”  Incidentally, many of these people who rip what they see as James’ narcissistic selfishness will also have criticized him, in effect, for being too unselfish on the court. Nor does this criticism seem to capture that the main advantage that Lue seems to have over Blatt, as far as Cavs players goes, is that he will actually criticize them, even LeBron.  Whose fault is it that David Blatt wouldn’t do that? But let’s not get bogged down in these details.  Here’s the bottom line, don’t get it twisted: we wrote the script for the new gospel and cast LeBron as the messiah.  That’s on us and it’s our problem, not his, when he doesn’t conform to the plot we’ve laid out.  

That’s the reminder and the lesson of Iverson’s tweet:  we are ever placing these human beings into our doll houses, playing out dramas with them, and them tossing them under the sofa when one “malfunctions” or a “better one” comes along…all the while acting as though our playroom theatrics were reality. We’re just playing. But they’re not: not Iverson, not Lue, not James, not even Blatt. We can play and enjoy our games.  But they’re not reality, at least not all of it, and definitely not the most important part of reality.

Now, we may not have access to the reality.  That’s not our fault.  And it makes our—my—mythmaking understandable.  I get that.  But getting that also carries with it a responsibility to acknolwedge that we are just playing, and that our play is not a source of any kind of knowledge, unless it is knowledge about the kind of games we like to play.  Morever, it requires us to refrain from passing moralizing judgments and pretending them that they are grounded in anything other than our fantasies and the deep desires shaping them.

Just How Exploited Are My Students? An Adventure

Yesterday, I tweeted this out:

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It’s gotten a certain amount of traction (Twitter tells me around 20,000 people have seen that Tweet) and so I began to be concerned that I was being irresponsibly provocative.  So let me explain how I got that number.

The Indy Star reported that the NCAA made $769.4 million off March Madness in 2013 ($681M from CBS for TV rights, $82.3 in ticket sales, and $6.1M in ancillary revenue streams).  So, partly for fun, partly out of curiosity, but also out of the conviction that the labor of performing athletes is the primary driver of these revenues, I divided the total revenues by the total player minutes to come up with a figure of $30,224.91 generated per player minute of the 2013 NCAA D1 Men’s Basketball Tournament.  Based on that figure, my five students together “generated,” with their 1017 minutes of basketball over 6 games, $30,738,733.50.

Incidentally, some other facts I discovered in the process: 674 players saw action during the tournament, sharing a grand total of 25,254 minutes of playing time.  Of course, common sense would tell you, since half the teams are eliminated after the first round, that the players on teams making deeper runs are going to have a higher share of the minutes.  What I found, though, was pretty amazing

  • Just 14 players used 10 % of the total minutes.
  • Just 36 players used 25 % of the total minutes.
  • Less than one tenth of players used more than half of the total minutes.
  • Just one third of the players used 75 % of the total minutes.
  • Half the players used 85 % of the total minutes.

People go to NCAA games and watch them on TV to see basketball players play basketball.  In a very real sense, minutes of basketball played creates revenue dollars for the NCAA, a fact not lost on the NCAA which has increased the number of minutes played by expanding the tournament.  If so, then imbalances in the distribution of overall minutes matter. They matter no matter what. But they matter doubly, I would argue, when we consider that black players are disproportionately represented among the group of players using most of the minutes and so generating most of the interest and dollars (11 out of those top 14).

But minutes and NCAA revenues are just one way to frame the story.

Even someone who values the performance of these athletes as much as I do, who knows that if it weren’t for their hard-work and talent there would be no March Madness, must also admit that arenas, coaches, training and all other manner of capital investments (laid out before and during the tournament) also contribute to the madness and so to the revenues.  It also reduces player labor to a single quantity: minutes, which isn’t the worst way to do it, especially from the NCAA standpoitn.  Though I recognize the NCAA will make a bit more or less money depending on who makes a deep run in the tournament, it essentially makes its money regardless of who wins.

But there’s a reasonable argument to made that the productivity of a player, measured in terms of contributions to wins (which generate revenues) matters more, at least at the level of individual institutions.  So while I think my $31M figure illuminates, albeit roughly, the correlation between minutes of player labor and revenues, I wouldn’t necessarily go the mat with an economist arguing that it’s the best way to measure exploitation.

So, to begin get a more precise sense of the exploitation of those five students of mine during the 2012-2013 season, I’m borrowing a page from Dave Berri, who in 2014 wrote a useful primer on the economic exploitation of college athletes for Time magazine.  Let me walk you through that.  Berri defines exploitation as “paying a worker less in wages than their economic contribution to the firm.” In terms of college athletes, exploitation occurs when the value of the scholarship, housing, and any stipend the athlete receives in exchange for competing is lower than the amount of revenue the athlete generates for the school. So, though I’m not mathematically adept, I believe we can turn this definition into relatively simple formula (as Berri goes on to do).

Exploitation (E) = Scholarship Value (SV)/Revenues (R) x 100%

Following Berri, I begin by getting the basketball revenue figures reported by Michigan to the Department of Education and posted on the latter’s “Equity in Athletics Data Analysis Cutting Tool” and discover that Michigan basketball reported $13,636,966 that year.  Let’s just call it $13.6M.

