Is There Life After Football? (23 page)

How can you take a young man right out of college [and give him big money]. All the way from high school, he gets all this praise, praise, praise. Then they give him $20 million dollars, and you question that he has trouble. . . . I'm surprised there is not more trouble than there is. . . . You
give them that kind of money, and you wonder why they go out and drink and party? Why would you not?
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Roman Oben sums it up in street terms: “It's ‘ghetto economics.' Guys have been poor for so long that they have to show people how much money they make.”
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While the term “ghetto economics” is generally used derisively to characterize supposed patterns of economic behavior that trap ghetto residents in poverty, it does resonate with some players' experience. Tommy Jones, for example, traces his free spending after being drafted in 1993 to his “street” background, growing up poor, and wanting something better.

It has to do with the habit that I brought to the league. . . . In Compton, where I grew up, gang banging was at the all-time high, but my mom was working two jobs as a nurse to barely support her family. . . . When I went to [the NFL], there was no supervision. I was on my own. I was an eighth round draft pick, so I made $118,000 my first year. I got $25,000 to sign, but now you are talking about a youngster in Virginia making $7,000, $8,000 every few weeks, and I had never seen that much money before, and to me that was a lot. . . . Now I had my own cash. That was my name on the check. I know guys that were making millions more than that, but when I cashed that $8,000 check, I was walking around with five of it in my pocket. We went to the mall. I went to the Ford dealer and put $5,000 down and got me a truck. . . . I wasn't thinking about any mutual funds.
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Kids like Jones from the impoverished inner city—often black kids—are probably less prepared to deal with sudden wealth than others. For example, sociologist Elijah Anderson suggests that urban street values discount prioritized spending and future-oriented saving. Ostentatious displays command respect, whereas “reserve” or “prudence” may be taken as weakness.
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When he entered the NFL, Jones was no longer living in “the hood,” but it still had its sway. At age 22, his prior experience
didn't encourage a long-term, big picture approach to financial management, and vestiges of street values fueled his spending spree. He began literally establishing his worth by flaunting his cash.

While Anderson was writing about African American urban street culture, economically disadvantaged backgrounds of all sorts can leave players ill prepared to handle financial windfalls. In general, individuals from economically impoverished circumstances—black or white—are not inclined to save any surplus income, if indeed any surplus exists. There's some evidence that at low income levels, African Americans tend to save less than whites. In addition, due to their impoverished circumstances, the disadvantaged of all races tend to commit larger shares of their accumulated wealth to functional assets—such as houses and cars—and consumables. Again, blacks are more so inclined than whites.
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This might suggest that black players are less prepared to deal with sudden wealth than their white counterparts, but the more compelling factor seems to be economic disadvantage.

While the NFL is predominantly African American—and has been for quite some time—there's little reason to believe that black players come into the league disproportionately prone to undisciplined spending, if we take socioeconomic background into account. The former players we studied come from a wide spectrum of racial and economic backgrounds, and among them, there's only a slight correlation between their socioeconomic circumstances and a proclivity for impulsive, extravagant spending. Race doesn't seem to be a deciding factor, either. Leaguewide, there's no systematic data regarding the socioeconomic backgrounds of NFL players, so we're reluctant to generalize from our sample. While players' socioeconomic backgrounds may influence players' readiness to deal with “financial challenge,” other factors definitely come into play.

