by Jalen Rose
So don’t be saying that Coach Watson got a job because of me. You’ve got it backwards: I’m here right now, writing this book, having this career, having this life, because of Perry Watson. And I’m just one of many—players, coaches, scouts, broadcasters—who can say that.
Perry Watson isn’t just a great basketball coach. Perry Watson is a hero.
Now let’s get back to the real villain. The NCAA.
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WE WERE aware of everything at Michigan. Sophomore year, we started wearing plain blue shirts during our warm-ups, shirts that didn’t say “Nike” or “Michigan.” We had become a valuable brand, but we had no way to take advantage of that. The shirts were our silent protest.
Other than that, there weren’t many ways to get around the sense of injustice that we—and so many other college players before, during, and after our time—felt stepping onto courts in front of thousands of screaming fans, in front of millions of people watching on television. Regardless of everything, our pockets weren’t getting filled with money, and it seemed like everyone else’s were.
Still, I will say that I always found ways to keep a little bit of cash in my pocket and not feel so strapped. Every summer, and sometimes during school, I had one job or another. I had a paper route, I shoveled snow, I cut grass, I pumped gas. One summer I worked for Dave Bing at Bing Steel. I worked on the steel press and drove a forklift. It was one of the few places where no one cared that I was a basketball star. If I messed up the press, believe me, they didn’t care who I was.
To supplement that, I’d find ways to hustle. If I needed a few chairs for my dorm room, so we could have somewhere to sit while we played video games, I’d “borrow” them from Chrisler Arena. Sometimes, like countless other people in the hood, I’d play the numbers, making a little extra here and there. One time in the summer after my sophomore year, I got invited to a dice game, got lucky, and won enough for a down payment on a new Honda Accord. I woke my mom up when I got home at 4:00 a.m. to tell her she had to take me to the dealership first thing.
I was also like any kid. If my mom had a little extra, she would throw me twenty bucks. Or my uncles did, or Uncle Ed. They helped to make sure that I could at least put gas in the Accord. Or even if I couldn’t afford diamond earrings, I could at least get the best cubic zirconia money could buy.
In college I also had the benefit of a Pell Grant, a federal grant that provides living expenses in college if you qualify financially. In my day, it was $2,500 a semester. I felt rich when my grant money arrived, and not because I’d use it on stupid things. I’d pay my rent, my beeper bill, my light bill. It was probably the biggest thing that kept me from getting desperate for cash at school. But not everyone knows about the Pell Grant, or successfully navigates the channels to receive it.
You hear those stories about players who get busted stealing laptops or jewelry or whatever? They’re not doing that because they want to wear the jewelry, or play with new computers. They’re doing it to sell the stolen items and get money. They’re doing it because they’re desperate for cash even though they are smack in the middle of that multibillion-dollar business called college basketball.
Those are the extreme cases, of course, but it all comes back to a simple fact: There are hundreds of less fortunate kids who play big-time college sports. They help bring in millions and millions of dollars for their schools and the NCAA, and they don’t see a dime of it. They come to schools with the expectation that they will spend the bulk of their time, and their focus, on their sport, both because that’s the commitment they make when they accept a scholarship and because it’s their dream to play in college and maybe the pros. (The reality is that only a tiny percentage of them will actually make it to the pros. The rest will be left behind. Maybe with a degree, maybe not.)
I’m talking about big-time college sports here: Division I football and basketball. Nothing against young athletes who play other sports, but with a few exceptions they don’t bring in money the way football and basketball do. In fact, the revenue-generating sports pay for the non-revenue-generating sports. So with much respect to the lacrosse players and the wrestlers and the volleyball players, they’re not being taken advantage of in the same way. In life, everyone isn’t treated equally in their jobs either. Get over it.
Football and basketball are the only college sports (along with to a lesser extent baseball and hockey, and obviously the best of the best in other sports) where athletes realistically can envision a professional career, or maybe an Olympic career or the like. Which brings me to a question: If you were in that situation, and you got up early one morning with nothing to do, would you be more likely to hit the library for three hours or go to the gym? You’d go to the gym, because that’s what you’re in school to do: to become the best athlete you can be and put yourself in position to make it to the next level. That’s what your coaches ask you to do, what the administration expects you to do, and what the fans want you to do.
Okay, so if that makes sense, how can people crow about poor graduation rates and academic standards for college athletes? You can’t make two things your one top commitment. If you’re dedicated to your sport, academics are going to take a backseat. Particularly if you come from a high school that isn’t the best of the best, it’s all but impossible to keep up.
So we’ve got two problems. First, the athletes aren’t getting paid, when everyone else is making money. And, second, the athletes are being expected to approach their sport like professionals, and to be conscientious and committed students. To me, those hypocrisies are at the core of what’s fundamentally wrong with college sports.
There are two pretty simple solutions.
