John U. Bacon

The University of Michigan’s athletic director sent a proposal to the university’s board of regents, requesting permission to set off fireworks during two football games this fall.

At first blush, the question of post-game fireworks didn’t seem like a very big deal either way. On Michigan fan blogs, reactions were mixed. As for the university’s regents, they have bigger things to worry about than fireworks. Even the athletic department’s budget – which has grown by 50%, currently pushing $150 million – might seem like a lot to us, but that’s a rounding error at the university’s hospital.

So when the regents voted down the proposal for fireworks for two games this season, it got people’s attention.

The regents rarely split their votes, or deny the athletic director’s wishes. But when the regents looked into the fireworks proposal, they were surprised to find the department wanted to set off fireworks not just after both games, but during the second game, after touchdowns – replacing the century-old tradition of celebrating success with the marching band blasting “The Victors.”

Once bloggers saw that, they exploded like – well, fireworks. They didn’t like the idea any more than the regents did.  

More telling were the regents’ remarks. Three-term regent Larry Deitch said, “I have religiously attended [Michigan] football games for 50 years. I have not found that experience wanting for lack of fireworks.”

Regent Mark Bernstein termed the fireworks a “huge symbolic issue.” He explained: “We are not Comerica Park, Disney World, or a circus. I love Michigan football for what it is, and for what it is not. It remains and should be intentionally simple. The fireworks should be on the field, not above it.”

The bloggers voiced full-throated agreement, writing things like “They get it!” “About time!” and “Amen.” They might have set a record for quoting regents.

The day after the vote, incoming president Mark Schlissel told a reporter that, being new, he had no opinion on the matter. He made it a point to tell the faithful he appreciates just how important athletics are to the university culture, but he added: “We’re an academic institution, so I want to work on the appropriate balance between athletics and academics… The athletic director does have delegated responsibilities, but he works for me.”

On Michigan websites, this sparked another chorus of “Hallelujah.”

But what does all this mean? It’s easy to read too much into the comments from the regents and President Schlissel. When you boil their quotes down, they represent not a radical departure from the status quo, but a return to it: the protocols, the customs and the traditions Michigan has relied on to become a leader academically and athletically for over a century.

Taken together, however, their comments do suggest the people who run the university no longer feel compelled to rubber stamp the athletic director’s every request.

The athletic department has bigger things to worry about, too. The department has run ads on its blog, its electronic billboard, on TV and even at a street stand during the Ann Arbor art fair, urging fans to buy football tickets. If those unprecedented efforts didn’t tell us how eager they must be to unload tickets by the thousands, the email this week to its golf club members, announcing free tickets for anyone who asks, removed any doubt. If you went to Michigan, live in Michigan or can find Michigan on a map, don’t be surprised when the athletic department offers you free Michigan football tickets. It’s a boon for those who’ve already dropped their tickets – and a bust for those who have already paid full price for theirs.

If Michigan fails to lure 100,000 fans to the Big House this fall for the first time since 1975, the biggest fireworks might not be in the sky or on the field, but in university offices on State Street.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

The summer before Mac McKenzie became our little league baseball coach, I spent the season picking dandelions in right field, and batting last. But just weeks after Coach Mac took over, I rose to starting catcher, lead-off hitter, and team captain. Trust me, I was no bigger, faster or stronger than I was the previous season. But I had one thing I didn’t have the year before: confidence. Instead of playing back on my heels, I was up on my toes, and swinging for the fences.

I’m sure Coach Mac’s influence planted my desire to become a coach myself – and later, a teacher, too.

Last summer, when I wrote about Coach Mac, I admitted I had no idea where he ended up after his family moved to California the next year, or even if he was still alive. Well, a couple days later, I got a thank you letter from Coach Mac himself.

Just getting it thrilled me, but his message was even better. It was direct, honest and funny – just like the man himself. He told me about his family, about moving to Scottsdale, about his two bypass surgeries. In 1990, he received a heart transplant. He said he’d read my books and had every intention of writing years ago, but never followed through. But that day, when his wife found my story on line, this is what he wrote:

“I was blown away to see my name and the wonderful things that you had to say about me and my influence on you. I have had a very good and successful life with a few plaques, awards and complimentary speeches given to me, but none compare to what you said and how you have honored me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

I don’t know if Coach Mac got choked up writing it, but I got choked up reading it. I promised him I’d write him a longer letter soon, and fully intended to. But my fall filled up with travel and speeches, deadlines and classes. I kept waiting to find enough time to write The Perfect Letter – and kept waiting. I wrote down Coach Mac’s name on my to-do list month after month.

Three nights ago, I was teaching my sports writing students at Northwestern University how to write a profile. I told them their subject doesn’t have to be famous. It could even be one of their former coaches. Then I spontaneously launched into my story of Coach Mac, right down to the sweat dripping off the tip of his nose while he smashed grounder after grounder during practice. I couldn’t resist telling my students how great it was to hear from Coach Mac – which provided just another reminder I still needed to write him. I scribbled his name down yet again.

I got my final reminder the very next day, when I received an email from a friend of Coach Mac’s I’d never met before. His message was as simple and direct as Coach Mac himself. “We lost Mac yesterday.”

This hit me harder than I expected. After all, I couldn’t have believed he’d live forever. I felt grateful I’d written the story about him – and even more fortunate that Coach Mac had read it, and responded.

But when I went back to read our correspondence, I was chagrined to realize I had never written him the longer letter I’d promised. I felt worse when I saw he lived in Scottsdale. A couple months after he sent me his first letter, I was invited to give a speech in Scottsdale – and if I had kept in better touch, I would have put it together, and Coach Mac and I would have gone out for a beer I would never have forgotten.

Still, we can’t do everything. I realize that. And I’m lucky. I know that, too.

After I drove back to Ann Arbor that night, about game time, I swung by Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School, where Coach Mac smacked all those grounders years ago. I was surprised to find the ball field has been replaced by a garden, with a shed in the middle of it. But when I crouched down into my old position, where home plate used to be, I could see it all – right down to Coach Mac, sweat dripping off his nose, tapping me another bunt to throw to first base.

