A new way to exploit college athletes

Image appearing in the 5 April Equity Express Email

Intercollegiate athletics are a controversial topic in higher education on a number of levels.  And, like just about any other part of the academy, athletic departments have their problems.  One common critique of the current big-time college sports system is that student-athletes who are members of prominent teams at high-profile schools are exploited in that their success on the field, in the pool, or at the ballpark brings huge financial gains for others (e.g. their coaches, their institutions, or the governing body that "protects" them).  For a couple of good reads on these issues see Murray Sperber's Beer and Circus and William Rhoden's Forty Million Dollar Slaves.


Yesterday I saw a new way to exploit college athletes and, ironically, it came from an organization who claims to "speak up for students."  The Education Trust sent an email yesterday to what I am assuming is a very long mailing list.  In the body of the email was the image at right, which compares the University of Kentucky's point total from their National Championship win with their six year graduation rate. Clearly, it was a clever and timely move that was effective in communicating a key message for The Education Trust (i.e. There is a problem with the graduation rates in American institutions.  I agree, those of us who make our livings in higher education need to find a way to ensure that more students graduate from our institutions.  What I do object to, however, is The Education Trust's use of an individual institution and further, 15 members of a single athletic team at that institution, to promote their agenda.  By linking the institution's graduation rate with the men's basketball team, Education Trust seems to imply that the basketball team also has a low graduation rate and that the members of the team are poor students.  Of course, not every reader of the email will make those assumptions, but the design and tone of the message seem to imply it.

I don't have any idea what the graduation rate for John Calipari's team is.  And, it's quite possible it is close to the institution's rate (if not lower); however, for The Education Trust to throw the entire team under the bus seems uncalled for.  Additionally, although I have no data to back this up, I wouldn't imagine that UK's graduation rate is all that different from many other teams in the recent NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament, so, to single out one institution seems shady as well.

As much as I agree with the mission of Education Trust, they owe the University of Kentucky as well as the members of the men's basketball team an apology.

The search for institutional identity: Who are we and where are we going?

"Before you can be a positive part of change or a facilitator of change, you have to be really sure of what you believe personally. . . .  It is important to clearly understand and to be guided by our values and beliefs if we hope to operate beyond what could be described as a superficial level."

I read this statement about a month ago in a trimmed down version of a dissertation study conducted by Garry McKinnon a number of years ago in Alberta, Canada.  It seemed insightful at the time and I made a note to write a post about it, but then life happened and the post never did.  However, since reading McKinnon's study I have been reminded--at least three times--of the way in which personal values impact administrative leadership in higher education.  I'll comment on those three experiences below.

The first occurred a little over a month ago when I listened to Michael Bassis speak at an ePortfolio conference at Westminster College.  Bassis' tenure will be ending this summer, so he was particularly reflective and self-revealing in his remarks, which was incredibly refreshing.  And, his values were clearly evident in both the substance of his remarks (the value of integrative learning experiences and the necessity of institutional features that promote and facilitate this type of learning) as well as the way in which he interacted with those of us attending the session.  I remember, specifically, his response to one question (I, actually, don't remember the question) from an attendee which was "I don't know," followed by a long, pensive pause.  Eventually, I think he tried to articulate some kind of answer, but his clear humility and recognition that some questions don't have clear or quick answers were on display.  Additionally, his frequent references to his colleagues (and it was clear that he viewed them as such, as opposed to underlings or subordinates) and their good work was evidence of his emphasis upon collaboration across campus.  Finally, the fact that Bassis has created his own ePortfolio, describing and demonstrating the degree to which he has achieved the College Wide Learning Goals he expects students at his institution to achieve, was remarkable.  His personal values are not only clearly articulated in this video welcome to his ePortfolio, but visible across the various artifacts included in the ePortfolio and, more importantly, evident in the way Bassis has approached his presidency.  Westminster College has been transformed over the last ten years because Bassis has worked to make meaningful changes and made sure that his work has been aligned with a grander vision.  What's even more impressive is that, from what I can see, the vast majority of his campus--both faculty/administrators and students--have embraced that vision and made Bassis' values their own.  This has meant that Westminster College has been on a journey towards a clear destination, a destination which influences key decision-making at all levels of the college from admissions, to individual departments, to far-reaching initiatives like the decision to incorporate ePortfolios and College Wide Learning Goals for all students.

