Improbable Dreams
African-Americans are a dominant presence in professional sports. Do blacks suffer as a result?
The odds that any high school athlete will play a sport on the professional level are remote--about 10,000 to 1. As far as probabilities go, there's a better chance of, say, taking a coin, flipping it, and having it land on heads 13 times in a row. Yet according to a recent survey conducted by Northeastern University's Center for the Study of Sport in Society, 66 percent of all African-American males between the ages of 13 and 18 believe they can earn a living playing professional sports. That is more than double the proportion of young white males who hold such beliefs. Black parents also are four times more likely than white parents to believe that their children are destined for careers in professional athletics. Fifty years after Jackie Robinson broke baseball's color barrier and helped pave the way for black athletes' entry into professional leagues, African-Americans can take justifiable pride in their achievements in sports. As an industry, sports have also created a relatively small, elite class of black multimillionaires. But these black players and their dizzying salaries--together with the media and advertisers who feed on them--have created the impression among many lower-income blacks that there are unlimited opportunities on the nation's hard courts, diamonds, and gridirons. The result, say experts, is an obsession with sports among many young African-American males--often at the expense of the more traditional, if less glamorous, route to upward mobility: education. "There is an overemphasis on sports in the black community, and too many black students are putting all their eggs in one basket," says Harvard Medical School psychiatrist Alvin Poussaint. The myth that the road out of the urban ghetto is paved with professional sports contracts is by no means limited to blacks. But the notion holds special significance--and may in the end be especially self-defeating--for African-Americans. Faced with the historic indignities of racism and segregation, blacks came to view sports as a source of inspiration. During the early part of the century, for instance, the boxing victories of Jack Johnson and Joe Louis served as tangible proof that black men could compete against whites--and win. The boxing ring became a proxy for other societal arenas from which blacks were excluded. The same held true for Jackie Robinson's entry into Major League Baseball in 1947. Black baseball fans, whether they lived in Shreveport or Seattle, became instant Brooklyn Dodger loyalists. "These athletes were refuting the 'Tarzan mentality' that white men could do anything better than blacks," says Poussaint. "The sports arena became a battleground against white supremacy." Domination. This historical pride has been heightened by a steady increase in modern professional athletes who are black. African-Americans make up 13 percent of the U.S. population. Yet, in the three major professional sports--basketball, football, and baseball--blacks are a dominant presence. This year, 80 percent of the National Basketball Association's 361 players are black, a 5 percent increase over the 1991-92 season. Of the National Football League's 1,815 players, 67 percent are African-American. That, too, is a 5 percent increase over the 1991-92 season. In Major League Baseball, 17 percent of the league's 1,100 players are black. It's no secret professional athletes are paid handsomely--and the best of them extravagantly--for their performances in arenas, stadiums, and ballparks. The average annual salary in the NBA, not including commercial endorsements, is $2 million. The minimum starting salary is $247,500. The Chicago Bulls paid Michael Jordan a $12.6 million salary in 1996. Jordan earned an additional $40 million in endorsements, which placed him at No. 2 on Forbes magazine's highest-paid-athletes list. In the NFL, average yearly pay is $767,000; the minimum, $131,000. And in Major League Baseball, the average player takes home $1.1 million. The minimum starting salary is $150,000. Nice work, but very few can get it. "It's like pinning your hopes on the lottery," says University of Chicago sports economist Allen Sanderson. A bigger concern is that all the attention on sports obscures growing--and infinitely more attainable--opportunities in other fields. African-Americans, in other words, no longer need to view professional athletics as the sole means of economic mobility nowadays. Obviously, disparities remain: The average black household's net worth, measured in financial assets, is still a tenth that of whites, according to the most recent U.S. census data. And for every $1 that the average white worker earns, the average black worker earns 62 cents. Blacks account for 10.1 percent of the U.S. work force, but for a host of reasons they are vastly underrepresented in professions like medicine, law, journalism, and engineering. Nevertheless, there are more opportunities than ever for African-Americans in professions other than sports, as evidenced by the dramatic rise of the black middle class since the 1970s. "The days when African-Americans had to channel their energies into the sports world are long gone," says John Hoberman, a sports historian at the University of Texas--Austin. In his controversial new book, Darwin's Athletes, Hoberman takes black intellectuals and white corporate interests to task for lionizing black athletes while ignoring other areas of African-American exploit. By touting black physical achievement above all, he