The System: The Glory and Scandal of Big-Time College Football (61 page)

“I must have got a hundred phone calls last night,” he said above the breakfast clatter.

The subject of the alleged offer of money, tickets and use of a luxury suite if his son would commit to a certain school was raised once again. The tape recorder was on the table.

“Man, we ain’t ever talked to [the school] about nothing like that,” he repeated once more. “They never did go at us like that. I had other schools tell you that stuff, other schools just came up and said, ‘What will it take?’ What kind of number would it take for Ricky to change his mind when he had committed to Texas?

“I’m not the one. Somebody else would always talk. I did not want to meet the people. [People] come back and tell me what they said. Some of the other coaches, AAU [basketball] coaches that I knew, they would talk to the guys, ’cause Ricky played basketball for them, and the college coaches would get to them guys, and they’d come back and tell me, you know, them guys, they want Ricky.

“They’d catch me sitting at a game [and say], ‘I got to holler at you, Jones. That boy of yours, man, a lot of these coaches, man, they want that boy, and they are willing to do whatever.’ ”

What is the definition of “whatever”? Was the number accurate? Three hundred thousand dollars?

It was at that point Chester Jones opened a window into just how valuable some very special high school football players are to multimillion-dollar football programs dependent on their talent.

“Oh, it was higher than that,” he said of the $300,000 figure. “It was a lot higher than that. Some of the guys, I know, one said”—he names a school in the ACC, another in the SEC—“they’ll double whatever someone else offers. Six hundred. Seven hundred. You know, Ricky wasn’t going to go to [that SEC school], so why would I get into that? I used to laugh, and they said, ‘You’re playing around and we’re serious.’ ”

Jones was reminded of the obvious: $600,000 or $700,000 is a boatload of money.

“Man, those people don’t care,” he replied. “You know, where if someone offers you seven, one guy said we’ll offer double whatever they offer you to change [your] mind. That kind of stuff.”

It was put to Jones that what it boiled down to was this: Did he want to sell his son to the highest bidder?

“No, I don’t want that,” he said. “The thing about it, you’ve still got to look yourself in the mirror and see yourself. And say why? I mean, we’re doing okay. We’re not rich. But we’re doing okay. And, ah, you know, my dad always told me an honest dollar is better than a fast dollar.

“What a lot of people don’t understand is it’s not up to me. I know Ricky. When he goes somewhere to play football, that’s why he’s going to do it. You know what I told him? ‘You already got $200,000—they gave that to you. In a scholarship.’ ”

A month later, on the day before Christmas, Chester Jones—a man of faith and family before all else—would offer one final reason as to why he said no.

“God will punish me, punish me through Ricky. He will not bless Ricky for our faults,” he said. “I know what the consequences were going to be.”

With the football season now over, Chester could see the pressure building on his son, taking a toll. Ricky had been playing it cool and cagey up to that point—wearing gloves that were maroon, an A&M color, for his final two high school games and a purple shirt and tie (a nod to LSU) when he accepted his invitation to the Army All-American Bowl in San Antonio. Quietly, Chester did some fishing, but Ricky wasn’t biting.

“I ask him sometimes, ‘Ricky, what do you think? LSU or A&M?’ ” Chester said in November 2012. “He told me, ‘Dad, [if] I tell you, the whole world is going to know.’ ”

Though Ricky had yet to make official visits to A&M and LSU, his unofficial visits had underscored how much each school coveted him. Students at the LSU–’Bama game in Baton Rouge suddenly chanted “R-S-J! R-S-J!” when Ricky walked by on the field before the game, playfully hauling him into the stands for some serious Death Valley love. The reception was even wilder at A&M. In the locker room following the dismantling of Missouri, half a dozen A&M players came up to Seals-Jones and said they wanted to show him around College Station (not surprisingly, Buffy put the kibosh on that, telling them, “Oh no, not this time”). Then quarterback Johnny Manziel and Seals-Jones huddled alone for a
few minutes. Johnny let Ricky know just how much he looked forward to throwing to him the following season. “I saw your highlights; I know what you can do,” said Manziel. “You’re a big target, and when I’m moving, I see you out there, I’m throwing the ball to you.” They promised to stay in touch.

In early December, Seals-Jones told his dad he wanted to change his cell phone number; the calls and texts never seemed to stop. Florida, Nebraska, Missouri and LSU were pushing right to the end. Two LSU assistants made two in-home visits, and A&M’s recruiting coordinator, Clarence McKinney, visited as well, strengthening the bond he’d built with the family, particularly Buffy. By the first Thursday of the last month of 2012, Ricky had had it. He called his father on the phone and told him he was ready to commit. On Sunday night he finally told him where.

“My mind’s made, Dad,” he said of his decision. “That’s what I want to do.”