The second experience isn't quite as cheery.  A little over two years ago my campus made the decision to implement a first-year initiative that would (a) require students to complete core general education requirements and (b) assign every incoming freshman student an upperclassman peer mentor.  Although I was nervous at that time about how feasible it would be to provide seats in high-demand courses for 5500 students and, even more, be able to provide mentoring support to that many students, I have been pleasantly surprised with how well it has gone and how an "everybody's in" approach has allowed us to provide support to students who would never have received in an opt-in program.  However, as with any new large-scale initiative, there have been hiccups, frustrations, mistakes, and times when we wanted to cry "Mulligan." Also, not surprisingly, there have been a few students and parents who haven't been pleased with things (although it has been a much smaller number than I would have guessed).  And, a small percentage of these disgruntled folks have sent emails or made phone calls to university administration.  To make a very long story short, two years later the university has made the decision to back off its original intention to (a) require students to complete first-year requirements during the first year (its almost all I can do to even type an oxymoronic sentence like that) and (b) ensure that every student has a peer mentor.  For me, this is a clear case of identify diffusion at the institutional level.  As a campus community, we are relatively unsure of who we are and what we value (e.g. Is mentoring that important?  Does everyone need a mentor?  Is general education all that critical?  Should we really require anything of students?), yet from what I can see not all that concerned about it because we have no problem changing the tone of the message we send students on a nearly annual basis (i.e. "Everyone can benefit from a mentor" and "All students should be involved in a first-year writing course during their first year" to "If you want a mentor, great, but we won't really care if you don't" and "Just complete the requirement at some point before you graduate and we won't bother you").  I love my campus and its founding ideals, but honestly I worry sometimes whether we'll ever get where we think we are going.  If our stated message continues to be "expected but not required" (that is language pulled directly from official statements handed down from campus administration), students will hear a much different message.

Finally, a happy ending from an Inside Higher Ed article this week describing how Defiance College President Mark Gordon opens his home to students for weekday study halls, basement ping-pong games, and weekend classic movie nights (his wife also deserves credit for sending a personal letter to each incoming student with a coupon for a free home-cooked meal--what's more, if a student takes her up on her offer and comes for dinner, they receive a standing invitation for dinner for the rest of their time at the college).  While none of these things is evidence that students at Gordon's college are receiving a good education, it is a clear signal of his personal philosophy towards his presidency--Defiance College is a "family" who look out for one another, personal relationships with students matter, and a campus administrator is never too busy to have conversations with students.  Of course, Defiance is a small school, so this sort of involvement with a president would not be possible on some campuses, but the point is that Gordon knows what type of campus he wants and is doing very personal things to try and help that happen.

So, while a campus community is made up of many more people than an individual campus leader, that individual, including their values, vision, and identify, will do much to determine where the ship sails and what path it will take.

What does it mean when we say we are advocates?

Yesterday morning I was in a meeting attended largely by academic advisors on my campus.  One of the items on the agenda was a report on a sub-committee's year-long efforts to develop a vision and mission statement for the campus advising community.  Aside from my generalized lack of confidence in the ability for these kinds of sterile statements to produce meaningful change on a campus (especially when they are created by stakeholder groups with very little power, like academic advisors, and not a priority for central administration), I was intrigued by one of the "goals" outlined in the document:  "Advocate for student success."  


Statements like that, while nice-sounding and politically correct, are fraught with challenges because of the lack of a shared understanding of what is meant.  For example, what do we mean when we say we "advocate for" students?  And, what is "student success" on a particular campus?  I'm not sure that anyone in the room yesterday could have provided a clear answer to either of those questions.  Consequently, I have very little hope that the vision and mission statements shared yesterday will have any real impact on the advising that takes place here.

Advocacy has become, in recent years, a buzz word in student support and first-year experience circles.  This makes sense--the FYE movement and the focus on providing student support services both came about, in part, because of a clear need to provide students with resources (both human and otherwise) that they could access to move through higher ed more productively.  However, there is danger when these "advocates" confuse advocating for a cause and advocating for an individual.  Let me explain, when I advocate for an individual person, my interest is in finding a way for their voice to be heard.  I plead their case, argue for their hopes or wishes, and act on their individual behalf.  In essence, I do and say the things they would do themselves.  My advocacy is helpful because of my position in an organization or access to particular people or dialogues.  Advocacy for a cause, while similar in many respects, involves support and defense of a set of values, assumptions, or philosophical ideals.