Thanks, Coach. Sorry it took me so long to write.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

Last night, I tried my luck on the NPR game show, “Ask Me Another,” which will air in a few weeks. But it brought back memories – traumatic ones – of my disastrous try-out for the Jeopardy game show 24 years ago.

“I’ll take ‘Humility’ for $100.”

“He was one of 48 people to fail the Jeopardy test on Thursday, June 21, 1990.”

“Ah, ‘Who was John Bacon?’”

“That’s correct – you control the board.”

“I’ll take ‘Lame Excuses’ for $100 please, Alex.”

It seemed like a good idea at the time. There I was, lying on the couch with a cold beer and a bag of chips, earning thousands of imaginary dollars for yelling things like “Millard Fillmore,” “The St. Louis Browns” and “Mesopotamia,” when they invited anyone who would be in Los Angeles to try out for the show. Sure enough, I was leaving for LA in 10 days, so I figured, Why not?

Why not, indeed.

“Under ‘Human Folly’ for $300, we have this answer: ‘Time better spent doing something productive, such as cleaning your toilet.’”

“What is ‘Preparing for the Jeopardy Test’?”

I heard a Michigan law school graduate won $172,000 on Jeopardy, which was a record for years. When I learned that, I began imagining how I’d spend such enormous winnings. (I decided on paying all my bills, then taking a friend out for ice cream with the surplus.) A friend of mine at the law school discovered the guy’s name was Chuck Forrest, and he worked at the State Department. Utilizing my skills as a crack investigative reporter, I tracked him down in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates. This trivia question of a place is not only nine hours ahead of us, but their office hours run from Wednesday to Saturday. I called him after a Friday night on the town.

He was willing to talk, if I was willing to pay for it. To save you the $10.75, I’ll pass on his advice: It’s an impossible test, and there’s no way to prepare for it. Not quite ten bucks worth of wisdom, but I can tell you he wasn’t lying on either count.

Indeed, only 3% of those who take the test make it on the show, and Forrest almost wasn’t one of them. “Alex [Trebek] has said publicly that my performance on the test was surprisingly unimpressive. I barely passed it. And some who do very well on the test don’t do so well on the show. The test is a poor indicator.”

Despite his forebodings, I spent the plane ride to LA perusing “The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy” in lieu of watching the in-flight movie. (This would prove a mistake.) I also developed the compulsive tendency of formulating everything I encountered in the form of a question, a habit that drove me and my hosts crazy. All told, I had my head in that book about eight hours or so.

I could have cleaned several toilets in that span.

Furthermore, whatever you might learn from studying is quickly eradicated by submersion into LA culture. Angelinos are incapable of considering any notion longer than a hip-hop song, and I’m convinced this rubs off.

“Answer: ’2 p.m. Thursday, June 21.’”

“What was ‘D-Day?’”

I drove to the KTLA studios on Sunset Boulevard for the big test, where I joined a line of 50-some people against a brick wall outside the entrance gate, just like in “Willy Wonka.” They were wearing everything from charcoal business suits to surfing attire – which, in LA, are appropriate outfits for investment bankers, housewives or priests.

Ten minutes after I arrived we followed an attractive blonde Jeopardy assistant past the pearly gates, snaking between lumberyard-sized warehouses. Through a huge garage door we finally entered a barren room with a bunch of folding chairs at the front. On our way in we picked up a pink application, a yellow sheet with 50 blanks, a piece of corrugated cardboard and a number two pencil. Rest assured, they don’t waste the prize money on such amenities as testing centers.

For friendly banter, the assistant, Kim, asked if anyone came from out of town. Quite a few people raised their hands, saying they were from Orange County, San Fernando or Pasadena. (I’m not making this up). Kim corrected herself: “I mean, from way out. Like Kansas or something.” I was one of only a handful who raised his hand, but I dared not speak. I could tell most present believed we Michiganders swim in our jeans and Xerox our faces for senior pictures. There was no point trying to explain.

The perfunctory chit-chat completed, Kim told us the test was extremely difficult, consisting of 50 straight $1,000 questions at 10-second intervals, and we would have to get “a lot of them right – but don’t ask us how many.” Thankfully, we didn’t have to phrase our answers in the form of questions.

She showed us a sample question on two TVs working simultaneously. “Place where you can rock, you can roll it, you can shake it, you can stroll it.” Almost everyone yelled out the correct answer “At the hop.” This was difficult? “Very good,” she said. “But the real ones won’t be that easy.” (“What is: ‘Kim ain’t no fool’?”)

Lo and behold, the first five questions were particularly difficult – so much so, I couldn’t remember most of them two minutes after the test. I do remember one on dance, though, which to me read like a Far Side cartoon: “Blah blah blah ballet blah blah blah 1900 blah blah blah.”

They might as well have asked me to read a bar code. I tried to think of something, anything, that might include both criteria, but I only managed to come up with: “Feet” and “President McKinley.” Perhaps, “What are President McKinley’s feet?”

I left it blank. Same way I answered “This monkey typically has a blue face and a red nose” (or was it, red nose and blue face?) and “He authored a childhood rhyme called ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.” I grew up eating Captain Crunch and watching “Speed Racer.” If the author in question never had a cartoon, I didn’t stand a chance.

After those questions, I figured things could only get better – and they did. I knew that the Hagia Sophia was the Turkish mosque that was converted to a museum; that the Whig party immediately preceded the Republicans; that Van Gogh spent 1888 in Arles, France; and that Grand Marnier is flavored with orange. Thank God I scoured “The Dictionary of Cultural Literacy” for such scholarly fine points. I also knew the line “What fools these mortals be” is from A Midsummer’s Night Dream; that Kevin Kline won best supporting actor for “A Fish Called Wanda;” and that the capital of Chile is Santiago.

Even on a roll I botched a few, including this “answer”: “The part of the Human Body that features the islets of langerhans.” This was easily my most embarrassing wrong answer because my dad, a pediatric endocrinologist, has devoted his life to the study of that organ, the pancreas. I knew it too, and knew that I knew it, but that day all I could think of was “Torso,” “Below the neck” or “Bigger than a Breadbox.” A week in LA had taken its toll.

