Women’s College Basketball: Official Visit 101, by Annick Labadie

While I don’t harvest particularly saccharine memories of my NCAA years, I still check out Seton Hall’s women’s basketball homepage once in a while. I do care about my old teammates (even those I’m about to make fun of), and I like to see how my Pirates are doing. “My” is employed loosely here, as in “my” empty box of cheerios, and “my” free toothpaste samples from the dentist’s office. Both evoke similar degrees of possessiveness. On that note, I don’t think I’ll ever drive down to South Orange, New Jersey for an alumni game until the administration decides to take the program in a “new direction”. And I don’t think I’m the only human being with such feelings. But that’s for another day.

Last week, the homepage announced that “my” Pirates had somehow lost to the UConn Huskies 91-24 in their conference opener, making it the largest margin of defeat in Seton Hall’s history. I couldn’t help but walk down memory lane to my own UConn massacres (“my” having a more possessive ring to it here), and to those things that happened whenever we weren’t playing.

Because new additions will surely be needed to correct this scoring differential in future years, my wandering mind landed on recruiting visits.

To begin with, my position statement: (1) recruiting visits are a disgusting enterprise of deception. (2) The Pirate ship does not float. You can stop reading here without loss of continuity.

Each year, potential recruits in their junior or senior year of high school would spend two days on campus, for what the NCAA calls “the official visit”. Recruits would be lavishly wined and dined in South Orange’s finest eateries. During this time, they would be labeled by the coaching staff as “promised one”, or “the chosen one”, or “the one who’ll finally get our record over .500”. They’d get ear humped with compliments about everything from their hoop earrings to their field goal percentage. Later on, they would head over to one of the players dorm room, “experience college life”, and sleep on an inflated mattress. The lucky one responsible for that inflated mattress was called “the host”. The visit’s (and the host’s) objective was to provide recruits with a 48-hour sample of what a four-year Pirate buffet would taste like. In other words, provide whatever food and entertainment could convince someone to sign a national letter of intent without causing an NCAA violation.

Recruits drove me nuts. Coaches would babble on about them; update us on their statistics, on their latest AAU game against the Lady Lancers, on their cat’s recent ear infection. You name it. I hated recruits in the spiteful, Van Wilder milks his dog for éclair custard, sort of way. After all, incoming guards meant less of a chance for me to address my bench-bound predicament. But that’s only part of the picture. At second glance, I disliked them because they reminded me of everything that was wrong about my environment.

Part of me also reviled official visits in the selfish sort of way. I had better things to do. Like making prank phone calls to Proctor and Gamble with my dorm buddies. But the other part of me just couldn’t stand my coaches and teammates morphing themselves into whatever part of their personalities most incited a girl to join the Pirate family. Myself included.

Oh recruits. We’d eventually bond a year or two later, in the middle of a game. We’d bet on which fan would win free pizza during the second TV timeout, or debate on which part of our teammate Asia’s body would get tattooed with a girl’s name next.  We’d have a few shots of Grey Goose after the loss. Cry about life. Complain about recruit Queena who was in a drunken stupor somewhere in the other room, and become the best of friends.

When recruits were merely the self-absorbed wannabes ruining everyone’s weekend, however, they were not my best of friends. Especially not when I was hosting one of them, which meant we were both glued together for two days, and that the amount of creative truths I’d likely have to corroborate would skyrocket. Plus, since studying all day was not typically their forte, hosting them meant radical changes in my schedule. Not something I felt too compelled to do, for at least two reasons.

First, I would be collaborating with the coaches in forging a lifestyle none of us players enjoyed. I would be swindling a girl into signing up for a slow and painful journey to hell. A journey during which she would likely reach my level of aggravation about everything related to the basketball program. For instance, aggravation with those senior nights, where the graduating players all hoped to stick the flowers they had received in a more convenient location. The same aggravation that would get the recruit I was hosting all riled up, a year later, when asked to change her weekend plan for recruiting purposes.

Second. Whenever I hosted, I felt like I was helping the coaches in securing enough leverage to maintain the status quo. It might be obvious by now; I was wishing for things to change. But attached to every recruit signing was a nice argument for just the opposite. Not that those checkmarks were very hard to get. Conversation excerpt with athletic director:

AD: “We’ve been having senior exit interviews. They don’t look too happy. And now I’m looking at the stats over the last 10 years. It ain’t pretty. Anything you wanna say?”

Coach: “Well. You know those seniors were mistakes. Never should have signed them. I can’t forgive myself for that. And yeah, we’re 6-21, and I’m just as mad as you are about that too. But it’s a rebuilding year. Injuries. Look who signed with us next year. Three girls ranked 16, 28, and 67 on the ESPNU HoopGurlz report. They’re really going to turn things around.”

AD: “Oh, well that explains it then. Sign here. 5-year extension.”

Of course, this procedure was not to my benefit. Or to anyone else’s really.

