The Fund Raiser

A Backhand Compliment

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By Mark J. Drozdowski

I've always considered myself something of an athlete, though I've not been highly decorated as such, nor do I have the ripped physique of an Olympic swimmer. Even now, well past my physical prime (if professional sports provide any barometer), I can dive headlong into most sporting activities without resembling a drunken ostrich on ice.

I must admit I've grown accustomed to the more leisurely sports such as golf, sailing, and watching football on TV. I've taken my share of elbows to the chin and knees to the groin, so I tend to avoid contests featuring mortal combat.

Nonetheless, I somehow decided it was a good idea to accept a board member's invitation to play racquetball. I hadn't played in several years but thought it might be fun to revive my interest. The night before the match, I dug out my old equipment and, realizing I had no racquetballs, made a pilgrimage to our local sporting-goods store, Wal-Mart, to buy half a dozen (Penn, of course).

I met up with my board member, let's call him "Skip," just after work the following day. It turns out he's been playing on the college's courts for many months. It also turns out he used to be a ranked player, meaning that at 60 he's better than I was at 25. This should be loads of fun, I thought. A little humiliation keeps one grounded.

"Glad you could make it," Skip said, eyeing my outfit, which consisted of matching New England Patriots shorts and T-shirt, oversize Kareem goggles, a Wilson headband that I wore upside down so it displayed an "M," a teal-and-black glove, and a racquet that was modern when Duran Duran ruled the airwaves. (Clearly I didn't take notes as we played so these quotes are from memory.)

"I haven't played in years," I replied.

"I promise not to give you a rough time," Skip said. "You guys are already being skewered by the press."

"You guys?"

"Yeah, you fund raisers," he said. "Didn't you see the recent articles in The New York Times and the L.A. Times?"

"I, uh ..."

"Last weekend the New York Times ran a bit about the folly of university fund raising," Skip explained. "It came across as rather sarcastic."

"Yeah, I think I remember that piece," I said, straightening the strings on my racquet. "Remind me what else it said."

"Let's warm up first," Skip countered.

After his three-minute stretching routine, Skip gently lobbed the ball into the wall so that it bounced once before approaching me waist-high. In turn, I swung hard enough to cause a violent "whoosh," met the ball with the top of my racket and sent it skyward, careering off the ceiling and returning harmlessly back down to its point of origin.

"I think I should clean my goggles," I said, trying not to make eye contact. "What about those articles?"

"The one in the New York Times offered a primer on fund-raising rules," Skip said. "It was like a 'Fund Raising 101' for uninitiated presidents. The author talked about setting outrageously high goals, courting donors, and remembering that it's not begging. I couldn't sense if the guy took this stuff seriously. In any case, it wasn't terribly flattering."

Skip took his place at the service line and hit an easy shot into the middle of the wall. I figured I'd impress him with sheer velocity, if not perfect placement. My return certainly did leave an impression -- square in the back of his head.

"Easy, Kong," Skip mumbled. "Let's start again."

"Wait," I interjected. "How about the other article?"

"Well, the one in the L.A. Times was written by Robert Reich, the former Labor secretary. He argued that people shouldn't receive full tax benefits when giving money to wealthy institutions such as Harvard and Lincoln Center. Only those donations designed to benefit the poor should be fully tax-deductible. You know, because places like Harvard and Yale really don't need more money. What do you think about that?"

"I don't think Harvard and Yale would agree," I concluded. "Seriously, it sounds like a combination of left-wing claptrap and blatant envy."

"You must be terrific fun at parties," Skip noted.

"Honestly," I continued, "Why do people assume that investing in the brightest minds is a terrible waste of money? I always hear the rationale that a $10-million gift to a third-tier school will 'go further.' In what sense? Will it boost the budget more significantly? Absolutely. But will the return on that investment pay greater social dividends? I'm not so convinced. If you want to cure a disease, shouldn't you give to those people closest to the cure? They're typically at the best places."

Evidently I hit a nerve because Skip sent a serve careering by my feet, leaving me lunging and waving wildly.

"What does that say about our campaign?" he asked. Out of sheer pity, Skip lobbed another serve that bounced 5 feet in front of me, sailed over the apex of my swing, and nestled gently into the corner.

"We have a different mission," I said, glaring at the ball as if it had betrayed me. "People who invest in us invest in opportunity. We're certainly not rich, and we don't cater to a rich clientele. Do we deserve our share of philanthropy? Sure. And so do the Ivies."

I punctuated this point by scoring my only point of the match: a lucky splat into the base of the wall that triumphantly rolled back to my feet.

"Off the schneid!" I barked, taking solace in some moral victory.

"Yeah, you're a stud," Skip joked. "But don't you sense a growing media backlash against fund raisers, megacampaigns, and wealthy donors who continue making rich places richer? I mean, you're being parodied in the New York Times. Doesn't that anger you?"

"To the contrary," I suggested, "I think it's great. More attention to philanthropy and the difficult job of raising money. Isn't it true that any publicity is a good thing?"

One more kill shot mercifully ended the contest, 15 to 1. About the odds of my playing another match, I reasoned.

"Still, I don't envy you," Skip admitted, offering up his clenched fist for me to smack with mine (handshakes are so passé). "Fund raising was never an easy task, and now it's complicated by having to defend the honor of philanthropy. You don't want to give people yet another reason not to donate. More power to you."

"I suppose that's a compliment," I said, wringing the sweat from my headband. "Not everyone is tough enough to ask for money. Those of us able to can do well and do good at the same time. It's not a bad gig, you know."

"Yeah," Skip laughed, zipping up his equipment bag. "I guess you can say it's quite a racket."