Speaking of which, I should have watched more TV, and fewer plays. You can forget studying “Cultural Literacy”– start reading People Magazine.  I did just fine on almost all the “cultural”-type questions, but bombed the surprisingly numerous TV and movie questions. Some entertainment questions were so foreign to me, I could have just as easily written down “Ernest Borgnine” as “SPAM.” Entertainment is also my Achilles heel in Trivial Pursuit, where I generally answer every question “Rita Hayworth” or “Battleship Potemkin.” This strategy was just as effective on the Jeopardy test. (Hey sports fans, a warning: there wasn’t a single question for you on this test, and only a couple on U.S. and world history – my major.)

This is the essential difficulty of the test: It requires the intellect to enjoy Shakespeare, and the stupidity to watch “Three’s Company” re-runs.  Therein lies the rub.

When they returned 10 minutes later with the results, I discovered that I wasn’t one of them.

“Answer: A freezer full of Eskimo Pies, a year’s supply of Turtle Wax, and the respect of your peers.”

“Ah, What is, ‘What you don’t get when you fail the Jeopardy test’?”

“That’s correct.”

“I’ll take ‘Sour Grapes’ for $1000 please, Alex.”

We, the rejected, had to make our own consolations. A 40-ish “actor and singer” (in LA, who isn’t?) reasoned that we were in very good company.  “Just looking at the people who were there, it’s clear there weren’t any idiots.”

And if you’re going to get rejected, Jeopardy’s not such a bad place. We didn’t have to small-talk with Wink Martindale, nor jump up and down like drug-laden idiots looking for a bobby pin – and it wasn’t “Wheel of Fortune.” On my gravestone, the following would suffice: “He Never Bought a Vowel.”

Now, the bad news: we realized we shouldn’t have told so many people we were trying out for the show. When I returned, most of those I told were surprised to hear I hadn’t made it, but that could mean two things: they either thought I was smart, or that the test was for morons. This ambiguity was captured by a good friend who said, “I thought for sure you’d make it. I’ve always considered you a pretty trivial person.”

Several weeks later, I came to terms with all the ramifications of my failure, with one exception: I used to get undue pleasure from yelling at the contestants who can’t locate Montevideo, or don’t know that “Old Rough and Ready” was not Teddy Roosevelt.

Now I have to keep in mind that they might be idiots, but they’re smarter than I am.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

Last week, I explained why Michigan students are dropping football tickets in record numbers – about 40% in the last two years. It touched a nerve – actually a few hundred thousand nerves. And not just among Michigan fans, but college football fans nationwide, who recognized many of the same flaws at their favorite university that were turning them off, too.

It’s all well and good to criticize Michigan’s athletic administration – and apparently very cathartic for many fans, too. But it doesn’t solve the central problem: How can college programs protect an experience millions of fans and students have loved for decades, before it’s too late?

Yes, winning helps. But when Michigan went 3-9, 5-7, 7-6 a few years ago, they still had a robust wait list. And when USC was winning national titles about the same time, they rarely sold out their Coliseum. Fans obviously love winning, but what they want – what they need – runs deeper than that.

Allow me to offer a few suggestions.

First, some easy ones: Give the fans real opponents, at a reasonable price, then revert the student ticket policy back to what it was, for – well, forever. Freshmen sit in the end zone, and seniors get the best seats. Simple.

Want them to show up on time? Don’t bully them, or tease them with donuts or cell phone service. Just remove the least appealing aspect of a modern football Saturday: boredom.

What’s boring? Waiting in line for 30 minutes to get in your seat. Or worse, being forced to arrive hours before kickoff, with nothing to do but sit in the heat, the cold or the rain, while your classmates are still outside tailgating. Then there’s the 20-minute wait for a six-dollar hot dog.

Fans at home don’t have to wait in line for any of these things. Why should fans who paid hundreds to sit in the stands? Hire a few more folks, reduce the lines, and keep the fans happy.

Everybody’s most hated delay is waiting for TV timeouts to end. Because every game is televised, ticket holders endure about 20 commercial breaks per game, plus halftime. That adds up to more than 30 minutes of TV timeouts – about three times more than the 11 minutes the ball is actually in play.

To loyal fans who sit in a stadium that is too hot in September and too cold in November – and often too rainy in between – this is as galling as taking the time, money, and effort to drive downtown to a local store, only to have to wait while the clerk talks on the phone with someone who didn’t bother to do any of those things.

Why do the powers that be let TV spoil your day at the stadium? TV doesn’t stop car races, golf tournaments or soccer games – yet those still make millions of dollars for all involved. If the TV whizzes can’t figure out how to make a buck on football without ruining the experience for paying customers, those fans will figure it out for themselves, and stay home.

While TV is running its ads, Michigan too often gives its loyal season ticket holders not the marching band or – heaven forbid – silence, but obnoxiously loud rock music and, yes, ads! Spectators spend hundreds of dollars to suffer through almost as many ads as the folks watching at home for free. Sssssuckers!

Yes, advertising in the Big House does matter. Americans are bombarded by ads, about 5,000 a day. Michigan Stadium used to be a sanctuary from modern marketing, an urban version of a national park. Now it’s just another stop on the sales train.

I’m amazed how eagerly universities have sold their souls to TV. It wasn’t always this way. Bo Schembechler said, “Toe meets leather at 1:05. If you want to televise it, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too.”

Bo’s boss, Don Canham, backed him. TV was dying for a night game at the Big House. Canham wasn’t. So, they compromised – and didn’t have one.

If fans want night games, fine – give ‘em what they want. But nobody likes waiting for TV to decide when Michigan is going to play that week – especially fans flying in from far away.

This past fall, ESPN descended on Evanston, Illinois, for a game between Ohio State and Northwestern – a rarity. When ESPN told the folks at Northwestern to get rid of these shrubs and those bushes near Lake Michigan, because ESPN wanted to build their set there, Northwestern did something none of the big boys have the guts to do: They said, “No. You can set up where we planned it.”