2012-2013 University of Michigan Men’s Basketball Revenues = $13.6M

According to Berri, “Currently the NCAA restricts the payment of athletes to essentially the cost of attending the institution. But in a typical labor market, the payment to workers is unrestricted.” So the question is, what would Michigan have to pay its basketball players in an unrestricted market?

To get at this, we follow Berri in adopting the revenue sharing proportions used in the comparatively unrestricted major professional sports leagues in the United States, including the NBA, where the collective bargaining deal (because, you know, NBA players, unlike “student-atho-letes“, have a union) stipulates roughly a 50/50 revenue split between owners and players.  (Berri notes that the labor market for professional athletes in the US is, in fact, still restricted and that the proportion of revenues they’d receive would likely be higher in a truly unrestricted market, but whatever.)

So, if the 15 players on Michigan’s roster were to receive 50% of the 2012-13 revenues they’d be splitting $6.8M, which works out to $400K apiece.

2012-2013 University of Michigan Average Men’s Basketball Player Revenue Share (In Unrestricted Market) = $400,000

The University of Michigan estimated the cost of attendance for out of state freshman and sophomores living on campus for 2012-2013 at $51,976.  Let’s be generous and call that $52K.

2012-2013 University of Michigan Cost of Attendance = $52,000

Now let’s plug these values back into the exploitation definition/formula Berri gave us before.  E (UM) = 52K (COA/player)/ 400K (1/2 hoops revenue/player) x 100 %.  Do the math and I come up with Michigan players getting about 13 % of what they generate. Or, to put this another way that makes more sense to me: Michigan netted about $348K in profits off each player on the team in 2012-2013.

Average University of Michigan Profit Per 2012-2013 Player = $348,000

Here I hit a wrinkle that Berri does not account for (and I welcome anybody reading this to correct my efforts to do so). The University told the Department of Education that it cost about $7.5M to operate the men’s basketball program in 2012-13. I don’t have a breakdown of those costs (though I assume scholarships are figured in there and so I’m probably double-counting that expense).  But just for fun, let’s subtract that from revenues.  Doing so ($13.6M-$7.5M) gives us $6.1M in profits. Now let’s split that 50/50 with our players, leaving them $3.05M to split 15 ways.  They’d each get a bit over $200K, which is still 75% more than the school’s own COA figure.  In other words, by the most generous calculation I can come up with, the school made nearly $150,000 off each and every member of the 2012-2013 men’s basketball team.

Adjusted Average University of Michigan Profit Per 2012-2013 Player = $148,000

This gives us the average rate of exploitation.  But, Berri, recognizing that pro franchises don’t pay all players the same amount but rather pay them to win games, applies a further calculation to factor in an approximation of each player’s contribution to the team’s wins. He takes the total revenues divided by the team’s wins to get at the value of a win, and then multiplies these by each player’s “win share” (or contribution to total wins, calculated through this complex formula, but also available here) to get at what he consider to be a more realistic and so equitable estimate of each player’s share of the revenues based on their actual productivity on the court.

[Caveat: I’m not really on board, philosophically with the individualistic, laissez-fair economic principles driving these calculations so you shouldn’t take this to mean that I argue that these numbers alone should dictate solutions to the problem of college athlete exploitation. But I think these numbers should be the starting point, after which we need to factor in other things that have value, even though that value isn’t reflected by an unrestricted market.]

Let’s go back to the five students I started with, who also happen to be the five players on the 2012-13 roster who led the team in win shares: Trey, Glenn, Nik, Tim, and Mitch.  And don’t forget, if I were using Berri’s values, which do not subtract expenses from revenues, these figures would all be about twice as high. Here’s how that turns out:

Screenshot 2016-01-19 12.49.03

That’s annually.  In other words, when productivity is taken into account using win shares, we find that the University of Michigan made $1.3M off its $52,000 investment in Trey Burke.

Now, for each of Michigan’s 31 wins during that season, the numbers look like this:

Screenshot 2016-01-19 13.44.14

Okay, now, let me also go back to my other starting point:  March Madness, where Michigan got five of their 31 wins before losing to Louisville in the title game.  How much did my students contribute to those wins? How much revenue did those five wins generate? How much did the UM pay for the players’ services in those five games? And how much profit did UM make off each of those players?  To be really precise, I’d have to calculate the WinShares for each player for the five March Madness victories and I don’t have time.  But to give an estimate, we just have to multiply the per win figures above by 5 (the number of March Madness wins).

Screenshot 2016-01-19 13.55.29

Lastly, I want to relate all this to minutes.  Basically, I want to know how much the UM made per minute that each of my students was on the floor during March Madness. So I’m going to take the total UM profit for each player for March Madness (the right hand column above) and divide it by each player’s total minutes.

Screenshot 2016-01-19 14.01.37

So that’s the bottom line for me. The University of Michigan reaped just under $1,000.00 off of every minute of Trey Burke’s performance during the 2013 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament.

I want to say that I recognize I am neither an economist nor a statistician, and that both are real scholarly disciplines that people take years to master, just as I spent years mastering the skills involved in cultural interpretation.  So perhaps I have something wrong here. If so I welcome corrections.  I have not intended to mislead, but simply to find my way through a thicket of ideologies and numbers to get a sense of what the school I work for is doing in its contractual relationship with the students whose educational well-being and, in some sense, overall growth, I am entrusted to protect.