I understand that I was required to support my school’s recruitment mission. It’s part of the deal. Yes, I was given a whole lot. An education, a future. And the “invaluable life lessons” I was taught by people who’d trade integrity for a Lexus or principles for a marble countertop should have been enough. I should have been eager to give “all that I am”, “contribute to something greater than myself” without second thoughts.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

When all was said and done, recruiting visits felt like a bad satire of a Barney and Friends episode. I was Baby Bop.

Barney (sitting on chair): “Baby Bop, would you mind washing my purple Tyrannosaurus headpiece? I sweat in it a lot and it’s starting to smell like cheese.”

Baby Bop (happy): “Sure, Barney. I’d love to.”

Barney: “And its 95% polyester, 5% wool. Dry cleaning would be best.”

Baby Bop (smiling): “Ok!”

Barney: “And when you’re done, mind filling out my income tax return? PBS is being a little bi… um, a little rascal, won’t pay for the Bangalore personal assistant I wanted.” (Barney chuckles)

Baby Bop: “Oh. Ok. Sure. Hey Barney, I feel kind of stupid for asking you this, since like, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, but… but, why are you asking me to do all these things?”

Barney: “Well, du-uh! Baby Bop, these things aren’t just good for me. They’re good for you, too! If you can’t wrap your finger around that, you are selfish!”

Baby Bop: “Yeah alright. Guess that makes a lot of sen…”

Barney (cutting Baby Bop mid sentence): “And, before I forget, we’re going on Good Morning America next week. I know it’s been rough lately. You know, the yelling and cursing and stuff, but I don’t mean it. I just get emotional because I love you. So you don’t need to talk about those things. Talk about the nice presents Barney gives you, okay?”

Count me in. I’ll fake it for you Barney, smile for you. But do excuse me if I don’t enjoy playing Baby Bop for 48 hours straight.

Truth is though, I did just that.

If a parent thought school should be challenging, I’d talk about the discipline my student-athlete lifestyle imparted me. If school had to be a piece of cake, I’d tell them that if my teammates Cortne and Asia could graduate, so could anyone else.  Practices were “competitive and demanding” one day, and “smartly devised for optimal game time performance” the next.

Yet, “run while you still can” was the bottom line. But those kinds of truths are never very marketable. So I rarely told them. And that, is what I loathed the most. Whenever I thought about Pirate basketball, I was a closeted vigilante with enough rage to supply a detention center for a year. Yet when the time came to explain this, I was a spineless coward out to please.

Alright, time out. My situation couldn’t be that bad. Others would have begged to be in my shoes. Sure. And by now, you’ve likely gathered that (a) I am very bitter, (b) at the time I was a bench player with disillusions of grandeur, and (c) my opinion is undeserved criticism, because of (a) and (b). Fair enough. But I can guarantee you that other Pirates without such character flaws feel the exact same way about recruiting (and other things too).

At the very least, they didn’t like the following processes:

For starters, learning information without value or substance, for the “good of the team,” was not fun. Before a recruit’s arrival, we could be quizzed on player profiles relating crucial information, such as the recruit’s preference of Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies over Twinkies, her three middle names, her obsession with the color purple, the date of birth of her six step-sisters, her tap dancing talents, her badass basketball stats, and of course, her ESPNU Hoopgurlz ranking. This evil device had the function of duping the recruit into thinking we actually gave a rat’s ass.

Example involving hypothetical recruit named Queena: “Hey, Queena, wanna head back to my dorm room and go crazy on Little Debbies? I got them in a special Easter package. You know, the purple ones. And, by the way, my mother’s best friend’s boyfriend Ricky tap dances, too. Tap dancing is awesome. Don’t you think so, Queena?”

Creepy.

Recruiting visits were forty-eight hours of uncomfortable silences temporarily interrupted with, “Would you like pizza?” or “Your shoes are cool.” Or “soo…what’s it like growing up in Camden?” or “let’s drive you to the bowling alley. They’re having disco night” or “wanna check out the men’s squad? I’m sure they’re eager to tutor you on your procreation skills.” Of course, those things were said to avoid discussing the more important stuff.

The important stuff, for instance, was the fact that five players, including the team’s top scorer (Danielle Golay) and starting point guard (Christine Koren), hadn’t transferred in a mass exodus six years back just to explore what else life had to offer.  The fact the program was below .500 over a 20-year period could hardly be justified by “bad injuries” despite what quotes in the Star-Ledger said. Our recently graduated captain hadn’t written an open letter to the student newspaper asking for “changes in the staff” simply out of spite. An alumnus hadn’t driven onto campus, entered the sports center, and destroyed a certain hall of fame plaque out of spite either. Oh wait, she did do that out of spite… The Pirates hadn’t reached the sweet 16 in 1994 because of a wonderful Pirate family atmosphere; the leadership had come from an All American guard, who negated on the court any decision taken on the bench, while sporting a nice “fuck you” billboard on her forehead. And it wasn’t just a coincidence that we had gone through enough assistant coaches (six) in three years to make a foster kid’s environment look stable. Unfortunately, no one was very good at displaying those realities in the presence of recruits.