What did ESPN do? They followed Northwestern’s orders. What else could they do?

The universities still have the power – but only if they’re willing to use it.

Okay, you start dictating terms to TV networks, they might cut back on the cash (though I doubt it). But even if they did, what would that mean? Perhaps Michigan’s rowing team would have to make do with a $20 million training facility, instead of a $25 million one. Maybe Michigan’s head coach would have to get by on $2 million a year, instead of $4 million. Perhaps Michigan’s athletic director – and yes, he does pay himself – might just have to feed his family on $300,000 a year, instead of $1.3 million.

I think universities could somehow survive these deprivations. It would be worth it if, in the bargain, they get their souls back.

Which brings me to legendary Michigan broadcaster Bob Ufer, who often said, “Michigan football is a religion, and Saturday is the holy day of obligation.” He was on to something. Athletic directors need to remember the people in the stands are not customers. They’re believers. Treat them accordingly – or lose them forever.

That is not unique to Michigan. Researching my latest book, “Fourth and Long,” I met Dr. Ed Zeiders, the pastor of St. Paul’s United Methodist Church in State College. He has seen what a college football team can do for a community in ways others might not.

“We are desperately needy,” he told me. “We need a place to stand, and a people to stand with, and a cause to stand for. That is not original with me. That came out of World Methodism. And those three propositions hold the key to healthy and value-oriented living. Our culture is devoid of these things.”

Pastor Ed, as he’s known, fills those needs every week at his church. But he couldn’t help but notice the place of worship down the street can host 108,000 believers every Saturday.

“Sports has the capacity to make that happen,” he said. “That can get skewed and twisted, especially in the marketing side of the equation, but my interest in sports is more in the community that forms around them.”

And this brings us to the central problem: a misguided mindset driving the entire enterprise into the ground. If you think the University of Michigan is just a brand, and the athletic department is merely a business, you will turn off the very people who’ve been coming to your temple for decades.

Break faith with your flock, and you will not get them back with fancier wine. Welcome them, and the faithful will follow.

You have a choice. Just remember: The fans do, too.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

Last week, the Michigan athletic department admitted what many had long suspected: student football ticket sales are down, way down, from about 21,000 in 2012 to a projected 13,000-14,000 this fall.

The department has blamed cell phones, high-definition TV, and a sweeping national trend – but those don’t tell the whole story.

How’d Michigan lose so many students so fast? Answer: a lot of hard work.

Athletic director Dave Brandon has often cited the difficulty of using cell phones at Michigan Stadium as “the biggest challenge we have.” But when Michigan students were asked in a recent survey to rank seven factors for buying season tickets, they ranked cell phones seventh – dead last.

What did they rank first? Being able to sit with their friends.

But Brandon did away with that last year, with his new General Admission seating policy. Instead of seating the students by class – with the freshmen in the end zone and the seniors toward the fifty, as they had done for decades – last year it was first come, first served. (They also raised the price to $295, up from $195 the year before, when Michigan played six home games instead of seven.) The idea was to encourage students to come early, and come often. Thousands of students responded by not coming at all.

This was utterly predictable – and I predicted it, 13 months ago, in this column.

TV networks loved showing blimp shots of the sold-out Big House – one of the iconic sights in college football. Now they don’t show any.

Working with student government leaders, the athletic department revised the policy for the 2014 season. But it was apparently too little, too late, as some 6,000 Michigan students decided to drop their tickets anyway.

Insult to injury: college teams now play their biggest rivals on Thanksgiving weekend, when most Michigan students have gone home. If the students don’t love college football now, when it’s half-price, will they love it more when they’re paying twice that, plus a Personal Seat License?

“We know who our competitor is,” Brandon often says. “Your 60-inch, high-definition TV.”

If that’s true, maybe they shouldn’t have increased seat prices by an average of $100 each since Brandon took over. Perhaps they should stop charging six bucks for a hot dog, five bucks for popcorn, and four dollars for water. Maybe they should stop showing ads between plays on the big screens for corporate receptions at Michigan Stadium, which start at $9,000. Fans can get all those things at home for less, including the ads. They can only get the marching band at the Big House.

Survey after survey points the finger for low attendance not at cell phone service or high definition TV, but squarely at the athletic department and college football itself. Fans are fed up paying steakhouse prices for junk food opponents – and junk food itself – while enduring endless promotions. The more college football caters to the TV audience at home, the more fans paying to sit in those seats feel like suckers.

Brandon said, “We all think of every home Michigan football game like a miniature Super Bowl.”

I don’t know any Michigan fans who think that. Quite the opposite, they think Michigan football games are the antidote for the artificial excess of the Super Bowl.

In 2005, then-athletic director Bill Martin commissioned a survey which revealed more than 50% of Michigan season ticket holders had been buying them for more than two decades, but only 9% of them also bought season tickets to any professional team. 

This tells us a basic truth: Michigan football fans don’t just love football. They love Michigan football – the history, the traditions, the rituals – the timeless elements that have grown organically over decades. They are attracted to the belief that Michigan football is based on ideals that go beyond the field, do not fade with time, and are passed down to the next generation – the very qualities that separate a game at the Big House from the Super Bowl.

After the 2013 Notre Dame game, Brandon said, “You’re a 17-18 year old kid watching the largest crowd in the history of college football with airplanes flying over and Beyonce introducing your halftime show? That’s a pretty powerful message about what Michigan is all about, and that’s our job to send that message.”

Is that really what Michigan is all about? Fly-overs, blaring rock music, and Beyonce? Beyonce is to Michigan football what Bo Schembechler is to – well, Beyonce. No, Michigan is all about lifelong fans who’ve been coming together for decades to leave a bit of the modern world behind – and the incessant marketing that comes with it – and share an authentic experience fueled by the passion of the team, the band and the students. That’s it.

In his speeches, Brandon often mentions he was the CEO of three Fortune 500 companies. Then why doesn’t he know his customers, and what they like?