Credit the NFL player ethos for promoting a live-for-today, “spend it while you got it” mentality that drains some players' bank accounts. Listen carefully as even thoughtful players recount the circumstances
surrounding the compulsion to spend. Player after player repeats this refrain: “I've made it to the NFL. I'm going to live the life.” “I deserve to spend the money I've made.” “If I want it, I can have it.” They're axioms of the NFL ethos, embodiments of “livin' large.” Raised in a frugal household, George Koonce found it hard to resist:

I watched a lot of guys around me fall prey to the rampant spending that characterizes the professional football culture, regardless of their upbringing. I was no different. There is so much excitement; you have basically just hit the lottery. Once I made the roster, my first big purchase was a 1992 white Corvette with red interior for $38,000. . . . [Later] I bought a Mercedes and a Hummer. . . . Players really go overboard on automobiles
.
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The ethos is ubiquitous and stealthy. It tempted the fiscally conservative Koonce with cars, houses, and jewelry. When Tommy Jones flaunted his early earnings, his agent tried to intervene. He cautioned Jones to consider the future and curtail the spending. Jones would have none of it: “My mind was not focused on reality. It was focused on the whole persona of the NFL.”
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That persona, of course, was larger than life, and relentlessly trampled the more mundane aspects of Jones's reality. Jones ended up with very little to show for his five years in the NFL. Brandon Gold came from a white, middle-class background, much different from Tommy Jones's. But he, too, spent his money on cars, drugs, women, and “body maintenance.” Livin' large clouded his long-term vision.

I had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of money. . . . It takes a lot of money to sustain that [NFL] lifestyle. And when I talk about sustaining it, I don't mean [just paying for] your Benz. I mean upkeeping “the machine.” That machine was me. . . . I felt like, “I'm in the pros. I'm living the fast life, and this money will continue to roll in for the rest of my life.”
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At the start of careers, the compulsion for livin' large is hard to resist. As careers proceed, it becomes a habit that's hard to break. Former player
and current coach Darryl Gatlin reflects on how extravagant spending isn't as much a character flaw as it is a cultural way of life.

Most people think if you have $3 million in the bank, you set for the rest of your life. . . . That is really not true. . . . If you're obligated to living a certain lifestyle, human nature is going to say you have $3 million, you are supposed to live like you have $3 million. So you can spend $3 million. If you get a $15 million contract and you are making $4 million a year, it is hard not to go buy a million-dollar house or hard not to go buy a new Mercedes-Benz. I think players get caught up in a lifestyle that is hard to get out of when they get done playing. The more money you make, the higher your expenses are, and when you get done playing and you are not making that money anymore, it is easy to keep spending that money. You try to live that lifestyle after you finish playing, and I think that makes it hard.
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The key to Gatlin's analysis is the phrase “obligated to living a certain lifestyle.” “Obligation” connotes a constellation of expectations that command a player to live large, to spend ostentatiously. According to Gatlin, it becomes a
habitual
way of living that doesn't go away when the NFL paychecks stop. That obligation is a form of peer pressure that seems irresistible. The player ethos becomes a lifetime social contract—a commitment to the NFL lifestyle—of which players are only vaguely aware, but that encourages them to live large, even when it's fiscally impossible.