says, African-Americans open themselves up to claims like those made in The Bell Curve, in which authors Charles Murray and Richard Herrnstein argue that blacks are intellectually inferior. Murray and Herrnstein infer that blacks possess great physical aptitude, which should be a source of pride. "The whole problem here," notes Hoberman, "is that the black middle class is rendered essentially invisible by the parade of black athletes and criminals on television." That in turn fuels the perception--among blacks as well as whites--that African-Americans excel in physical pursuits and Caucasians in intellectual endeavors. No honor for honors students. When derisive whispers echo off the paint-chipped walls of Hyde Park Career Academy, the subject is often "zero fifty-five," the school's meaningless code name for an ostracized klatch of 27 freshman honors students. The "zero fifty-fivers" can only guess what others are saying: They think they're too good. They're nerds. They are black kids trying to be white. "Those other kids? They don't understand us," explains Ernest Brown, a restlessand lanky black 14-year-old, who is ranked fourth in his class. "If you go to class and care about your work, you're not cool," says Ernest. As in most high schools, the real social champions at this nearly all-black public academy on Chicago's South Side are not the boys and girls who can run with an idea but, rather, the kids who can stuff a basketball or run a quick 40-meter dash. Twice a week, Ernest and his studious classmates play volleyball and basketball as part of their highly regimented academic program run by Larry Hawkins, director of special programs at the nearby University of Chicago. "We teach them sports to give them an in with the other students," says Hawkins. The notion that children need to excel in sports to be socially acceptable raises questions about the state of education in low-income black communities. Ernest wants to be a teacher someday, or a mathematician--maybe both. Chances are, he says, sports will always be a pleasant diversion from his studies. The same is not true for his peers. "A lot of them will tell you they want to be like Mike," says Ernest, referring to the most recognized black man on the planet, basketball star Michael Jordan. In this context, being like Mike doesn't mean becoming an entrepreneur, a corporate spokesman, or a college graduate. It means being a highflying, windmill slammer of a ballplayer. There are plenty of cautionary tales, but few seem to pay much heed. Across town from Hyde Park Career Academy, on Chicago's West Side, is a monument to a hard-court Icarus. In Farragut Career Academy High School's gymnasium, on the wall above the bleachers, a mural commemorates Ronnie Field's basketball accomplishments. "Ronnie Fields Air Show, 1992-96," it reads. A swirl of color depicts the school's former hero rising from the floor to stuff a basketball. "Total points: 2,600; average per game (1995): 31.9; three-pointers (1995): 42; steals: 412; dunks: 372; blocks: 311." Fields was a 6-foot, 3-inch high school basketball dynamo with a 40-inch-plus vertical leap. In Chicago, where basketball is as much a part of the social fabric as deep-pan pizza, Fields was a standout. He was named 1996's Mr. Illinois Basketball and an All-American. He wore Michael Jordan's number, 23. With his closely shaved head and winning smile, he even looked like His Airness. One out of every 50,000 high school ballplayers makes it to the NBA. Fields had almost defied those odds. In February, before the end of his last high school season, however, Fields got into an auto accident, broke three vertebrae, and fractured his skull. He had fully recovered by early summer and signed a letter of intent to attend DePaul University. But he learned in mid-July that his grades and test scores were too low to enter the school. Later that month, an ex-girlfriend accused Fields and two friends of sexual assault (he has since pleaded guilty). After a failed tryout with a pro team in Europe, Fields is now a second-string player for the Rockford Lightning, a minor-league team based 90 miles northwest of Chicago. "He's certainly no role model," says one teacher at Farragut who refused to give her name. She, along with a small cadre of teachers, students, and parents, objects strongly to the Fields mural. "Good name." Principal Edward Guerra defends the artwork, which he says he commissioned before the sexual allegations. "Ronnie gave the school a good name," insists Guerra. Indeed, Farragut is known for little else in the city--except, perhaps, its abysmal reading scores. Only 9.1 percent of its students are reading at grade level. "You know, he jumped over a kid once," says Guerra, still staring at the mural. He turns around to point toward the wooden floor underneath one of the baskets. "The kid was standing right there. He was a small kid, and Ronnie jumped right over him to slam. We're paying tribute to Ronnie where he deserves it--in the gym." He pauses a moment and shrugs: "Maybe I should put his grades and his ACT scores up there too." Kevin Garnett was Fields's best friend and teammate in high school. Thanks partly to his wiry, 6-foot, 11-inch frame, Garnett has fared better. Now a highly touted forward for the NBA's Minnesota Timberwolves, he has costarred in a Gillette razor TV commercial with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and recently finished another for Nike, which was filmed at his old stamping grounds, Farragut Academy. But controversy has surrounded Garnett as well. Many sportswriters criticized him for entering