First, pay the athletes. Not a ridiculous sum of money, but a decent, modest payment that will give them some cushion in their bank account and let them share in the profits of the college sports machine. The money should come out of the budget for apparel and shoes, so it’s self-sustaining within the athletic departments. Let’s say $5,000 per semester, $10,000 a year for the top schools, and maybe somewhat less for smaller schools (who have less lucrative sponsorship deals). Maybe increase it a thousand per year so juniors and seniors make more than freshmen. That might even entice players who aren’t the biggest pro prospects to stay in school and get closer to graduation. Is $10,000 a year enough to retire on? No. But it echoes the way things work in another system, baseball, where the minor leagues, not college ball, are the central feeders to the majors. Minor leaguers don’t make much money. But they are paid, with the enticement that the better they are, the closer they’ll get to real money in the big show. (Furthermore, in baseball, the union will pay for players to finish college. So when it doesn’t work out for young pitchers or hitters on the diamond, they have something to fall back on afterward. Baseball: best union in sports.) For college athletes, payment would serve as an extra piece of their scholarship. Call it an athletic grant if that makes you feel better. And don’t stop the Pell Grant Program. Let the programs supplement each other, to make sure the neediest players are getting everything they might need.
Next, let college athletes major in sports. Now, at a lot of schools, there are sports management degrees and kinesiology degrees and other programs like that. Take the curriculum a step further. Acknowledge that playing their sport is the athlete’s focus, and then build a modified academic program around that. They would get credit for being on a team and have a schedule that touches on the rest of the sports world: training, coaching, nutrition, management, administration, and so on. All these areas are exploding with innovation. There’s plenty to learn about and contribute to. Athletes wouldn’t be forced to major in sports, but the program would be available for students who want it.
People might complain that it’s unfair to offer athletes something special, but where in life don’t people who are doing something special get something special? Nonathletes don’t need to worry about athletes suddenly graduating and taking their jobs. Believe me, if a
basketball player is hired for a job after college and he doesn’t cut it, he’ll get fired just like anyone else. But, by participating in a program that helps him stay in school and get a degree in the first place, athletes increase their potential to be better at future jobs.
If big-time college sports made those two changes—pay players and let them major in sports—it wouldn’t be a perfect situation. But it would be better.
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THE NCAA is never going to be able to erase our history. But they have changed it. Because of allegations involving one individual, not an entire team, there’s no evidence of our legacy at Michigan. Other schools that have had similar issues after Final Four runs—Memphis and UMass come to mind—still have their banners up. Ours was taken down.
And then there’s everything else that came after. The investigation into Ed Martin lasted years, spoiling the life of a man who’d done a tremendous amount of good in Detroit. Ed was going to cooperate with the government in the beginning, and then he wasn’t. The case took a lot of twists and turns. Then came the biggest twist of all: Chris lied to the grand jury. It was a move that revealed Chris’s lack of street smarts. Everyone else told the truth. All he had to do was the same thing. Instead, he lied, saying that he didn’t know who Ed Martin was (when there were a hundred pictures of them together). To make it even worse, he held a press conference where he accused Ed of helping kids when they were young so he could cash in on that love and support later in their careers.
That press conference had devastating effects. First, it was the final blow to a relationship that had begun to collapse after Chris declared for the NBA Draft and Ed gave him that big loan. How do I know the details of the money Ed gave Chris? Because Ed told me so, in the summer of 1993, in the kitchen of my mom’s house. He came over to see if I could help him find Chris, who had changed his phone number after signing a $75 million contract and wasn’t getting back to Ed about paying him back. Suddenly, years later, he was watching that press conference, watching a kid he’d looked after for almost twenty years disavow him, and looking at jail time to boot. Think about that relationship, going back to our teenage years. Besides the food and clothes and support throughout the years, Ed paid for the party at the 1940 Chop House when Chris announced he was going to Michigan. Even before that, Chris and I were at Ed’s house when we decided we were going to go to Michigan together. The list goes on and on and on, all the way to the big money that Ed loaned Chris that ultimately got him in trouble—money that Chris may have eventually paid only 10 percent back on, tops, even as he went on to almost $200 million in his career. Ed died in 2003—while he was awaiting sentencing. They said it was a pulmonary embolism. I’m no cardiologist, but that sounds a lot like a broken heart.
Chris’s statement also hurt and disappointed me. I knew the truth about their relationship. And I’d spoken to Chris about what had happened, and Chris had always told me he’d take care of it. Ultimately, though, it involved a lot of money, and you know what Biggie said about that. But at its heart, Ed’s deal with us kids was simple, and unspoken. Let me help you, he said, to make things a little better for you. As far as payback was concerned, if someday we had some bigger bills in our pocket, we weren’t expected to go to Mr. Ed’s house and give him a brown paper bag. We were supposed to spot the next kid who needed a coat, the next kid who needed some sneakers, the next time we could bring a few seafood pizzas to a practice, and do it ourselves. White people call that paying it forward. On the block, we call it looking out—and keeping it real.