Lastly, a word on the term “adventure” in my title. I take it from Ian Hacking’s remarkable book The Emergence of Probability, in which, at the point in question, he describes four different kinds of “experiment” in early modern Europe.  One of these is “the adventure,” which he describes as follows and in the spirit of which I have conducted my own little experiment:

Screenshot 2016-01-19 15.20.57

 

 

 

 

“Ball Don’t Lie!” Is Coming Soon (Here’s a discount code!)

I’m very excited!

Here’s the flyer for my book, Ball Don’t Lie! Myth, Genealogy, and Invention in the Cultures of Basketball, which comes out in March.

There’s a code at the bottom for a discount on orders prior to 3/1/16.

Also, if you or someone you know is interested in an advance review copy of the galleys, there’s contact information for that.

I’ll be very grateful if you could share this widely via e-mail and on your social networks.

If you have any questions, please write me at yagocolas@gmail.com.

Thanks,

Bad Prof

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NCAA’s Hypocrisy on Time Demands Issue

The NCAA is holding its annual convention this week.  Yesterday, time demands on athletes surfaced as a major issue.  College athletes must find ways to attend classes, complete their school work, and participate in the various training and practice sessions necessary to prepare for competition in their sports.  The NCAA officially limits the amount of time that they can devote to “countable athletic activities” to 20 hours per week in season, and 8 hours per week out of season.  This is known colloquially as the 20 hour rule.Screenshot 2016-01-15 09.16.13

Many who read this and recall their college days working part time jobs on or off campus, perhaps while also participating in some recurring extracurricular activities may wonder why it should be a big deal to ask college athletes to devote 20 hours per week to their sport? After all, you might say, they chose to play college sports and should have known of the rule when they signed up.  And, anyway, they get their education for free in return.

Sure, but the—or rather, one—problem is, as Big Ten Commissioner Jim Delaney told the Indianapolis Star last May, that the “Twenty hour rule is a misnomer.  NCAA studies have showed us over time that in Division III, it’s in the highs 30’s per week, Division II the low 40’s. In Division IA, it could be higher, probably in the mid-40’s.”  That’s right, even in Division III, the actual amount of time athletes devote to their sports is nearly double the 20 hours allowed.  In Division I it’s higher than what you’d have spent on your job during college, even if you were working full time.

Part of this occurs as a result of the ambiguity created by the NCAA’s phrase “countable athletically related activity” (incidentally, the NCAA seems, as much as anything, to be in the business of generating ambiguous phrases—”student-athlete”—that appear on the surface to clearly define something, while in fact creating a tremendous amount of maneuvering room for everyone involved but the athletes: National Collegiate Ambiguity Association?).  When you look at the chart below, taken from the NCAA’s own document explaining the 20 hour rule, you see along the right hand all the activities that athletes have to devote to their sport that are not counted against the 20 hour rule.

Screenshot 2016-01-15 09.19.17

Speaking anecdotally, the one that athletes I teach complain most frequently about (and this is across the board: male,  female, revenue or non-revenue generating sports) is what the NCAA calls “voluntary weight training not conducted by a coach or staff member.”  An athlete might receive word via e-mail or text from a coach or staff member or even a teammate, perhaps a team captain, that some of the guys are going to get together to life at 6 tomorrow morning, and do you want to come?

If you are an athlete, whose scholarship depends not only on your performance in practice and competition but also on the perception that you are a “team player” and “all-in,” do you really decide not to go that practice? Are you really making a free choice there in any meaningful sense of the word?  Can we really call that a “voluntary” weight training or conditioning session?  And that’s just one of the 13 categories of non-countable activities.  It’s not hard to see how the number of hours per week gets up into the 30s and 40s.

Coaches, whose jobs depend on winning games and avoiding scandal, understandably want to find ways to get more out of their athletes.  But in doing so, they sometimes, or apparently often, exploit the ambiguity in the 20 hour rule to coerce athletes into devoting far higher number of hours on their sport.

Under these circumstances, it’s no wonder that athletes feel that they are “owned by the coach.” And, of course, that they don’t like it.  The results of a recent survey conducted by the NCAA student-athlete advisory committee of more than 30,000 athletes are mixed, but they do indicate that many student athletes would like to see some form of reduction in the hours required of them: perhaps better enforcement of the 20 hour rules, perhaps a second day off per week (they are currently only entitled to one day off per week, and that “day off” is frequently filled with uncountable activities).

So it came as a surprise to me to read in yesterday’s USA Today article on the NCAA convention that President Mark Emmert explained that this was a “hard subject” because “these are very competitive young men and women.” As reporter Dan Wolken summed up Emmert’s concerns: “many athletes prefer not to be limited on the amount of time they can devote to training.”

Hmm. More ambiguity, now surrounding the word “many.” Which is it? Would “many athletes,” as the Chronicle of Higher Education reports, like to have more time away from sports? Or would “many athletes,” as the NCAA seems to think, “prefer not to be limited on the amount of time they can devote to training.”  We can go round on round on this. Perhaps the answer is both are true, and it depends on the athlete, the sport, their role on the team, their life experiences, opportunities for success outside athletics, and goals.

But here’s the part that really blows me away: since when does the NCAA take into account athlete’s preferences when formulating policies? Especially when formulating policies where those preferences (at least as interpreted by the NCAA) seem to run counter to what NCAA administrators profess to believe to be in the athlete’s best interests?