Gatlin suggests that the mandate to live large gradually insinuates itself into players lives, but the player ethos is often boisterous and demanding. Around the locker room, players' cars, clothes, houses, and “bling” are constantly scrutinized. If they're not up to par, they're ridiculed. During his playing days, Roman Oben eschewed a new Cadillac for a Toyota Land Cruiser with 68,000 miles on it. His teammates taunted him mercilessly.
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Back in the 1990s, former Pro Bowl linebacker Winfred Tubbs wasn't up to date with his electronic technology: “I got on a plane with a
cassette player, and [a teammate] would tell me, ‘They make CD players. You're in the NFL now.'”
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Livin' large is a competitive sport in the NFL. When winning is the only thing, players are easily trapped in a race to outspend one another. Herm Edwards calls it “keeping up with the Joneses.”
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Yet there's another colloquial use of the term “jones,” suggesting that “keeping up with the joneses” might also mean fulfilling an intense desire for things seemingly irresistible. A “jones” is a sort of addiction. Both meanings come into play as NFL players measure themselves against their peers, practicing fiscal one-upmanship. “Stunting” to show one's financial wherewithal can involve pricey entertainment, “bling,” cars, houses, entourages. Any form of conspicuous consumption can demonstrate livin' large. Leon Searcy liked to flaunt his largess: “I wanted people to know that, ‘Hey, this is Leon Searcy at the big table, spending the money, popping the champagne.' . . . That was the coolest thing, to walk into a club and say I am here. I got me a bottle. Louis the 13th, $5,000 a bottle.” Some of the off-field competitive drive comes from what some players call “helmet syndrome.” When they're on the field, players' faces are hidden from view by their helmets. They are even penalized if they take their helmets off while they're in the game. Consequently, NFL players often compete for the sorts of attention that highlight their off-field personas and provide actual “face time” with the world.
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The competitive ethos and livin' large infiltrate even the most basic principles of money management. “Man, I'm growing my $10 million into $11.2 million. That's not sexy,” facetiously notes Darren Rovell, ESPN business reporter. “It's not sexy to invest in a mutual fund. It is not very exciting,” chimes in Wharton Sports Institute's Mori Taheripour. “Owning a bar, owning a club, that's far more exciting.
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Ivan Thornton, a senior partner with the Fiduciary Management Group, notes that players often make bad investments because “the average adviser won't give pushback because he'll get fired. You'll have some players earning seven percent on their investments, but then they'll be listening to their teammate
telling them there's a guy who can get them 18 percent.”
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Everything's a competition.

There's another subtle form of competition at work as players judge and juggle their finances. Everyone engages in self-evaluation. We compare ourselves to others, especially those who we figure are similar to us, in order to gauge just where we stand.
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One way to conceptualize this process is “benchmarking.” We envision standards for comparison, then see if we measure up. The trap for many NFL players comes when they set unrealistic benchmarks. This becomes obvious in spending competitions, but it also affects the more basic ways players think about life and money. Recall, for example, how Darryl Gatlin almost reflexively said that if “you have $3 million, you are supposed to live like you have $3 million.” This axiom reflects the NFL ethos and embeds standards for comparison that few outside the league would share. Gatlin continues: “If a player is living off of $20,000 a month, in 12 months, he is going to spend $240,000, so he has to be making almost $450,000 to live that lifestyle after he finishes playing.”
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These are compelling observations to be sure, but they also reflect a highly skewed vision of the “real” financial world for most people.

The notion of spending $3 million sounds reasonable only in relation to circumstances where $3 million is commonplace. While that may be the case in the 21st-century NFL, it's a far cry from “normal” standards. Not everyone
needs
to spend $2 million dollars for the “nice house,” as Gatlin says today's NFL life requires. Nor would most people agree that it's “human nature” to spend so freely, as he implies. Gatlin's benchmarks are products of his life in the bubble. They are understandable, given what he's seen and experienced
in the NFL
. When it comes time to inhabit a more mundane financial world outside the bubble, more modest benchmarks might be in order.

We see this in Andre Blackburn's post-career success story. His benchmarks stand in vivid contrast to those Gatlin mentions:

I could have come out of [my home town] probably making $65,000 a year working for Philip Morris or Allied Chemical, probably $45,000 escalating to $65,000 within five to seven years. So I figured, I'm seeing people with that type of lifestyle, . . . they had pretty good situations, pretty stable lifestyles, families were in good communities, kids were in good schools. I knew that would be enough money that I could actually maintain a very stable happiness. So that is pretty much where I put my monetary need for off the field. I didn't buy a car every year. I didn't buy a lot of expensive jewelry. I have a lot of patience. . . . I was able to do something that most players don't get a chance to do: be in the black when you leave the game.
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The key to this scenario is how Blackburn used modest yet realistic standards—lives and careers forged by college graduates entering near the bottom of a prominent local industry—as targets for his post-NFL life. Setting his NFL ego aside, he aspired to the lifestyle of others in his community who had done well for themselves by more “conventional” means. In doing so, as he modestly neglects to mention, he's probably achieved far more economic success and security than the guys he knows who went to work for Phillip Morris.