by Rus Bradburd
EIGHTEEN
SHADOW AND ACT
In 1999, the University of Arkansas Press published Bitters in the Honey, a book about the Little Rock crisis of 1957 and the civil rights views of Arkansans. Beth Roy, the author, concluded, “One finding of my study in Little Rock is that white racist attitudes continue unabated, their forms and codes changed since the fifties, but not their intensity.”
Chancellor John White had plenty of work to do. “Fayetteville was stunning to me,” he says. “I started calling out the cheerleading squad and the pep band. There wasn’t a single black student involved! I just kept hammering at it.”
White set out on what he saw as part of his mission, scoring some major victories in the hiring of African-Americans. The vice chancellor of student affairs. The dean of the library. The dean of the law school. All were African-American. Nevertheless, White knew his best recruiter and spokesman could be his boisterous basketball coach—not just for athletics, but as a representative for the entire school. “One reason I felt so good about Nolan was having him here, and working with him to get across the message of how great an institution it was for everyone; it really didn’t matter about your skin color.”
The Razorbacks jumped out to an 8-0 start in the 1997–98 season. Their 11-5 record in the SEC scored them a return trip to the NCAA Tournament, where they topped Nebraska before losing to Utah. Arkansas finished the year 24-9. It was a satisfying year, although Richardson’s team got beat by his old friend Rob Evans, who had taken over as the first black head coach at the University of Mississippi.
Richardson was already a hero in his native El Paso. Before the next season, El Paso made it official when Nolan Richardson Middle School opened in northeast El Paso.
Some of the glow of the national championship was beginning to wear off in Arkansas, though. The 1998–99 Razorbacks went 23-11 and landed another NCAA Tournament appearance. Arkansas beat Siena in the first round but lost to Iowa. Richardson was now four years past his glorious Final Four runs.
The frustrations of high expectations sometimes became apparent in Richardson’s day-to-day dealings. That May, on an airplane flight, Richardson vented to football coach Houston Nutt, calling Frank Broyles both untrustworthy and a “white-haired devil.”
In 1999, Head Coach and Assistant Athletics Director Nolan Richardson received a letter citing statistics from the National Association of Basketball Coaches president Jim Haney.
Haney, who is white, was disturbed. “African-American employees are the academic advisors, equipment managers, facility managers, strength coaches, and compliance coordinators,” he wrote. “The athletics administration at the core management positions, administrative jobs that have the most influence on the success of the athletics department, are for white men and women only!”
According to Haney’s study, African-Americans filled only 6.5 percent of “core management jobs” in Division I schools. (Division II and III were even worse.) Part of Haney’s concern was that African-American basketball players, who then made up over 60 percent of the participants, would conclude that their chances for important jobs after their playing days were nearly nonexistent.
At the time of the study, 30 percent of basketball coaches—assistant and head—were African-American. But did core management opportunities actually exist for them? Or was there a ceiling? Haney asked, “Can we name African-American basketball coaches who have had the opportunity to move into athletics administration in the last five years? I cannot.”
The only issue the BCA felt had been fairly addressed by the NCAA was that they had successfully sought out African-Americans for management jobs at their own headquarters. Little or nothing had been done at the university level.
Writing in his Courtside column for the NABC’s newspaper, Haney was astounded. “Rightfully, you may ask where is the outrage? Where are the powerful voices within the NCAA structure that champion legislative changes on this matter? Where are those who would call the NCAA institutions into account for the abysmal hiring of African-Americans and people of color to core management positions?”
Richardson read Jim Haney’s column and accompanying statistics, then brooded. With Christmas of 1999 only five days away, he composed a letter to Frank Broyles. In part, Richardson wrote:
During our meeting, you commented that you viewed my appointment as Assistant Athletics Director as a “token” appointment. The more I think about this, the more it frustrates and disappoints me. I viewed my appointment back in 1995 as a significant advancement in my career. I looked forward to learning more about the inner workings of the entire athletics department at the University of Arkansas. As you may recall, I previously served as Athletics Director at Western Texas Junior College, and as Assistant Athletics Director at Tulsa. I particularly looked forward to offering you my services and skills in negotiations, and my knowledge of endorsements to assist the department when you were dealing with shoe and apparel contracts. This of course did not come to pass, and I now understand why.
Richardson wanted a clarification of his assigned role—or, rather, he wanted an authentic role, and not a token appointment. He was now considering whether or not to resign from this appointment, given its lack of substance. His letter continued:
Like you, I love the University of Arkansas and want to help the school in many ways, but not as a token.
I have never looked upon any position I have had in my life in a token way. I have worked my entire career to prove that I deserve every opportunity that I have been given. I would never accept a position just for the sake of appearances.
Three days later, Broyles faxed a letter back to his basketball coach. “I have received your letter and I understand your feelings,” he wrote. “I will respond to you after the holidays.”
Another burr in Richardson’s boots was that Broyles undercut the shoe deal Richardson had with Converse, working out an agreement with Reebok to outfit all of the university’s athletic teams. Shoe companies buying up entire athletics departments is common today, but at that time it was a new development. Richardson felt he had earned his shoe money; the lesser sports, which would benefit so greatly, had not. Later, the university would buy out Richardson’s Converse deal, which helped monetarily, but the coach could not help but feel sabotaged by Broyles again.