Yes, the department has always followed basic business practices. But it has never been run strictly as a business – until now.  The proof is the wait list, which former athletic director Don Canham grew by the thousands. Canham was a millionaire businessman in his own right. If he wanted to “maximize revenue,” he knew he could increase the price to meet demand. But he didn’t, because he believed that would dispel the magic.

Brandon’s predecessor, Bill Martin, introduced Personal Seat Licenses to the Big House, but only after the nation’s next 19-biggest stadiums had already done so. Even then, the PSL program was relatively moderate, and spared the fans in the end zones, and he lowered ticket prices during the 2008 recession. Michigan’s wait list remained robust.

“Just because you can charge them more,” Martin told me, “doesn’t mean you should. You’re not there to ring up the cash to the nth degree. It’s a nonprofit model!”

In Brandon’s first three years, he increased the operating budget from $100 million to $137.5 million. That does not include the building program, last estimated at $340 million. In Brandon’s defense, he also generated a $9 million surplus, and the buildings will benefit all Michigan’s teams, not just football and basketball. But his budget also includes: his million-dollar salary, three times what Bill Martin paid himself, plus a $300,000 annual bonus – part of a 62% increase in administrator compensation; a 225% increase in “marketing, promotions and ticketing”; and a 500% increase in “Hosting, Food and Special Events.”

I’ve come to believe it’s not scandal that will bring down college athletics, but greed. How long can these numbers, fueled by increasingly unhappy fans, continue to skyrocket before they come crashing back down to earth?

All that money comes from someone – and that someone is you, the fans. Tickets used to be underpriced, and you knew that when you scalped them for more than you paid. Now they’re overpriced, and you know that when you try to sell them through Michigan’s Official Scalper, Stubhub, and get far less.

The wait list is long gone. They’ve been sending waves of emails to former ticket holders to assure them, “The deadline has been extended!” Beg your former customers to come back five times, and you don’t have a deadline, and you don’t have a wait list.

This fall, Michigan is in danger of breaking its string of 251 consecutive games with 100,000-plus paid attendance, which started in 1975. Treat your fans like customers long enough, and eventually they’ll start behaving that way, reducing their irrational love for their team to a cool-headed, dollars-and-cents decision to buy tickets or not, with no more emotional investment than deciding whether to go to the movies.

After a friend of mine took his kids to a game, he told me, “Michigan athletics used to feel like something we shared. Now it’s something they hoard. Anything of value they put a price tag on. Anything that appeals to anyone is kept locked away – literally, in some cases – and only brought out if you pay for it. And what’s been permanently banished is any sense of generosity.”

After Brandon became Michigan’s 11th athletic director in 2010, he often repeated one of his favorite lines: “If it ain’t broke… break it!”

You have to give him credit: He has delivered on his promise.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

Last February, University of Missouri defensive end Michael Sam publicly declared he was gay – a first for a likely NFL draft pick. Last week, the St. Louis Rams drafted him in the last round – another first. But I believe the trickiest terrain is still ahead.

When Michael Sam told his University of Missouri teammates he was gay before last season, no one seemed to care very much. No one tweeted the news to the public, and Sam had a great season. It’s a safe bet that NFL teams – who know what kind of gum their prospects chew – already knew he was gay, too. But when Sam came out publicly, it changed the equation.

The NFL has already had gay players, so that isn’t new. But publicly declaring you’re gay is new – and so is the onslaught of media attention.

After Sam came out, he dropped from a projected fourth- or fifth-round draft pick to the seventh and final round. There’s no way to prove this, of course, but it’s hard to believe part of the reason wasn’t homophobia – though that term isn’t accurate. As the saying goes – often attributed to Morgan Freeman – “It’s not a phobia. You are not scared. You are an asshole.”

But the NFL teams that passed on Sam probably had other reasons, too. Yes, Sam was named the Defensive Player of the Year in the Southeastern Conference, the nation’s best – but he’s not a complete player. He’s great at sacking quarterbacks, but not at covering the run. At the NFL Combine, his numbers for speed, strength and agility weren’t that impressive.

But I’ll bet the biggest reason teams skipped him in the draft was a much bigger fear: Not homosexuality, but distractions. You don’t have to hang around football coaches very long before you hear them spit out their most hated word, “distractions,” about a hundred times.

Former Michigan All-American Larry Foote, who won a Super Bowl with the Pittsburgh Steelers, told me that in the NFL, just about everyone’s fast, strong and smart. So most games boil down to three or four mistakes. Whoever makes those few mistakes, loses.

This helps explain why coaches are maniacally focused individuals. It’s no surprise they expect their players to be that way, too.

The St. Louis Rams spared the league an embarrassing black eye by drafting Sam, a clearly qualified player. But a few eyebrows went up when Sam celebrated by kissing his boyfriend on live TV. Some people felt uncomfortable – but as ESPN’s Jamele Hill said, “Blacks and whites would still be drinking from separate water fountains if we waited for folks to be comfortable about social change.”

The vast majority of reactions to Sam being drafted – from fans, writers and NFL players – were unequivocally positive. Only a relative few embarrassed themselves with predictably ignorant responses.

And that’s why Sam’s next move was so befuddling. Having won the war, he decided to lose the battle – or his handlers did.  Soon after he was drafted, and was publicly welcomed by his teammates, he repeatedly said he wanted to be judged only as a football player, and keep his private life private. Fair enough. But then he signed a side deal with Oprah’s production company to star in a reality show based on his life, on and off the field – something the seventh-round draft picks aren’t typically offered.

Even commentators who had publicly supported Sam’s decision to come out felt compelled to point out the hypocrisy of Sam’s talking the talk, but walking the other way. Sam’s handlers and producers – who all stood to make millions off the reality show – had to be convinced by the team to drop the idea. And it apparently took a lot of convincing.

So, for now, things have settled down. Sam has gone back to what he claimed he always wanted to be: just a football player. He has plenty of work to do just to make the team, and even if he does, the average career for an NFL player is about three years. That’s why football players say the NFL doesn’t stand for “National Football League,” but “Not For Long.”

The trickiest terrain still lies ahead. And it’s not on the field, and it’s not with the fans, or even Sam’s teammates. It’s with his advisers, who threaten to plunder his chance to make a difference before his career even starts.

