street agents around. You familiar with street agents?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s a guy who pretends to be a scout or a trainer, or maybe he’ll even worm his way into some recruit’s inner circle, so he can claim to be a family friend. And then he’ll try to influence which school that kid picks.”
“For a price.”
“Exactly. Scouting is totally legal, but once you start acting as a middleman between a recruit and a school, then it’s crossing the line. It’s hard to prove, though, because the school will say they were only paying the guy to be a scout.”
“Pretty slimy.”
Milstead leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees. “Winning ballgames is one thing, but recruiting is a game in itself. Schools will try just about anything that gives them an edge. You know about hostesses?”
“I don’t think so,” Marlin replied.
“Most of the big schools have a group of girls—gorgeous young ladies, to be blunt—whose job is to show recruits around when they visit campus. The coaching staff is only allowed to spend so much time with any particular recruit, so these hostesses step up and have a lot of contact with these boys and make sure their needs are taken care of.”
“The hostesses are an official school group?”
“Yep. Usually connected to the admissions office rather than the athletics department, but everybody knows their main task is to take care of recruits.”
“When you say ‘take care of’...”
“Use your imagination. Of course, maybe I’m generalizing, and I’d bet most of the hostesses stick to the job description, and that’s as far as it goes. But there have been some that have offered more than a tour around campus. Which is why a lot of these hostess groups have been disbanded in the past few years. Something that seemed quaint or charming thirty, forty years ago now seems pretty exploitive, doesn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Imagine being seventeen years old, having a dozen legendary football coaches interested in you, and when you show up to campus for a visit, you’re greeted by a couple of the most beautiful young women you’ve ever seen,” Milstead said.
“Hard to resist.”
“Exactly, and sometimes a kid gets swept away by it all and makes a verbal commitment he later regrets. So he ends up changing his mind, like Sammy did. You have to wonder how many people that pissed off. That’s the point I’m making.”
“Did you advise him on all this stuff? His choices?” Marlin asked.
“In hindsight, I wish I’d butted in a little more. Some high school coaches are very protective of their players, and others prefer to stay out of the recruitment process entirely. I guess my style is somewhere in the middle. I let my boys—and their parents—know that I’m happy to give my guidance, if they want it. If not, that’s fine too.”
“I remember that Sammy committed to UMT back in the spring, but I never heard that he changed his mind.”
“That’s the other reason I’m bringing all this up. The timing just seems suspicious to me.”
“How so?” Marlin asked.
“It wasn’t just that Sammy decided he wanted to go to OTU instead of UMT, it was that he announced it on Facebook just a few hours before he died.”
On his way through Johnson City after interviewing Milstead, Marlin spotted a cluster of trucks in the far reaches of the Super S Foods parking lot, out near the highway. Looked like an impromptu party—ten or twelve vehicles in total, with eighteen to twenty men seated on tailgates, leaning against fenders, standing in small groups talking.
Marlin switched lanes and pulled his green government-issued Dodge into the lot. He didn’t recognize any of the trucks, but most of them were small and foreign-made—jacked up, with big tires and four-wheel-drive for off-roading. Some of the trucks had gun racks mounted in the rear windows. Several had light bars on their grills and whip antennas for CB radios on their roofs.
As
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s a guy who pretends to be a scout or a trainer, or maybe he’ll even worm his way into some recruit’s inner circle, so he can claim to be a family friend. And then he’ll try to influence which school that kid picks.”
“For a price.”
“Exactly. Scouting is totally legal, but once you start acting as a middleman between a recruit and a school, then it’s crossing the line. It’s hard to prove, though, because the school will say they were only paying the guy to be a scout.”
“Pretty slimy.”
Milstead leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees. “Winning ballgames is one thing, but recruiting is a game in itself. Schools will try just about anything that gives them an edge. You know about hostesses?”
“I don’t think so,” Marlin replied.
“Most of the big schools have a group of girls—gorgeous young ladies, to be blunt—whose job is to show recruits around when they visit campus. The coaching staff is only allowed to spend so much time with any particular recruit, so these hostesses step up and have a lot of contact with these boys and make sure their needs are taken care of.”
“The hostesses are an official school group?”
“Yep. Usually connected to the admissions office rather than the athletics department, but everybody knows their main task is to take care of recruits.”
“When you say ‘take care of’...”
“Use your imagination. Of course, maybe I’m generalizing, and I’d bet most of the hostesses stick to the job description, and that’s as far as it goes. But there have been some that have offered more than a tour around campus. Which is why a lot of these hostess groups have been disbanded in the past few years. Something that seemed quaint or charming thirty, forty years ago now seems pretty exploitive, doesn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Imagine being seventeen years old, having a dozen legendary football coaches interested in you, and when you show up to campus for a visit, you’re greeted by a couple of the most beautiful young women you’ve ever seen,” Milstead said.
“Hard to resist.”
“Exactly, and sometimes a kid gets swept away by it all and makes a verbal commitment he later regrets. So he ends up changing his mind, like Sammy did. You have to wonder how many people that pissed off. That’s the point I’m making.”
“Did you advise him on all this stuff? His choices?” Marlin asked.
“In hindsight, I wish I’d butted in a little more. Some high school coaches are very protective of their players, and others prefer to stay out of the recruitment process entirely. I guess my style is somewhere in the middle. I let my boys—and their parents—know that I’m happy to give my guidance, if they want it. If not, that’s fine too.”
“I remember that Sammy committed to UMT back in the spring, but I never heard that he changed his mind.”
“That’s the other reason I’m bringing all this up. The timing just seems suspicious to me.”
“How so?” Marlin asked.
“It wasn’t just that Sammy decided he wanted to go to OTU instead of UMT, it was that he announced it on Facebook just a few hours before he died.”
On his way through Johnson City after interviewing Milstead, Marlin spotted a cluster of trucks in the far reaches of the Super S Foods parking lot, out near the highway. Looked like an impromptu party—ten or twelve vehicles in total, with eighteen to twenty men seated on tailgates, leaning against fenders, standing in small groups talking.
Marlin switched lanes and pulled his green government-issued Dodge into the lot. He didn’t recognize any of the trucks, but most of them were small and foreign-made—jacked up, with big tires and four-wheel-drive for off-roading. Some of the trucks had gun racks mounted in the rear windows. Several had light bars on their grills and whip antennas for CB radios on their roofs.
As
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