Watching Chris at that press conference, almost ten years after our last game at Michigan, was a reminder of how much had changed since the last night of the Fab Five in that hotel room in New Orleans. A night, ironically enough, that Chris probably still wishes could be erased from history. That night the focus changed for Chris and for me. We were going to play professional basketball in the NBA. We were going to make a lot of money.
Exactly as I’d planned it that day in the dusty film room at St. Cecilia’s.
© Courtesy of the author
As a nine-year-old, I passed a lot of notes in class, such as “Do you like me?” with three boxes to check: “Yes,” “No,” or “Maybe.” I also rocked the turtleneck for school pictures.
© Courtesy of the author
Cleaner than the Board of Health (prom 1991).
© Courtesy of the author
My family: A circle of strength, founded on faith, joined in love, and kept by God. BACK ROW: Kev, me, and Bill. FRONT ROW: Ma, Grammie, and Tammy.
© Courtesy of the author
At the Southwestern alumni game, with my brother Howard Eisley; my godfather, Dave Bing; and father figure Perry Watson.
© Courtesy of the author
My brothers from another mother. We shocked the world!
© John W. McDonough/Sports Illustrated/Getty Images
Coach Fish, always the teacher, helping me become a student of the game.
© AP Photo/Tim Easley
Cutting down the net in 1992 before heading to the Final Four.
© Courtesy of the author
Naughty by Nature picnic ’93, 118th Street, New Jersey.
© Courtesy of the author
Illmatic with Nas in ’94.
© Courtesy of the author
With my childhood idol, Magic Johnson, at Detroit Southwestern.
© Andrew D. Bernstein/NBAE via Getty Images
Draft day…where dreams come true.
© Otto Greule/Getty Images/Allsport
I was so very fortunate for my childhood idol Isiah to become my mentor. An original Bad Boy, and now a very appreciated JRLA supporter.
© AP Photo/Michael Conroy
In Indiana, when Larry Bird was my coach from 1997 to 2000, he had my back when no one else did. A true legend—as a player, a coach, and a man.
© Ron Turenne/NBAE via Getty Images
So blessed to be one of the 4,000 individuals to have played in an NBA game.
© Andrew D. Bernstein/NBAE via Getty Images
© AP Photo/Stephen J. Carrera
© AP Photo/Julie Jacobson
© ESPN
I’ve been covering the NBA Finals for television since 2002. Here I am on the ABC/ESPN set with the Worldwide Leader.
© NBA Photo Library/NBAE via Getty Images
Jimmy Walker with the Pistons. We’re the only father/son duo to score 10,000-plus points in the NBA.
© Juan O’Campo/NBAE via Getty Images
With my brother, friend, and mentor: “The Sports Guy” Bill Simmons.
© Courtesy of the author
Celebrating life with my Queen Krissy.
© Courtesy of the author
Just being silly with my beautiful daughters.
© Courtesy of the author
So fortunate to have amazing kids who are intelligent, athletic, and stylish (Gracie, LaDarius, and Mariah).
© Courtesy of the author
Uncle Len swung an iron fist for discipline that he called “hani goshi.”
© Courtesy of the author
With President Barack Obama, who is also a fellow lefty.
© Courtesy of the author
The talented Uncle Paramore representing at the JRLA ribbon-cutting ceremony. Have mind, will create!
© Courtesy of the author
JRLA inaugural class of scholars ready to “Enter a Learner: Exit a Leader.”
8. What the NBA Can Teach You About Life, Luck, and Fate
I made the first mistake of my pro basketball career before it began.
I started it a year too late.
In 1993, when Chris Webber decided to go pro, he was the first college sophomore to be taken first overall in the NBA Draft since Magic Johnson. He was at the start of a new wave. Allen Iverson and Elton Brand—two more sophomores to go first overall—would follow him over the next few years. Also during that time, Kevin Garnett and Kobe went to the draft directly from high school. Today, eve
n with the minimum-age limit on the draft, it’s almost guaranteed that a freshman or a foreign player will be picked first. It’s the new standard, and it started with a member of the Fab Five.
But I didn’t see that trend coming in 1993. I also didn’t see what my best move was. Even though we were losing our best player, and even though my sophomore year had shown me how messed up the system was around us and how it could spoil the fun we were having, I was still a rah-rah college guy. I believed in the meaning of the Fab Five, in what I felt we represented. Call me an idealist. Juwan was, too. We both could have left alongside Chris, and could have been drafted in the top ten. Instead, we went back to school. We had the fairy-tale ending written in our minds. We would be the underdogs again, without Chris, and bring home the title for Coach Fisher. The one I’d promised him as soon as the Carolina game had ended.