The NCAA doesn’t think it’s good for athletes to be paid for their labor.  Okay. But “many athletes” do think they should be receiving compensation above and beyond cost of attendance.  Does the NCAA therefore declare that the issue of payment is a hard one because, shucks, even though we don’t think it’s a good idea, these kids would like to get paid, and so, well, I guess we’ll have to go ahead and do that?  So why are they waffling on the issue of time demands and professing that it’s because “many athletes” would rather not have time demands?  Maybe it’s not hypocrisy, maybe it’s just bad thinking.

Update.  The convention is over for this year.  

But here are three more issues that the NCAA’s Power Five (the group of conferences—SEC, ACC, Big 12, Big Ten and Pac-12—with the power to act autonomously from the NCAA) decided were complex to act on this year and therefore tabled:

  • Allow athletes to profit off their own name, image and likeness, even if it’s for non-athletic ventures.
  • Require schools to cover medical bills for sports-related injuries while an athlete is in school and for a period after college.
  • Create enforcement rules and penalties for schools that violate their own concussion protocol.

 

What I Did in 2015

This felt like a productive, and pivotal, year for me.  So I thought I’d gather together the links to some of my professional activities during 2015…because, well, I feel proud.

In my teaching, I continued to refine Cultures of Basketball, developed an entirely new course called “Writing the Sporting Body,” and completely revamped my large lecture course “Global Sports Cultures.”

Over the summer, I had a few successful blog posts, two of which seemed especially to strike a chord: my thoughts on the deeper cultural forces that might drive the collective love affair with Steph Curry and my commentary on LeBron James and coaching.

These led to some fun media appearances: one at Over and Back on the meanings of the late Darryl Dawkinsone discussing NBA narratives with Seth Partnow, another on coaching with Nick Hauselman, and what can only be described as a cameo in Tom Goldman’s NPR story on Steph Curry.

I published a couple of academic articles, one, related to my book, on the meaning of the phrase “Ball Don’t Lie” and another, long-coming, on the cultural and political significance of Manu Ginobili’s style of play. Another article, on the myths surrounding the invention of basketball, will be published in the Journal of Sport History in Spring, 2016. I also was honored to accept a position, alongside some scholars I’ve long admired, on the editorial board of the Journal of Sports and Social Issues.

Most exciting to me was finishing up my end of the production process for my forthcoming book Ball Don’t Lie! Myth, Genealogy, and Invention in the Cultures of Basketball, which will hit bookstores in the spring and is already available for pre-order on Amazon.

I also began new administrative appointments at Michigan related to college athletics, which brought me new perspectives on some controversial issues such as athlete compensation and faculty involvement, both matters that I plan to get more involved in, both as a researcher and administrator.

Now, as for the pivotal part, I’m excited to announce that, with the support of Deans Andrew Martin and Angela Dillard of the Michigan’s College of Literature, Science, and the Arts, Jimmy King and I began to plan a public symposium dedicated to examining the legacy of the Fab Five to mark the 25th anniversary of their 1991 arrival on campus. We’re still figuring out the dates and details, but it will happen sometime in 2016 and I’ll be sure to keep everyone posted.

Lastly, I’ve kicked off two new essay-length research projects.  The first, in response to a call for papers on the topic of doing sport history in the digital era, is a history, contextualization, and cultural review of the rise of basketball analytics and its impact on various issues pertaining to basketball history.  The second will be something like a map of the hoops historical imagination of ESPN’s 30 for 30 basketball documentaries.

It’s been a lot of work, but the most rewarding work of my life, and I’m grateful to everyone who has played a part in this.  Thank you.

I hope you all have a prosperous, peaceful, and joyful 2016.

 

To go or not to go? A View from Inside Big-Time College Sports

A couple of days ago I received an e-mail from the Athletic Director (AD) at the University of Michigan, inviting me and other members of the Advisory Board on Intercollegiate Athletics (ABIA) to join the “University Official Party” on a trip, courtesy of the athletic department, to watch the University’s football team compete at the Buffalo Wild Wings Citrus Bowl in Orlando, Florida on New Year’s Day.

I have decided to decline the very generous invitation. It is not, I want to emphasize at the outset, that I think I have a complete understanding of this industry, and less that I believe mine is the only reasonable or morally appropriate response.  Far from it.  In fact, as I’m not a big football fan and the trip falls at a somewhat inconvenient moment, I really don’t think of my decision as having been primarily a moral one.

However, that’s not to say that I don’t think there are moral questions at stake, questions that go well beyond the specific issues and choices raised by this particular invitation.  Among these, I’m most interested in what role university faculty members, entrusted with the intellectual growth and overall well-being of their students, should have in relation to university athletic departments. So I share this information and, below, the feelings and thoughts that informed my decision about it in the hopes that it sheds light on the tensions at work in one small, but perhaps telling, corner of the massive entertainment industry that big time college sports has become.