the NBA straight out of high school (he is one of a handful to do so). But the fact is, Garnett couldn't play college ball if he wanted to. His grades and ACT test scores were too low. Says Guerra of Fields and Garnett: "These guys were not the kind of kids who were going to grow up to be doctors orlawyers. They are basketball players." Maybe so. But it's also true that young men like Garnett and Fields aren't born to play basketball. They were channeled into the game. "Imagine what life is like for these kids," says Steve James, director of Hoop Dreams, the 1994 film that chronicled five years in the lives of two Chicago basketball stars and their ultimate disappointments with the sport. "Adults are looking and listening to that kid, saying, 'That kid's got ability. I want that kid.' That ain't happening in any other venue. You certainly don't see people walking into an inner-city math class and doing the same thing." To be sure, there are many black players who enter universities by way of athletic scholarships. But the argument that many of them have a better chance to go to college because of their sports prowess rings hollow. National Collegiate Athletic Association colleges give away more than $600 million in athletic scholarships each year. The pool of money for all other awards, including minority scholarships and merit-based grants, is $49.7 billion. The education a college athlete receives is no doubt beneficial. Black athletes also have a slightly better chance of graduating from college than black nonathletes (one possible reason being that athletes on scholarship have the financial wherewithal to stick it out). But many NCAA colleges are notorious for profiting from their star players, the bulk of whom are black. Many colleges and universities gain handsomely from sports-related revenues while turning small portions of that money over to students in the form of scholarships and stipends. NCAA Division I schools, such as Duke, Notre Dame, and UCLA, generate an average of $15.5 million per year in sports-related revenues. Those same schools devote an average of only about $2.6 million to athletic scholarships. The University of Chicago's Sanderson suggests that colleges pool a portion of sports proceeds to help players who get injured or otherwise lose their scholarships finish their studies. Of course, the revenues colleges draw don't include the contracts that coaches sign with athletic-shoe companies. In a recent ESPN round-table discussion, Chris Webber, a 24-year-old member of the University of Michigan's top-ranked 1993 basketball team, complained about the compensation inequities at the college level. "The school was selling our jerseys. We're only allowed to get two [cartons of] juice and a pair of gym shoes," says Webber. "The coach had a $300,000 contract with gym shoes." Webber left Michigan after his sophomore year, signing a 15-year, $74 million contract with the Golden State Warriors. He now plays for the Washington Bullets. Top billing. Farragut Academy is nestled between two poverty-stricken West Side neighborhoods, one mostly African-American, the other largely Latino. As teenagers meander to school along the boulevard that divides the two neighborhoods, they pass billboards that feature three types of advertisements: liquor, cigarettes, and Nike. Nike ads are virtually ubiquitous. And they seem even more pervasive in Chicago, where, worlds away from the West Side on posh North Michigan Avenue, Niketown--a three-story shrine to sports capitalism--is one of the top 10 tourist attractions in the city. Here, though, the billboard image of a $125 pair of glistening, white sneakers jars the senses amid a backdrop of vacant warehouses and empty storefronts. The only commerce on this street is the sale of dreams. Wholesale revenues for athletic-footwear companies hit $7.5 billion in 1996, and African-Americans make up a large portion of that market. "No company wants to say that they're marketing to the inner-city crowd," says Bob McGee, editor of Sporting Goods Intelligence, an industry newsletter. "But they know that [inner-city kids] pay more for their athletic wear and they buy more of it." African-American sports stars have come under fire for their financial relationship with athletic-shoe companies. Critics accuse them of helping to feed the sports fantasy while profiting from sneaker sales. Footwear endorsers like Ken Griffey Jr., Anfernee Hardaway, and Shaquille O'Neal can pocket upward of $5 million per year in additional salary. Michael Jordan's contract with Nike is estimated at some $30 million annually. With so many sports messages bombarding young blacks, it's hard for parents to keep their kids focused on anything but athletics. Hawkins, who runs the Institute for Athletics and Education at the University of Chicago, says he frequently hears those complaints. His answer: "Don't dash the dream. Just createa second one." March Madness has set in. This week, the NCAA's annual college basketball tournament is winding to a close and will culminate in the network television spectacle the Final Four. "Each year I watch it," says Harvard's Poussaint. "And I wonder where some of these guys will be in five years." Though their odds might be slightly higher than those of the average college player, the chances that any of them will ever wear an official NBA jersey are nearly 250 to 1. Even at the college level, hoop dreams are dashed by hoop realities.
This story appears in the March 24, 1997 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.
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