On Friday of that same week Manziel sat surrounded by cameras and microphones in the O’Neill Room on the fourth floor of the Marriott Marquis in New York City. The redshirt freshman was on the verge of winning the Heisman Trophy thanks, in large part, to his Houdini-like performance in the Aggies’ upset of then–No. 1 Alabama in Tuscaloosa. The following night at the Downtown Athletic Club he would accept the award. On Monday morning, at exactly 9:45, Seals-Jones would call Kevin Sumlin at A&M. The phone rang four times before Sumlin picked up.

“Coach, it’s Ricky. I’m calling to let you know I’m going to be an Aggie next year.”

“That’s good,” answered Sumlin. “Like I told you, you’re going to be something special. Next year maybe you and me will be going to New York.”

At 10:00 a.m. in the Tiger Room at Sealy High, Seals-Jones sat down before the cameras and reporters and pulled an A&M cap out of his jacket and onto his head, verbally committing to the Aggies. On February 6, 2013, he made it official, signing a National Letter of Intent.

For better or worse the Ricky Seals-Jones sweepstakes was finally over.

C
oaching changes most often occur in December, right after the regular season ends and just as the recruiting season hits its white-hot period leading up to National Signing Day in early February. New coaches must hire a staff and instantly go on the road in an effort to shore up commitments from high school seniors. The schedule leaves no time for things like finding a place to live, obtaining a new driver’s license or registering vehicles. Those details inevitably fall to a coach’s wife.

Mike and Sharon Leach arrived with their two teenage children in Pullman in December 2011. They spent their first two months living out of a Holiday Inn. After Sharon got the kids enrolled in new schools, she went house hunting. Mike immediately left town with his new staff in search of new recruits. His most important target was Tyler Bruggman, a six-foot-two pro-style quarterback at Brophy College Prep high school in Phoenix. The top recruiting services all listed Bruggman as a four-star quarterback, as opposed to a five-star. But Leach didn’t pay much attention to the ratings services, especially when it came to quarterbacks. That position, more than any other, influenced the success or failure of a team. So Leach spent more time evaluating high school quarterbacks than anything else, studying them on paper and on film. There was no one he wanted more than Bruggman.

But other schools wanted him too. He had offers from plenty of programs that traditionally throw the ball a lot—Houston, BYU, Purdue and Washington among them. A dozen schools in all had offered. Before Leach arrived at WSU, Bruggman had narrowed his choices down to Arizona State, Michigan State and Arkansas. Then his high school coach got a call from Leach in late December. That was enough to change Bruggman’s entire approach.

“I had watched Coach Leach at Tech,” Bruggman said. “I knew he was a great coach, especially for quarterbacks. The opportunity to play for him would be an honor.”

Suddenly Washington State was in the running for Bruggman’s services.

On February 9, 2012, Leach had a couple of hours before a team workout, so Sharon drove him to a restaurant for dinner. It was a rare moment alone. But during the drive, Leach spent most of his time talking by phone with teenage boys. Every college football wife comes to realize that her husband will spend far more time talking to teenage boys than to her. It’s called recruiting, and it never stops.

Leach’s cell phone buzzed the minute he sat in the passenger’s seat. It was an offensive lineman, a kid who had yet to commit to WSU.

“I think you ought to come here for the same reason I came here,” Leach told him. “We are going to lead the nation in passing, in offense. The most cherished skill a lineman does is pass protect.”

The kid asked about facilities.

“We are building a brand-new football complex,” Leach said. “Our weight room will be thirteen thousand square feet. What’s really exciting here is they have a tradition of going to the Rose Bowl. We have a chance to get this thing back on track. As a head coach I’ve been to ten straight bowl games, and I plan on going to one this year, too. We need guys like you to help us usher that in. You are the type of guy we need to build a future with around here.”

By the time Leach finished his fourth call, Sharon had pulled up to an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant. They found a quiet table in the back. The discussion quickly turned to the kids, the new house, the new car, insurance and the movers. He ate while she updated him. She ate while he asked follow-up questions. Then they paid the bill. On the way out, the owner stopped Mike. “Good luck, Coach,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“If there is ever anything I can do for you, let me know,” the owner said.

“I appreciate that. Do you guys cater?”

While they chatted, three cute college-age girls entered the restaurant. They immediately recognized Leach and approached. “Can we get a photo with you?” one of them asked.

As Leach posed, his wife stood off in the distance, unnoticed. “His time is not his own,” she said. “I have to share him with everybody.”

Moments later they were back in the car, and he was back on his cell phone, returning a missed call that had come in during dinner.

“Yeah, this is Mike Leach.”

The kid on the other end started talking fast.

“Well, I’m not sure who I’m calling,” Leach interrupted. “Somebody called me from this number. Who’s this?”

It was a high school senior from Los Angeles. He hoped to walk on the team at WSU. He had watched the
60 Minutes
segment on Leach at Texas Tech. “I’d like to play for you,” the kid said.

“You say you are from Compton?” Leach said.

“Yes,” the kid said.

“I’m going to have you talk to Dave Emerick,” Leach said. “I can’t say for sure we’ll have a spot for you. I can’t say we won’t either. We might.”