Let me first share my reflections on sharing this information in this format, which I considered carefully. First, the fact that the athletic department offers this benefit to ABIA members is a matter of public record.  Likewise, all the information that I’m sharing concerning ABIA’s constitution and function come, as you’ll see if you follow the links, publicly available documents.  This is, I believe, as it should be: we are a public institution and I think our discussions regarding how to administer this institution should be available to the public. I don’t think we as a board should take positions or make decisions that we wouldn’t stand by publicly.  That said, I also respect my colleagues. Everyone I’ve worked with in this capacity has impressed me as sincere, thoughtful, and well-meaning, even when I disagree with them, and I do not wish to embarrass them or cause them discomfort.  For this reason, I have not here and do not intend in the future to share the remarks or views of my colleagues on the board, even in anonymized form.  I hope this will be sufficient to assure my colleagues of my intentions.

Now, I’m new to the ABIA and to the Academic Performance Committee (APC; a subcommittee composed of the faculty members on ABIA), having just started my first three-year term this Fall, so I confess I’m still fairly ignorant of how all this plays out in actual practice. But as I understand it, the ABIA’s role is to provide faculty input into the decisions made by the AD concerning the athletic department and the APC’s role is to provide faculty oversight concerning matters pertaining to the academic experience, performance, and eligibility of athletes—all this subject to the final authority of either the President or the Provost. There have been questions raised in the past at Michigan, and elsewhere, about whether this really constitutes adequate faculty control. (For details on the constitution and function of the ABIA and APC, and their history at Michigan, you can jump to the end of this post. As I say, everything there is drawn from publicly available documents to which I’ve provided links.)

But, seeing aside the historical details of ABIA at Michigan and beyond the specifics of the particular issue of the invitation to attend the Citrus Bowl, there remains the underlying, substantive issue, which I’ll frame in personal terms since that’s how I best process such questions: what (speaking now as a Michigan faculty member with a scholarly interest in matters of sport and society who regularly teaches students who are also athletes, and who know holds an administrative position on the only university agency through which faculty have input on the activities of the athletic department) should my role be?

I’d like, in part at least, to be the kind of person who, finding himself in this situation, can draw upon a set of stable, consistent, rationally derived moral principles to guide my decision making.  To my mild disappointment, however, I’m not locating such principles within myself.  Mostly, in fact, I’m encountering what feels like a pretty unstable mire comprised of visceral pulls and aversions, feelings, conscious and unconscious investments,  (some quite idiosyncratic, personal, and narcissistic), sparsely mixed with opinions whose strength is not quite matched by my still-growing knowledge about the issues.  It’s kind of a mess, and a mess that I find points my actions in different and sometimes contradictory directions at different moments depending on the the specific circumstances facing me.

That said, a promising, because relatively solid, starting point I find is my strong feeling of care for my students.  I’m not talking about students in general, nor about all students who are athletes. I’m saying I find I care very much about the well-being of my students, including those who are athletes.  But what does it mean, in this case, to act on that feeling? Some of my students are on the football team. I care about them and I remember that when I was an athlete, it meant a lot to me that teachers came to my games. I don’t mean to exaggerate the importance of this, but I’m sure that my football-playing students would feel some version of this.

On the other hand, they are also my students, some of whom have during this semester in my Global Sports Cultures course heard me describe the current state of research on the harmful effects of sub-concussive brain trauma sustained regularly by football players in the course of practice and games; or the vast sums of money that the NCAA and its member institutions, media conglomerates, and apparel manufacturers make off their efforts.  I’ve asked them, as I’ve asked all my students, to consider carefully their position in relation to these dynamics. What lesson—and I don’t mean this rhetorically, but genuinely—might they draw by my going to the Citrus Bowl—where they will collide with other young men as millions watch and millions of dollars are generated? I wonder.

Moreover, I care about my students not only as athletes or students, but in a holistic way; perhaps most of all in a holistic way. I feel responsibility for their growth and development and well-being as adolescent human beings.  As such, I’m concerned about the toll that their participation in college sports, as currently configured, may have on them. I don’t just mean the physical toll, but the psychological and intellectual toll. Don’t get me wrong: I’m aware that most of them would say that playing college sports is one of the most physically, psychologically, and intellectually satisfying parts of their life experience.  That may be true from their point of view and perhaps that is where my rumination should stop.  But I’m their teacher and mentor, not to mention their elder, with all the differences in perspective, for better and or worse, that comes with that. From that perspective, my concern only heightens precisely because they seem so innocently unaware of it. I worry, in other words, about their futures.

But I’m also a sports fan and have been for as long as I remember. What does that mean to me? It means that I’m drawn to the aesthetic beauty of athletic performance as a form of art and to the suspenseful narrative micro-dramas that unfold in the course of sporting events. It means that to some degree I’m identified with and invested in the success of particular teams, like those that represent Michigan, and to individual players, some of whom I know personally.

It means also, in my case, that I feel a desire to be in the close proximity of sports and of athletes.  I feel a rush from my personal acquaintance with athletes that others know only as distant objects, two-dimensional figures on a television screen or dots on a field or court far below their perch in the nosebleed seats.  Of course, I also know this is childish and perhaps foolish. I know—I just said—that they are just human kids and that their being constructed as heroic objects of veneration by fans, the media, and their institutions is part of the problem. In fact, this dimension of sports culture is part of what makes me averse and somewhat ashamed to be a sports fan when I’m talking to people who are not. And yet, there that childish, foolish feeling is, rising up and nudging me toward the thrill of seeing a bowl game in person (never mind that I’ve probably watched no more than a dozen of them on TV in my entire life).