They need to let Sam be himself, and do his job. That’s enough for any man.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

When Mitch McGary played high school basketball in New Hampshire, he was one of the nation’s top recruits. Michigan fans were rightly thrilled when he decided to play for the Wolverines.

In his first NCAA tournament, last spring, McGary played so well folks thought he might jump to the NBA. Instead, he returned for his sophomore year – then injured his back so badly, he needed surgery mid-season. The Wolverines weren’t doing much better at 6-4, with Big Ten conference play still ahead. It looked like Michigan might miss the NCAA tournament.

The Wolverines proved them wrong by winning the Big Ten regular season title – its first since 1986 – with McGary cheering them on from the bench. McGary also beat the odds, recovering so quickly he dressed for Michigan’s final NCAA tournament game, joining his teammates for warm-ups.

The Wolverines’ dreams fell short when they lost to Kentucky in the regional final. After the game, the NCAA conducted its routine, random drug tests on a few players – including Mitch McGary.

This makes sense. No one wants to see a team using steroids win the title. The NCAA has a special role, too, in looking out for the health of its student-athletes – and the damage steroids can do is no secret.

The drug test McGary failed, however, was not for steroids. The NCAA can never seem to catch those guys. It was for marijuana, which is now legal in two states. Still, the NCAA’s rule is well known, and it was McGary’s job to follow it. He has no one to blame but himself – and to his credit, that’s just what he’s done. But when the NCAA gave McGary a season-long suspension, he decided to jump to the NBA.

I thought I was beyond being shocked by the NCAA. But I was wrong.

The basic idea, I get – and I support. McGary failed the test, and that has consequences. But the punishment is ludicrous – and the NCAA, more so.

Keep in mind, the NCAA doesn’t test for alcohol, even though it’s illegal for everyone under 21 – a group which includes roughly three quarters of college athletes. In fact, in Ann Arbor, the penalty for underage drinking is $350, and the penalty for possessing marijuana is 25 bucks. The NBA no longer tests for marijuana, because so many players would fail it.

I used to coach high school hockey, and I was pretty strict. When one of our players got caught smoking pot, we suspended him for a quarter of the season. But we allowed him to practice, so we wouldn’t lose him. We wanted him to learn responsibility, not leave. As one of my mentors told me, “When in doubt, err on the side of the kid.”

It worked. He learned his lesson, played an important role, and has since graduated from college. We’re still in touch, and I’m proud of him.

What did the NCAA teach McGary? If you turn down the NBA, return for your sophomore year, take school seriously, suffer a season-ending injury but cheer on your teammates anyway – and then you make one dumb mistake, you’re done. Nothing else matters.

Prohibition showed us that when our rules are ridiculous, the people who enforce them start looking ridiculous, too. And it’s a pretty good sign your punishment is absurd when the recipient would be a fool to accept it.

I wonder if any of the NCAA’s employees have ever smoked pot? Does the NCAA test them to find out? If an NCAA employee failed the test, would he be suspended for a year without pay? And if so, would he accept that punishment, or leave the NCAA to work for – oh, I don’t know – the NBA?

McGary has undoubtedly learned some lessons – but not the ones the NCAA is supposed to teach him, about accountability, second chances, and redemption. Instead, the NCAA has shown him that some authority figures can’t tell the difference between a civil infraction and a felony, and it’s given him an unforgettable lesson in rank hypocrisy.

And once you’ve learned that, I cannot blame you for going to the NBA. There’s nothing more to learn here, that you need to learn.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

In 1896, the first modern Olympics in Athens staged a marathon. The next year the Boston Athletic Association followed suit. Just 18 men ran that day, and the winner finished in about three hours – something office workers can beat today.

Most people thought they were crazy – if they thought of them at all. Many people probably still do.

Marathoners don’t care.

“We are different, in essence, from other men,” said Czechoslovakian star Emil Zatopek – and he would know.  After winning the 1952 Helsinki Olympic gold medals in the 5K and 10K, he decided at the last minute to enter the marathon – and won that, too. “If you want to win something, run 100 meters.  If you want to experience something, run a marathon.”

Greg Meyer knows exactly what Zatopek was talking about. Like Zatopek, Meyer wasn’t made to run the marathon – but he couldn’t resist it.

Meyer grew up in Grand Rapids, and enrolled at the University of Michigan in 1973. Before his sophomore year, Michigan hired a new cross-country coach named Ron Warhurst, another unlikely figure in this drama. Warhurst had returned from Vietnam with two Purple Hearts, and a hard-won lesson: “The world doesn’t stop because you’re scared.”

Warhurst had been a good runner, but was a great coach. He had an uncanny ability to get inside his runners’ heads, and get more out of them.

The duo’s first season together ended at the Big Ten meet in Iowa City, where Meyer had a disappointing finish in the steeplechase. “Right in front of my parents,” Meyer recalls, “Ronnie said, ‘You sucked. You blew it. And I want you to think about that all summer long.’ My dad said, ‘Yep!’ And I did.”

But Warhurst had a soft side, too. The next season Warhurst picked Meyer to go running together every morning, when they talked less about running than about life. “Some of the best talks I’ve ever had,” Meyer says. “He’d give me a book like Siddhartha, and say, ‘Read this.’ And I would. He became one of the most important people in my life.”

After graduating in 1977 with Big Ten titles in the 10K and steeplechase, Meyer stayed two more years in Ann Arbor – working as Bo Schembechler’s janitor – and winning races. In 1979, he was about to accept a high school teaching job, when Bill Rodgers invited him to come to Boston to train with him. Rodgers was on his way to winning four Boston Marathons, four New York marathons, and four others, establishing himself as the Marathon Man.

Meyer debated it, until Warhurst said, “You need to go. There’s nothing left for you to prove here – you’re already kicking everyone’s ass – and you can’t stop now. I think you’re just scratching the surface of what you’ve got.”

“I give him a lot of credit for that,” Meyer says. “I owe a lot to Ronnie. And to Billy.”