On January 15, 2000, still waiting on a response to his letter from Broyles, Richardson went public about his “token” status as an assistant athletics director. He simply did not want to be used as a statistic if there were no extra duties—or pay. Richardson’s complaints were reported only in local newspapers.
Then, on January 17, 2000, Richardson again brought up his situation in the Morning News newspaper. When the journalist pointed out that other assistant ADs, the white ones, had been in similar circumstances, Richardson remained unconvinced. “Those guys can go ahead and stay that way because they’ve got guys their color doing things for them,” he said. “What about me? Who sits in that hallway up there to represent us? I don’t. Do I help make decisions? No, sir. I’ve never been asked a question, I’ve never been in a meeting. So why use me as an assistant AD for affirmative action? I’m not an Uncle Tom.”
On January 25, 2000—now the wait for Broyles’s written response was gnawing at him—Richardson wrote a second letter. The subject this time was the disparity in pay between basketball and football assistant coaches. Richardson had raised the issue in a 1997 letter, and Broyles had justified the pay differences then by citing experience. Broyles couldn’t use that excuse this time. The pay differential had become even greater when Houston Nutt became football coach in 1998. Richardson’s top assistant, Mike Anderson, had more experience than any of the football assistants, and had been coaching in Fayetteville for well over a decade.
Richardson copied the letter to both Chancellor John White and University of Arkansas system president Alan Sugg.
Richardson could not have picked a less opportune time to challenge the Arkansas power struct
ure. His 1999–2000 team struggled all year. They finished the regular SEC season at 7-9, Richardson’s worst mark since joining the more competitive league.
On February 17, 2000, Broyles addressed Richardson’s second letter, admitting to the obvious. Pay disparities existed between Arkansas’s assistant football and basketball coaches. Since experience could not logically be cited, Broyles attempted to justify the difference by saying it was “required by the marketplace”—an odd logic indeed from the man who controlled the money within the entire multimillion-dollar business that was Arkansas athletics. There was yet to be a written response to Richardson’s pre-Christmas letter.
Broyles also forwarded copies of his own letter to John White and Alan Sugg. But he included a cover letter to them, saying that matters of this nature should be resolved between Richardson and himself. Broyles said that by sending White and Sugg a copy of his letter, Richardson had followed “inappropriate protocol.” Richardson was not sent a copy of Broyles’s cover letter to his superiors.
That same day, Richardson got into a heated discussion with Wally Hall, the sports editor of the Democrat-Gazette. Hall and Richardson often reverted to the usual complaints about each other: Hall wasn’t fair; Richardson was too sensitive. Near the end of the argument, Richardson claims he called Hall a “redneck.” That is not how it was reported in the next day’s news. Hall wrote that Richardson had called the Razorback fans “redneck SOBs.”
The following day, former football star and board of trustees fixture Jim Lindsey claimed he got a call from an irate fan demanding Richardson be fired for the statement. Lindsey, who was close with Broyles, phoned his former coach to express those concerns. The fan was never identified, but suddenly the feelings of the fans—which had mattered little in the firing of successful UA football coaches over the years—became paramount. Broyles never asked Richardson about Wally Hall’s column, or if the quotes were taken out of context.
The annual banquet for senior football players was that very evening. Broyles approached a table of media representatives—all white, of course—to grumble about Richardson’s comments. Just a few days earlier, Broyles had complained to the chancellor and system president about Richardson voicing grievances through inappropriate channels. Now Broyles was about to do the unthinkable.
Broyles asked one of the writers at the table to publish an article that equated Richardson’s use of the word “redneck” with a white person using the word “nigger.”
The media table was dumbfounded, both at Broyles’s public use of the word “nigger” and at his bizarre request. One writer later said that Broyles was animated and raised his voice. Black football players were seated at the next table, and the writer reached for Broyles’s arm, asking him to lower his voice. Later that night, Broyles cornered the writer again, saying that the article needed to be written.
Redneck = nigger.
Of course, he emphasized, the comparison should leave out the name “Frank Broyles.”
The writer later confided to Richardson that Broyles had tried to push him into doing that article. Richardson asked the writer to record his recollection on tape, and the writer agreed.
What would remain a source of debate in Arkansas was not that Broyles publicly used the word “nigger,” and wanted major Arkansas media sources to write about niggers and rednecks. Rather, the question centered on whether Broyles himself compared the two terms or if Broyles was reporting on the feelings of mysterious “fans.”
Paul Eells, the sports anchor for KATV and host of Richardson’s weekly television show, later said he was shocked by Broyles’s prodding of the journalists and believed the comments to be Broyles’s own sentiments. Other media representatives understood the comments to mean Broyles was quoting someone else.
“Frank thought he was made of Teflon,” one of Arkansas’s long-time sportswriters says. Indeed, Broyles was. Not a single media member wrote about Broyles’s bizarre request or criticized him in print.