Finally, what about my role as a faculty member on the ABIA? Can I really perform the independent advisory functions I have been appointed to perform when I am also accepting a gift from the university agency that I’m supposed to be independently advising and overseeing? Honestly, I feel that accepting the gift wouldn’t cause me to pull any punches I’d otherwise be inclined to throw. But maybe I’m wrong. Yet, even if I’m right, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a structural conflict of interest involved, nor does it mean that this conflict of interest should be ignored.

Some of my students, when I shared the situation with them in class the other day, suggested that I should go because, after all, that would put me face to face with decision makers and augment the scope of my influence over them.  Maybe.  Though, if I’m honest, I have to say I don’t really believe it.  For one thing, I’m not sure that a bowl game is a place where any matters that matter are going to be discussed. As I told my students, it’s not as though I imagine getting Jim Harbaugh drunk in the hotel bar and convincing him to agree, with tearful relief, to blow up the whole system like some NCAA Mikhail Gorbachev presiding over the dismantling of the Soviet Union. My wife, who has a talent for storytelling, thought this would make a great short story, especially if it ended with me, having broken him down, berating him to “get it together, man, ’cause, after all, you got a ballgame to win tomorrow!” I wish, kind of, but I don’t think that’s how it would go down.

In fact, since I’m being honest, I’m somewhat skeptical about the possibilities of anything that matters in college sports changing as a result of the discussions and decisions that are made in the meetings of the ABIA. That’s not because of anything that has occurred in my experience so far.  And part of me understands that meaningful change in human history has sometimes occurred in piecemeal fashion.  But I also understand that these sorts of piecemeal changes don’t always add up to meaningful structural changes; indeed, that sometimes they defuse the energies that might drive more significant changes.

In this case, though I reserve the right to contradict myself and change my opinion, I see college sports changing in ways that significantly address what I see as the injustices in them only because athletes rise up collectively and threaten, as the Missouri football team did a few weeks ago, to refuse to play unless changes are made, which is why I actively support the work of the College Athletes Rights and Empowerment Coalition (CARE-FC).  In the long run, I suppose my hopes for change lie in the belief that subsequent generations of athletic and university administrators, if drawn from the ranks of the more politically conscious of today’s younger generation, will imagine and implement a new system.  Maybe.

My therapist asked me today to imagine going to the game and sitting next to our AD, Jim Hackett, who in my few encounters with him has struck me as a sincere and caring person, one who has in his short time as interim athletic director left the program in better shape than he found it. What, my therapist asked me, do I imagine myself saying to him as we munch on Buffalo Wild Wings and watch, comfortable behind the plexiglass walls of a skybox, my students bashing into some Florida professor’s students on the field far below under the Florida sunshine? I had an answer straightaway. “Man, Jim, I love sports and I love my students, but I’m finding it hard to watch this.  They’re hitting each other so hard and I just can’t forget what I know may be happening to their brains on every play. What do you do with that?”  My therapist thought that would be a good thing to say. He said it sounded empathetic and inviting.  Maybe that would be good.  Certainly, I’ve found Jim to be an empathetic person.

But I must admit that the fantasies my imagination has generated—with and without therapeutic prodding—in response to this invitation suggest an investment I have in being important and being recognized as such; in being uniquely suited to somehow say the right thing, push the right button, and save the day.  “Bad Prof Fixes College Sports” the headlines in my imagination might read.  Those fantasies and the insecurities and investments they bespeak don’t feel like very promising ground from which to be making decisions.

So all this messiness might disqualify me in some eyes from holding the positions as professor, as scholar, or as board member, that I hold. I confess I feel that way myself sometimes.  But I wind up feeling that it shouldn’t be so.  On the contrary, I feel that faced with the enormous complexity of the situation called big-time intercollegiate sports in this country, and the powerful cocktail of emotions that situation stirs in just about everyone (even those who hate them and feel they have no place in universities) it might actually be better if more of the participants and decision-makers were honest with themselves and publicly forthcoming with others about their uncertainties and ambivalences.

It’s not that I’ve encountered any individuals who I’ve felt were insincere or deceptive in the their words or actions.  It’s more that I feel that there are systemic pressures in place that subtly lead all of us involved to disregard certain concerns or uncertainties as either out of place or unworkable or for some other reason not worth considering or not safe to say.  Airing these, as I’ve tried to do here might not lead to any immediate solutions. It might lead to some ultimately unproductive discussions.  Perhaps, even, it would create some chaos.  But imagine a conversation in which various “stakeholders” were free to say, “Man, we really love college sports, but this is a bit of a cluster fuck right now, isn’t it? Let’s try to do better!” or whatever their version of that might look like. Things could get interesting.  In any event, I guess I’m feeling that a little honest chaos would be preferable to what seems to me to be a somewhat dishonest order.

A History of ABIA, APC and Faculty Control Issues at Michigan

In accordance with the University of Michigan Regents’ Bylaws (section 11.58.1), I was appointed to the ABIA by the president from a panel of senate members chosen by the Senate Advisory Committee on University Affairs, subject to the approval of the Board of Regents. The ABIA also includes two members of the faculty senate, the University’s Faculty Athletics Representative (FAR), two student-athletes, two alumni, the AD (who has no vote), and an executive officer of the University.  The Bylaws also specify that the faculty members on ABIA, myself included of course, will constitute—together with a representative from the  Registrar’s office—a separate committee, now known as the Academic Performance Committee (APC).