Meyer started cleaning up at just about every distance. He ran a sub-four minute mile, and set American records in the 8 kilometers, 10K, 15K, 25K and the 10 mile. He had the respect of his peers, if not the public, which focused on marathons, not 10Ks.

Even after he moved to Boston, Meyer had no interest in running marathons. He just wanted to get better at what he did best – until one day, at the Eliot Lounge, a runners’ hangout, the bartender told him, “Keep running, and some day you’ll be as good as Vinny Fleming.”

Who’s Vinny Fleming? Good question. If you weren’t a hardcore running fan – and I mean hard core – you’d probably not know that Fleming’s claim to fame was an 8^th place finish in the Boston Marathon.

Meyer said nothing, but thought, “Screw you,” or words to that effect. “Looks like I’ve got to run a marathon! If the best do this, I better see if I can do this, too.

“That was it. At that moment, I decided to become a marathoner.”

Problem was, legends like Rodgers weigh 128 pounds. The Kenyans dominating the event the past two decades run 10 pounds lighter than that.  At his leanest, Meyer weighed 155. If he was serious about winning the Boston Marathon, he had some work to do – so he went to work.

After he won the Detroit Marathon in the fall of 1980, Meyer thought he was ready to take Boston that spring. After about 15 miles, Meyer still had the lead. He thought, I’ve got this.

Not so fast.

“And that’s when Boston showed me what it was made of. The thing about Boston, you never know when it’s gonna get you. You just don’t know. You hit the wall when your glycogen is all used up, and you start burning fat – right around the two-hour mark, which is right when you hit Heartbreak Hill,” the fourth and biggest of a series of inclines that run roughly from mile 16 to 20.

“If you’re off at Boston – and I mean, just a little off – it’ll eat you up. I got my ass kicked [finishing tenth]. That’s when I realized I really had no idea what kind of shape you have to be in to win that race.”

Two seasons later, Meyer won all but two events he entered, cleaning up at almost every distance he ran, including the Chicago Marathon in the fall of 1982. But it was Boston he wanted. He lived a mile from the half-way point, and ran part of the course every day for six months leading up to the 1983 race.

By race day, he had no doubts. At the pre-race press conference, he said, “I see myself in front at 20 miles.” One of his competitors, Benji Durden, didn’t like hearing that, and decided to challenge Meyer by taking the lead early on.

Meyer followed up.  At the halfway mark, Durden tried to break away again, and Meyer reeled him in once more.

Right before Heartbreak Hill, around mile 20, Meyer pulled up alongside Durden again.

“Is he done?” Meyer recalled wondering. “I wasn’t sure. I was going to ask him a question to find out. Didn’t matter what. I just wanted to see how he was breathing, where his head was. I can’t even recall what I asked him. But I can recall his answer, after a couple breaths: ‘Looks like rain.’ I sensed something, maybe just a crack. But you just know.

“There’s a little voice inside you that says, ‘Hit ‘im now!’ So I ran ahead, to see if he could follow. And when you do that, you get a little adrenaline shot, you get positive thoughts, and he deflates.”

Durden couldn’t keep up, and started learning the lesson Meyer learned in 1981: Boston can pull you down whenever it likes.

“At the top of Heartbreak, I was all alone, just like I’d envisioned it.”

He was running a little over five-minute miles, but when he heard the guy in the press truck rolling in front of him say, “You’ve got this,” Meyer coasted the rest of the way at a 5:20 clip. Only when he finished did he realize he had missed the record by eight seconds.

Meyer ran a few more marathons, but he never won another. He simply was not built for that distance, but he was talented enough – and determined enough – to will himself to win.

Meyer stood as the last American champion for more than three decades, until this week, when another unlikely winner, Meb Keflezighi – who is a couple weeks shy of his 39th birthday, which is ancient by marathon standards – ran 2:08:37. That’s just 23 seconds faster than Meyer’s time 31 years earlier.

True, Keflezighi was born in Ethiopia, moved to the U.S. when he was 12, and became a U.S. citizen in 1998. But the Boston fans didn’t seem to care, cheering for him heartily, and chanting “U-S-A!  U-S-A!” After all, if Meb isn’t an American, most of us aren’t, either.

At the finish line, Meyer was there to announce the historic moment, then give his successor a big hug – one unlikely champion paying homage to another.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

Nik Stauskas grew up in Mississauga, Ontario – a Toronto suburb better known for its neighborhood hockey games than for a Lithuanian kid spending thousands of hours shooting on his parents’ backyard hoop.

This year, Stauskas was named Big Ten player of the year. It worked.

Glenn Robinson III took a completely different route to the NBA: His father is Glenn Robinson Jr., also known as “The Big Dog,” and was the first pick in the NBA draft twenty years ago. If Stauskas had to work to get attention, Robinson had to work to avoid it.

They became strong candidates to leave college early for the NBA draft, which is their right. This week, both decided to make that jump, and file for the draft this spring. Stauskas is projected to be a high first-round pick, and Robinson not too far behind.

Good for them. They’re both nice guys, hard workers, and serious students. If a violinist at Michigan was recruited by the London Symphony Orchestra, no one would begrudge her for jumping. I might have done it myself.

But I do object to the pundits and fans claiming if the NBA dangles millions of dollars in front of a college player, “he has no choice. He has to go.”

This bit of conventional wisdom is based on one gigantic assumption: that the pursuit of money eclipses all other considerations, combined.

The idea that a great player might decide to stay in school to improve their game, to enjoy the college experience, or to pursue his education are  considered silly, even immature responses, when they’re considered at all.

And if he does decide to stay in school – as a surprising number do, despite the pressure to leave – these same people will call him a fool. Why? Money.

The funny thing is, we have actual data – tons of it – that tell us what makes us happy. And study after study shows it’s not money. It’s family. It’s friends. It’s work we care about. And that’s about it.

But ignoring our own values invariably creates unhappiness. Ditto, greed.

The happiest people I know have lived the most meaningful lives, including dedicated schoolteachers, talented musicians and friends working for nonprofits that actually help others.