On February 28, 2000, Broyles wrote back to Richardson again, this time to answer Richardson’s letter from over two months earlier. Several factors, Broyles wrote, contributed to this delayed response. “…[T]he holidays, the football postseason activity, blocked arteries…football stadium debates.” Broyles also wrote about “…the unexpected nature of your letter, both in timing and content.”
Broyles pointed out that Eddie Sutton and successful track coach John McDonnell held the role of assistant athletics director while they were coaching. “In each instance,” he wrote, “the title was assigned as a symbolic gesture of respect for contributions to our athletics programs…. This title designation…has never been and is not currently intended to change any job duties. Given these circumstances, please let me know your decision regarding the title.”
In regard to NABC boss Jim Haney’s claims, Broyles said that “…each and every point is well taken and should be an area of concern.”
Broyles could not resist a final parting shot. “One of the virtues of Chancellor White’s emphasis on increased graduation rates is the increased availability of qualified former athletes who have attained their degrees.”
Was Broyles taking a swipe at Richardson for the graduation rate among black players? Probably. In two years, Richardson’s players’ graduation rate during his championship years would become a national story. But for Broyles, the solution was simple and easy. If Richardson would simply graduate more players, then Broyles would hire them as associate athletics directors.
Tensions between Broyles and Richardson had reached the boiling point. With the Razorbacks playing their worst ball in a decade in February of 2000, Broyles felt that he had the upper hand. He could have removed Richardson before the SEC Tournament but likely figured the coach would fall on his face—and prove to everyone in Arkansas that he had lost his touch. Just like in 1987, Broyles began quiet preparations to dump the coach, although this time Richardson was acutely aware going into the SEC Tournament that Broyles wanted him gone.
The Razorbacks played Georgia first, but even if they won, they’d have to get by three teams, including powerhouse Kentucky. Despite winning an NCAA title and three Final Four births to his credit, Richardson had never won the SEC Tournament title.
Arkansas rolled over Georgia, then the nationally ranked Kentucky and LSU. In the SEC finals they beat Auburn, and the Razorbacks were the 2000 SEC Tournament champions. The state was awash again in praise for Richardson. Sophomore guard Brandon Dean was voted the tournament MVP, and the team was back in the NCAAs. Despite losing to University of Miami in the first round the following week, Richardson’s renewed popularity kept Broyles from firing him.
Broyles likely learned a lesson. With Richardson on the sideline, even a weak Razorback team could not be counted out of the SEC Tournament. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. For now, he was stuck with Richardson and forced to sign him to a six-year rollover contract for a million dollars a year just before the next season began. Despite the big money, the tumultuous year had left Richardson cautious, angry, and resentful. His relationship with Broyles—America’s most powerful athletics director—was now beyond repair.
Jim Haney, who authored the column that rattled Richardson, has directed the NABC for years. Although championing the cause of minority coaches is not part of the NABC’s mission, Haney and his top aide Reggie Minton have helped initiate change, especially within the NCAA’s own offices. Haney has witnessed a new emphasis. “In the 1970s there was a big issue as to whether you just had an African-American on your staff in football and basketball,” he says.
Haney actually worries about what college basketball players think. “It would have benefited Arkansas and minorities both if there were contributing minority athletics directors at the school,” he says. “In the college setting, if I’m an African-American player I might be thinking, ‘What will I do, how can I stay involved in athletics?’ But when it comes time to make decisions to see about the future, they think, ‘I don�
��t see anyone like me within the athletics department.’”
The new breed of young black coaches who were not politically inclined irked Richardson. Within the BCA, there was a fundamental disagreement about the group’s purpose. Did the BCA exist to help young black assistant coaches? Or did it exist to use its influence in helping black kids get more scholarship opportunities?
Much of the debate likely stemmed from the background of the group’s big three. Neither Richardson, nor John Thompson, nor John Chaney had ever been assistant coaches. The trio never used the BCA to secure job interviews or boost their own standing. Richardson and Chaney had taken the long road at unknown schools. Thompson, while a former Boston Celtic, had landed the Georgetown job when it was considered a graveyard for coaches. None of the three, when they were younger, had heard their names trumpeted on ESPN as deserving of a college job.
John Chaney asked the BCA to take his name off the group’s letterhead. Richardson, Thompson, and George Raveling followed suit. Chaney said, “The organization has really deserted the kids as far as I’m concerned.”
In February of 2000, sportswriter Orville Henry was hospitalized to have his gall bladder removed. Doctors found a malignant tumor on his pancreas. Richardson began checking on Henry every day. It was the most time he had spent around hospitals since Yvonne had passed away.
While Orville Henry was the godfather of sportswriters in Arkansas, some insiders criticize him, calling him a “mouthpiece” for Frank Broyles. Richardson never felt that way about Henry, though, and had great admiration for him.
Until his illness, Orville Henry sat in the middle of the Broyles-Richardson feud, keeping in touch with both men. Richardson claims that Henry told him Broyles had complained about the basketball coach’s whopping salary. “That nigger is making too much money,” is the way Richardson recalls Henry’s account.