The ABIA’s functions are also defined by the Regents’ Bylaws. First, the ABIA advises the AD, who is supposed to seek and consider our advice on “all major financial and policy decisions with respect to the program on intercollegiate athletics.” Then, the ABIA makes, adopts, and enforces—”subject only to the ultimate authority of the president and the Board of Regents”—”the necessary rules and regulations governing all questions pertaining to the eligibility of players, intercollegiate relations, and membership in associations of universities and colleges organized for the regulation of athletics” (11.60)  As for the APC, its function is—”subject to the final authority of the provost”—”to examine and appraise the academic performance of intercollegiate athletes, to determine their eligibility for competition in intercollegiate athletics, and to take any other action regarding such candidates as may seem necessary or appropriate under the circumstances (11.59).”

Now, according to “Rule 3. Membership” from the Big Ten Conference’s 2011-2012 Handbook, “Only a university having full and complete faculty control of its intercollegiate athletic programs may hold membership in the Conference. Faculty control is achieved whenever authority over a university’s intercollegiate athletic programs is vested in a university agency composed entirely of faculty members or in which faculty members are in a majority.” I first encountered this passage before I’d been appointed to the ABIA and, at the time, I wondered whether Michigan had any such agency (i.e. “composed entirely of faculty members or in which faculty members are in a majority” vested “with authority” over the university’s intercollegiate athletic programs).

Colleagues with greater knowledge of our institutional history weren’t sure, but they explained to me that up until 2001, there was an agency with a faculty majority called the Board in Control of Intercollegiate Athletics.  This body appears to have been replaced by the ABIA and APC through amendments to the Regents’ Bylaws proposed by then University-President Lee Bollinger. Bollinger said at the time that “All of this is to make sure intercollegiate athletics don”t get out of control. The Athletic Department is not an independent body within the University but is subject to University policies.”  He went on to explain that the “Board in Control should be, and has been, unmistakably advisory the name should be changed to reflect that.”

According to The Michigan Daily‘s article on the change, “Bollinger said he wants to limit the authority of the Board in Control to issues in which academic and financial concerns collide, such as extending the sports season for playoffs even when such a move could compromise students” academic life by conflicting with exams,” but, quoting Bollinger now, “the question of whether our football players should practice in a national playoff should not be rested [sic] in the board.”

Apparently, some members of the faculty-comprised Senate Assembly Committee on University Affairs voiced concerns that this put the University’s policies at odds with both the Big Ten and the NCAA’s membership criteria.  Of even greater concern to the faculty at the time was the codification of the merely advisory function of the newly constituted ABIA: “‘If the president is the one making the final decision,” one faculty members asked, “is there a reason why the president should seek the advice of the Board in Control?'”   Bollinger, according to the article “said that although changes to the bylaws will place more power in the hands of the president, he does not believe the Board in Control’s concerns will be ignored or that the University”s Big Ten membership will be compromised.”  Some might argue that the APC’s authority over academic standards and eligibility or the President’s final authority on all these questions satisfies the membership criteria concerning “complete faculty control” described in the Big Ten Handbook.

I’m not so sure it does. But—surprise!—that might be okay with me since I’m not even sure that “complete faculty control” over athletics is a principle I support without qualification. I believe faculty with expertise in the matters constituting the intersection of athletics with the university’s mission (education, health and well-being, economics, ethics and culture) should be represented as the majority on a board that collectively has complete control. But I also believe that students (both non-athletes and, especially, athletes) should be on that board. Finally, I think it’s important to have representatives of the athletic department administration and the university’s central administration on the board, without a vote.

 

 

 

Pre-order “Ball Don’t Lie!” Today!

I’m really excited to say that you can now pre-order Ball Don’t Lie! Myth, Genealogy, and Invention in the Cultures of Basketball from Amazon starting today.

The book is part of the exceptional Temple University Press series “Sporting” edited by the accomplished sports historian, Professor Amy Bass. And I’m truly honored to be in the company of the other authors in that series.

If you don’t know about the book, you can learn more about it here.

I’ve put all I have into this book, and, in some ways, I’ve been working on it all my life. But more importantly, I really believe that I’ve come up with some important ways of looking at the history of the game and that it’s an enjoyable read, whether you are a basketball fan, or just interested in sports, American culture, or race.

I hope that you’ll check it out and, while you’re at it, order a copy for the thinking fan (or thinking non-fan) in your life.

Thanks

Yago

Damn Horses! On Paying College Athletes

The Allrounder (which I love and am proud to be a part of) published an interview with Duke University political theorist Michael Gillespie about the issue of paying college athletes, which he thinks is a bad idea. I don’t agree with Professor Gillespie’s conclusion. But I do recognize that it is a complex simple issue that reasonable people can disagree could only possibly feel one way about.  However, there are several comments he makes along the way, seemingly in support of that central conclusion that really, really do bother me and that I feel compelled to address.

The first came in response to the question of high profile coaches’ compensation, a concern of many, including many faculty.

” As [Duke Men’s Basketball Coach Mike] Krzyzewski pointed out to me once, almost all coaches are fired: they almost never retire. Or as one of our former football coaches put it when I told him that some of our faculty were really upset about his compensation: ‘I’ll trade my salary for tenure.’”