Instead of complaining incessantly about all of the above (and much more), which was our natural disposition in the absence of recruits, we became the surreal version of Baby Bop.

Life was awesome. Practice was like going to 6-flags. Coaches were so nice they’d make Mandela look like a vile megalomaniac. Our gym was more inviting than a gingerbread house. Our fans, who generally cheered harder for free puff pastries and t-shirts than for 3-points plays (and I can’t blame ‘em), were just the best fans out there. All 300 of them.

If a recruit asked about something, we infomercialized the living crap out of it. We sounded like Ron Popeil’s Showtime Rotisserie ads.

But… but why lie? Ha. When a recruit committed to another program — and subsequently ruined “our” lofty dreams of NCAA tournament bids — some people were not too happy. This usually resulted in two-hour meetings in the team conference room, exposing our lack of dedication toward our team. Those meetings were as entertaining as Earl Grey tea bags.

Plus, since our shot at an education ran through basketball funding, we feared having it revoked. More importantly, we feared having more destroy-self-esteem-and-muscle-fibers content added to the practice schedule. So telling the truth was setting yourself up for a Darwin Award.

Consequence: we took a shortcut, and lied. Now don’t get me wrong, no one forced us to do that, but we felt like we were better off that way. The whole process was based on all of those nice values high-level athletics are supposed to teach.

Part of our racket included spending time extra with coaching staff in fake-ass (as my teammates would put it) harmony. The whole team would head out to New York City with recruits, their families, and coaches, for a casual dinner at ESPN Zone. Group pictures, all of us hugging and smiling, were sometimes taken in front of the restaurant. Those would surely look great in the media guide. (Time to waste? Find many more pleasant pictures in this PDF document.)

Dinners like that made me wish Prozac was sold over-the-counter. I could see myself at the same dinner table, 2 years back, buying all of it.

In between two mouthfuls of sirloin, an assistant working her magic: “well sure Jadis, you can have number 10 if that’s what you want!” followed by “well sure Nicole, we can make number 10 happen for you if you want” about 2 hours later. Too bad that number already belonged to my freshman teammate from Australia.

In between a chicken wing and a sip of lemonade, a conversation with a concerned parent: “not to worry, here we treat our players like family. And you’ll be apart of it too. I like to keep in touch with parents. I’m their mom on campus, although I’ll never do a fine job like you. (Laughs)” Three years later, my father could tell you, that having 36 conversations commencing and ending with “how was the drive down”, does not make one feel like family. But I’m guessing he was the exception. While we’re on the subject, was a lawsuit ever filed by someone’s parents? No, it didn’t go that far. Family members don’t usually sue each other, thank god.

After a scoop of cookie sundae: “You’ll get free massages every month.” The massage thing happened once, to celebrate our entrance into the NIT tournament. Celebration it was, we were below a .250 winning percentage the previous season.

The next morning, over pancakes from the local diner: “We’ve got a big international tournament planned for summer 2005 or 2006. Italy. You would love it”. The closest we ever got to Italy was the Olive Garden.

(We did, however, get a new locker room with heated carpet. It made us all really happy and fuzzy inside.  Plus, the carpet was a huge selling point with recruits.  It also looked good in the media guide.)

In the end, I’m not asking for anyone’s pity. That’s not the point. And I know these bullet points are a joke in comparison to the men’s recruiting game. No one was telling us Armani would tailor our street wear for free, or something equally ridiculous. I’m not claiming that such promises should influence one’s schooling decision, either. The choice of an educational institution should not depend on jersey number availability, on trips to Italy, on heated carpets, or on free massages. That is not what amateur sport is all about! Yet, if one can’t be honest about a jersey number, how honest will one be about, say, anything else?

If you’re wondering how many recruits I actually hosted, here’s an answer: one. If I had to deal with recruits all over again, part of not being a spineless coward would involve sending this letter prior to their official visit.

Dear Taquisha,

I wish I could like you, but I don’t. You’re going to ruin my weekend. You might even ruin my life. And even worse, by coming here you’ll probably ruin your own. I’m sure you’re a great player, a great person, that you really are great at knitting and Dance Dance Revolution. I’m even certain that the climate change crisis would be resolved if you became a Pirate. Coach probably told you so every Monday night on the phone. And you probably believed her. Don’t do that. Be smart for one second. If your reasoning for coming here involves anything remotely related to free massages, jersey numbers, or “opportunity of a lifetime”, think again. I’m begging you. Here are alumnus X, alumnus Y, and Alumnus Z’s email addresses: (insert addresses here). Feel free to contact them for further information; I already feel guilty for sending this to you.

One more thing, why don’t you just save yourself the trip? The only things you’ll miss are 48 hours of meetings, food increasing your BMI, and enough “mild deceptions” to make Nixon look like Gaylord Focker on truth serum.

Sincerely,

The chick with the number you want and the position you play

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