For the past several years at the college, I’ve had more than a few athletes in my classes. This isn’t unusual when one teaches general education courses, required by the college for every discipline. One of those courses on my schedule every semester is an argumentative course of critical thinking and writing. And one of the hottest topics for quite some time that inevitably comes up during our weekly discussions is, “Should college athlete’s get paid?”

The conversation is partly predictable. This semester a starter for the women’s basketball team is in class, several lacrosse players, a few swimmers, and a rower. Last semester three or four football players. Their contribution to this particular subject is generally predictable; they’re in favor of paying athletes. Go figure. The basketball player, in respect to the rower, said it depended, and that she would not want to get paid if it came at the cost of cutting smaller squads, like the scull team.

The focus we land upon, however, since any argument is irrelevant if you don’t find a particular point to address to avoid butting heads all day, is what is known as a NIL contract. This is when college athletes are paid for the use of their name, image, or likeness in promotions, on jerseys, in gaming. Most agree this seems fair, though most agree it probably doesn’t add up to much unless you’re up for the Heisman Trophy and play for Alabama or Notre Dame. Still, it’s something (above the full ride and other benefits—I’m not arguing this here). In a gross oversimplification, the NIL contract is through a third party such as Nike or Cheerios, not the college, and cannot be tied to performance or choice of schools.

Okay, it’s something. For some not enough, for others more than they imagined. Not everyone is going to be Bronny James of USC Trojans basketball, who makes $5.9 million from his NIL deals with companies like Nike, Beats by Dre, and PSD Underwear. The average NIL deal is roughly between $1000 and $10,000, which is no small chunk of change, but the numbers can be distorted when coaches are pulling down seven figures and some colleges’ television deals seem like enough wealth to share the good fortune with the players who generate the revenue to begin with. But there are more than half a million athletes in the NCAA in this country, and only about 2% of them will ever play professional sports. So on the one hand any NIL contract provided by a company is not going to last long; that is, it is unlikely in 98 percent of college athletes to transfer to a professional deal, but on the other hand for that 98 percent, it is as close as they will come to compensation beyond their tuition, room and board.

But this isn’t about them. I really don’t care either way.

This is about me.

I left class last week with these numbers swirling in my head, walking with basketball player who said she really enjoys my class. “No kidding, Professor Bob, I tell everyone about the class; I look forward to this every single week.” That feels good. We never ever hear it. Like ever. 😊

Player went her way, and I headed toward the parking garage considering something that had never crossed my mind: I want a NIL contract. Why not?

I once wrote a piece comparing my salary over a thirty-year career, total, to Alex Rodriguez’s, who at the time was the highest paid player in baseball. It turns out in my entire career, including cost of living increases, bonuses, overloads, and raises, I will earn, total, what A-Rod made in seven games, eight innings. Something is out of whack. I understand that no one is running to the bookstore to buy jerseys with my name on the back, and that whether I show up on the collegiate classroom playing field or not, students will still come, still take the course, and still graduate. Still, surely the transitory impact of watching a sporting event cannot be measured against the lifelong impact of a college degree. But in comparison to A-Rod you might say I made nil.

I know the college won’t pay me more, but someone can supplement my income, like LL Bean, Vans, 3M paper products. For a small sum I’ll wear a polo shirt with Nike on it and throw a swoosh at the bottom of my course outline. It can’t affect my teaching; and hell, the news stories alone at the beginning will make it worth it for the company. There can be billboards with my name and image, stating, “Prof B uses 3M sticky notes,” or one of me walking into the classroom with my vintage tan Vans, stating, “Walking from his office to classes and back is easier in Vans.” Come on, there’s a gold mine to be made.

It is laughable, of course; a parody of such ridiculous proportions that all I’ve done is made people more aware of the financial situation in collegiate sports.

But think about this: forty-five years after I started college, I can only remember the names of one or two athletes, and at the time, St. Bonaventure’s basketball team was decent under the coaching of renowned Jim O’Brien, going 20-10 and 18-13 back-to-back seasons. I knew a few of the starters and still can’t remember their names.

But I don’t know a single person my age who can’t tell you the names of every professor they had in college. Every one of them; the impact they had, the life-steering energy some of them provided. Every semester, professors have anywhere from sixty or seventy students to one hundred and fifty, depending upon the school. Every season students watch forty or forty-five football players, a dozen or more basketball players.

Yet every semester each student has just four or five professors, two or three times a week, for fifteen weeks. It wouldn‘t kill a company to toss some action our way and gain a reputation for supporting education in America at the same time.

And why can’t the bookstore rack some jerseys with “Kunzinger” on the back. Hell, I’d buy one.