Guest writer

In a stadium stew

Uh, are those seats gold-plated?

OK, I'll admit it right up front. I don't know squat about football squads. I can't tell you the difference between a tight end and a tightwad. The end zone and the Twilight Zone. A field goal and a field holler. Or a quarterback from Nickelback. (Except I do have two Nickelback CDs. All the Right Reasons is awesome.)

Dad raised his five sons and three daughters to focus on more important things in life than a confederacy of plastic-helmeted Neanderthals frenetically rambling about in incomprehensible patterns on patches of plastic grass. Kicking, throwing, or placing themselves in oppositional alignment with an oddly shaped "ball." Chasing their unattainable dreams of making this inane activity their life's goal.

No, Dad encouraged his five sons and three daughters to pursue far loftier athletic endeavors--ping-pong and poker. My youngest brother, 29, just retired in Las Vegas with more money than Peyton Manning and Brett Faver ... Fahrve ... whatevre. But more important than all his money, my brother retired without so much as one fractured bone or a hint of TBI. However, he does have one hell of a case of bilateral carpal tunnel syndrome. Masterfully bluffing suckers while holding countless hands of Texas Hold 'em.

I won't pretend to write from a position of authority on football. But being a lifelong tightwad, I do have much to say about this $160 million Reynolds Razorback Stadium expansion successfully pitched by Jeff Long (with a name like that he should be the athletic director for UT) and rubber-stamped by his minions, the Board of Distrustees. Promoted and pushed by his khaki-clad corporate one-percenters. I know a boondoggle when I see one. And apparently so does former U.S. Sen. David Pryor.

If you haven't been following this little collegiate claptrap, here's the scoop. In January Long horned (pun intended) in on the Board of Distrustees and, like some quintessential late-night TV infomercial pitchman, did a little canine-and equine show about the desperately needed expansion. He pleaded with his minions how he needed $160 million to add a mere 3,200 seats to the north end of the stadium; $40 million would be shaken from the khaki pants pockets of his one-percenter pals. And unless you fell off the turnip truck yesterday, take a guess who ultimately will wind up paying for the other $120 million when less than sold-out ticket sales fail to cover the bond debt?

The rubber-stamp bobbleheads were all set to rubber-stamp the deal when Senator Pryor says "Hmmmmmmmm?" Long's boondoggle didn't pass his sniff test. He rejected the athletic director's canine-and-equine show, and sent it back with a list of his concerns.

Long shortly (again, pun intended!) reciprocated, claiming to have addressed all 33 of the Honorable Senator's issues and urged the minions to quickly sanction this thing so everybody could move on before somebody notices. However, a few of his glossed-over responses raised additional scrutiny: Long cited how simply adding 3,200 seats at a cost of nearly $50,000 each would shower economic and cultural growth upon the state.

Say what? Here is an ACT question for you: Football is to cultural growth as a root canal is to: (A) a party, (B) a waterway in Venice, (C) a turnip, or (D) none of the above.

Long sat down as soon as he saw that look in Senator Pryor's eyes. It was the same icy stare his wife gave him when he asked her for $138,000 for a new pickup last year. He explained to her that it had two seats--only $69,000 each. Realizing that he was on weak ground, he capitulated when she threatened to get on the phone with Senator Pryor.

Senator Pryor said that he thought that just maybe we should have a few higher priorities for higher education than ensuring that the khaki-clad corporate clubbers could watch the game in their luxury skyboxes and not--eeeeewwww!--accidentally come in contact with the great unwashed masses.

Then Long played the "safety and security" card. Always a good fallback when the main canine in the show has been riddled with bullets of rational thought. After all, if one of the khaki-clads were to, say, accidentally catch an enthusiastic woo pig sooie elbow up the side of the head by some overly exuberant--eeeeewwww!--student, he could possibly sustain a nasty injury. Or worse yet, spill his single malt that somehow (wink, wink) mysteriously appeared in the beer-and-wine-only stadium.

Last week, I was talking on the phone with an old friend of mine who is about to retire from a 35-year career as a Department of Defense procurement officer. Over the years he had established a stellar reputation as the chief officer in charge of commode-seat acquisitions.

I explained the long and short of Long's boondoggle. I told him that we were about to foot the bill for some 3,200 football stadium seats at a cost of 50,000 bucks a copy.

He pondered it for just a moment and then punched a passel of keys on his desktop calculator. He tore off the paper tape, examined the result and proclaimed, "Bill ... I'm not seeing a problem here. That sounds just about right."

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Bill Rausch is a freelance humor writer from Little Rock. Email him at williamrausch25@yahoo.com.

Editorial on 07/23/2016

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