I’m not sure who that former football coach was, nor his salary. But I do know Kryzewski’s salary: $9,682,032…for one year. I’ve just started my 24th year at Michigan, my 20th with tenure. My total salary over those 24 years combined is not 10 % of Kryzewski’s annual salary. Is my job awesome? Yes! Is tenure sweet? Yes!  I don’t want his job. I love my job!  Would I trade tenure for a guaranteed one-year pay out of close to $10,000,000, with the possibility of another year if my students performed well? Hell, yes, in a heartbeat!

Oh, and, by the way, don’t forget that if my students do well, I also get to collect earnings for endorsing products, like the clothes and shoes I can make them wear, and I get paid to speak publicly because—even though “it’s all about the kids”—people believe my students do well because of some kind of special sauce running through my veins.  I’m not even going to get into adjuncts, almost a quarter of whom require public assistance of some sort to make ends meet, cause that’s another rant.  I’ll just stop here and say, Coach K, you want my tenure? Make me an offer.

Then, when asked whether the “educational trust” is being violated “if colleges and universities are only using athletes as pawns to increase brand recognition and generate revenue,” Professor Gillespie offered the following:

Well, as the adage goes, you can lead them to water but you can’t make them think. Whatever students (athletes or not) we bring on campus, we can’t keep them from being lazy in college, or getting into drugs, or lured by other distractions. Some kids go to college to get an education. Some don’t.

Damn horses! Here I am, leading them to water, and instead of drinking (or thinking), they just lazily let themselves get into drugs or lured by other distractions.  It may be true that you can’t “make them think,” but as the basketball adage goes, you miss 100 % of the shots you don’t take.  I mean to say, however meager my compensation may be by comparison with Coach K’s, it is pretty much my job description to “make them think.”  Yes, some of my students are resistant to this, for many different kinds of reasons.  It doesn’t matter: all of them are capable of thinking and it’s my job to make that happen.  In fact, it’s my job to make them thirsty.  Of course I will fail to do so at times and I may get discouraged from time to time, but that doesn’t relieve me of the responsibility to do my best.  And it certainly doesn’t justify the violation of educational trust.

At the end of the interview, he is asked “what do you say to those who can’t see the bigger picture and broader values of college sports?”  His response:

A little more, or even a lot more money, is not going to help any of these kids maximize on their educational opportunity, or athletic experience for that matter. With football especially, we really need to ask ourselves, what would all these football players be doing if they didn’t have an opportunity to play at the college level? The fact is that they probably wouldn’t be playing anywhere. And let’s face it, some them are the kind of individuals who could be given to some pretty violent behavior if they didn’t have the physical and psychological release that a sport like football provides. What our culture offers in that regard is no small thing.

Let me just emphasize this:

let’s face it, some them are the kind of individuals who could be given to some pretty violent behavior if they didn’t have the physical and psychological release that a sport like football provides.

I’d like Professor Gillespie to elaborate on just what “kind of individuals” does he have in mind.

But let me be more direct, cause I have skin in this game.  Here’s how it sounds to me: some of my students (those who are football players at one of the very few schools whose football program turns a profit) would pose a danger to society if it weren’t for the fact that we let them play football in exchange for leading them to the water of education (which we can’t make them drink).

Sure, some football players could be given to some pretty violent behavior if they weren’t playing football. I would guess that “some” college professors also would be given to “some pretty violent behavior” is they weren’t able to do the the thing they love, the thing that they’ve come to consider one of the core aspects making them who they are. Who knows, it’s even possible that some people in other professions are the kind of individuals who could be given to some pretty violent behavior if they didn’t have the physical and psychological release that their job provides.

Of course, it could be that the conditions of their job actually increase the need for physical and psychological release. What working conditions might do so?

Well, what if the job involves getting hit on the head so frequently and with such force that they have 3 times the risk of chronic traumatic encephalopathy than the general population, and that will lead 1 in 3 of them to wind up with brain damage? Pretty stressful.

Or what if their bosses required them to routinely put in overtime—despite regulations prohibiting this—and threaten them with the loss of their positions if they fail to do so, all the while also requiring them to do another full-time job at the same time, and do it well lest those same bosses be embarrassed publicly? Pretty stressful.

Or what if the job involves working for free. Okay, not for free exactly, but you know the old adage, you can lead them to water, but you can’t make them think.

Damn horses!

In short, an esteemed professor of political philosophy at one of the most highly rated universities in the world believes that the solution to his (f)antasy that some college football players would break bad if they couldn’t play ball is to make sure they play ball in exchange for nothing more than the opportunity to enroll in a university.

Maybe mass incarceration could be addressed by requiring inmates to play football at Duke.

I realize that this is merely my rebuttal to some parts of this argument against paying them. It is not my argument for paying them.  I’m working on that.  But, if you want an approximation, you might check out this essay by Spencer Hall, which is just the most recent of many excellent pieces of writing in support of payment.  An even more intriguing response, I believe, has been to support college athletes in their quest to be recognized as employees who deserve protections afforded such status.  I like that tack because it doesn’t presume to tell the athletes what they want, but rather just seeks to help them get the right to say what they want and to negotiate for it from a fair position.

032roots04

 

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