My dad, like just about everybody else who works at a university, turned down more money from the private sector to keep teaching, researching and treating his pediatric patients. My mom spent ten years teaching grade school, and decades later, she still hears from her students.

The late Chris Peterson, a psychology professor at Michigan who won the Golden Apple Award for teaching in 2010, studied happiness. He discovered the biggest factor in job satisfaction is not hours or prestige or pay, but one good friend. That’s it.

Perhaps that’s why every former Michigan athlete I know who played in the NBA, the NFL and the NHL says they liked playing for Michigan best.  That list includes Stanley Cup champions, Super Bowl winners, and millionaires.

Mike Kenn played for Michigan in the late ’70s, then played 17 years for the Atlanta Falcons, 251 straight starts. He told me, “I watch the Falcons play on Sundays, and I hope they win. But on Saturdays, I live and die with the Wolverines.”

Jim Mandich was the captain of Bo Schembechler’s first Michigan team in 1969, and an All-Pro tight end on the undefeated 1972 Miami Dolphins. He stayed in Miami, and did a lot of radio and TV for the team. When the Detroit News’s Angelique Chengalis asked him a few years ago, when he was facing terminal cancer, if he still had time to follow Michigan football, he said, “Are you kidding me?” Mandich said. “Of course I care about that stuff, to the point of irrationality. It will always be Michigan first, cancer second.” He didn’t even mention the Dolphins.

Yeah, this is what the NCAA wants us to believe, which always makes me nervous. My contempt for that organization is growing – and I didn’t think that was possible. But that doesn’t mean everything they say is always wrong.

So, for Nik and Glenn, do whatever is right for you, and good luck. You’ve worked hard and beaten incredible odds to create those options.

But don’t think for a second that just because someone offers you money to do something, you have no choice but to do it.

If you do, you’re not buying your freedom. You’re selling it.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!

John U. Bacon

This week marks the 40th anniversary of one of baseball’s signature moments: Hank Aaron hitting his record 715th home run, to surpass Babe Ruth’s 39-year old record. But to appreciate how special that was, you have to understand who Hank Aaron is – and what he faced.

You’ve heard of Babe Ruth, who might be the best-known American athlete of the last century. Ruth loved the fans, and the fans loved him right back.

That’s why, when another New York Yankee, Roger Maris – a nice, humble guy – started closing in on Ruth’s record of 60 home runs in a single season in 1961, he became so stressed by Ruth’s fans rooting against him that his hair started falling out.

When Hank Aaron approached Ruth’s career home run record, he had it worse, for two very simple reasons: 714 home runs was the baseball record, a number even casual fans knew. And second, unlike Maris, Aaron is black. Of course, that shouldn’t matter in the least – but it mattered a lot in 1974.

Aaron grew up in Mobile, Alabama, one of eight children. They say his wrists grew strong from picking cotton, and his unorthodox practice of swinging “cross-handed” – that is, holding the bat with his left hand on top, instead of his right – was a habit he didn’t break until a minor league coach showed him the correct way to hold the bat.

Aaron made it to the Milwaukee Braves in 1954, one of the first African-Americans to play Major League baseball. According to Daniel Okrent, a best-selling author who also invented fantasy baseball, the ’50s was baseball’s most talented decade, because in that era every kid grew up playing baseball – not soccer – and, thanks to Jackie Robinson, everybody was finally allowed to play.

Surrounded by legends like Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays, Aaron was often overlooked – and that was just fine with him.

He was a complete player, hitting for average and power, and winning three gold gloves for fielding. Yes, he hit his home runs, but not in eye-catching batches. When 50 homers a year was still the gold standard, the closest he came was 47. But he hit more than 30 home runs in a season 15 times – a record that still stands, even though nobody seems to know about it.

After the Braves moved to Atlanta, and Aaron finished the 1973 season just one home run away from tying Ruth’s all-time mark, there was no more hiding.

Aaron was no stranger to racism, of course, but what he faced during that long off-season was stunning – and downright scary. The death threats were so frequent, Aaron feared he might not make it to opening day in 1974. He wasn’t being paranoid: Lewis Grizzard, then the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s sports editor, quietly had an obituary written for Aaron just in case some lunatic followed through on his threat.

After enduring the off-season, Aaron was clearly ready for baseball to resume. The very first pitch Aaron received that season he sent over the fence, tying Ruth’s record. A few days later, on April 8, 1974, he smashed one over the wall in Atlanta to break Ruth’s record, once and for all. Aaron rounded the bases with his trademark poker-face, relieved it was finally over.

As a nine-year-old kid, I was blissfully unaware of everything Aaron had to overcome to achieve that mark. The next day in school, I jockeyed with my old friend Matt Colon for the right to announce the news at show-and-tell – and won, something I obviously remember to this day.

Aaron finished his career with the Milwaukee Brewers, the new American League team, toiling far from the spotlight, just the way he liked it.

When Barry Bonds approached Aaron’s all-time record of 755 home runs, many fans were again troubled, but this time for a different reason: just about everyone suspects Bonds of using steroids. That would help explain why Bonds’ home run production jumped from 16 a year to over 70; and why his hat size increased – in his thirties – from 7 1/4 to 7 3/8; and also why his personal trainer served time in prison instead of taking the stand to testify against his boss. Nonetheless, the toothless people who run baseball did nothing to stop Bonds, who broke Aaron’s record in 2007.

Aaron once again proved his class, congratulating Bonds on the Jumbotron. He also demonstrated his quiet dignity, doing so from afar rather than in person.

Despite setting one of the biggest records in sports, Aaron is not one of the biggest names in sports – probably not in the top ten.

He’s just one of the most impressive.

About the writer: Ann Arbor resident John U. Bacon is the author of the national bestsellers “Fourth and Long: The Future of College Football,” “Bo’s Lasting Lessons” and “Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football.” You can follow him on Twitter (@Johnubacon), and at johnubacon.com.

The Chronicle relies in part on regular voluntary subscriptions to support our publication of columnists like John U. Bacon. Click this link for details: Subscribe to The Chronicle. And if you’re already supporting us, please encourage your friends, neighbors and colleagues to help support The Chronicle, too!