From this perspective, there may be times when advocates find themselves in situations where advocating for an individual would come into conflict with a cause.  In my experience, this is a situation academic advisors find themselves in quite often.  Here's a composite story to illustrate.  It is October and students on campus are busy registering for classes for the upcoming winter/spring semester.  A senior student makes an appointment to meet with his academic advisor to discuss his graduation plans.  The student is in a bind:  he is planning on graduating in April and has one more general education class to take; however, the class is not offered during the winter semester.  He made the advising appointment to request that the requirement be waived so that he can graduate on time and complete the internship he has been accepted for this summer.  What to do?

Advocating for the student would mean making some kind of formal request that the institution make an exception to its policies for this individual student.  Advocating for student success could, however, mean something very different and run counter to the student's wishes.  If I believe that student success on my campus means a rich and diverse general education experience, then I'll be inclined to hold students accountable to having that kind of experience before they graduate.  And, anytime campus personnel (be it advisors, faculty members, or anyone else) hold students accountable, there is some chance that the student will be upset or angry because their wishes haven't been met.

 So, when someone says that they "advocate for student success," does that mean advocating for a particular type of educational experience (e.g. deep learning, breadth of experience, service, etc.) or advocating for students' own interests?  Of course, those two don't have to be mutually exclusive and we hope that they aren't.  However, until a campus can be clear about what "success" is and what it means to have the "Anywhere U experience" we will continually find ourselves in situations where our efforts to be advocates put us in double binds.

How good does someone have to be to earn a free pass when they're bad?

Earlier this week, one of the top stories in Provo, UT (where I live and work) was the Provo School District's suspension and planned termination of a popular football coach at one of the local high schools.  It is a sad story on a number of levels:  at least one person (and probably more) will likely lose his job, students and athletes at the school will have to deal with a number of distractions for the rest of the academic year, community members are upset, and public education (especially athletic departments at public institutions) has been given another black eye.  As I watched things play out over the last week, I couldn't help but think back to the Penn St. sex abuse scandal that dominated the media a few months ago.

Obviously, financial misdeeds seem incredibly benign juxtaposed with sexual abuse of children; however, there are some interesting parallels.  Both stories seem to illustrate a more general archetypal pattern of the fallen sports hero.  These stories contain a number of common elements.  First, the hero (usually a player or a coach, although in some communities some kind of athletic administrator may rise to this position) emerges through his (I use that pronoun intentionally here because I can't think of a fallen sports hero that isn't a male) consistent on-field success, contributions to the community (e.g. mentoring of young athletes, improved community morale around a winning team, charitable work, etc.), and general likability or charisma.  Note that this rise occurs over a number of years as in order to be considered a hero (rather than a one-season wonder) the character must establish an athletic dynasty, build a following in the community, and demonstrate (especially to those critics of traditional athletic culture) a level of integrity and commitment worthy of others' admiration.

The conflict in the story comes when the hero falls.  Although losing seasons may be part of this fall, losing alone isn't enough to qualify a narrative as a fallen sports hero story, because at their core, these are stories of betrayal and lost hope.  As much as we love our teams, we don't feel betrayed when they lose (in fact, the most die-hard fans increase their loyalty when losses pile up--do you know any Cubs fans?), just disappointed, frustrated, or maybe even angry.  Heroes fall when something disturbing happens in the overlapping space between their personal and professional lives, and we as their admirers are forced to confront a discrepancy between their actions and our idyllic image of them as societal models.  They break the law, mistreat individuals in their personal life, or in some other way act counter to the values we have previously believed they exemplified for us.  And, we are left feeling betrayed, hurt, and wondering if there is any good left in the world.

There are at least two typical responses at this point in the story.  First, athletic skeptics (and new believers who were once skeptics of athletics) use the fall as justification for their beliefs that athletics has nothing positive to contribute to the world (e.g. "All successful coaches cheat and lie and hot-shot players are entitled jerks who take what they want").  The other response, which is the more interesting one of the two, takes the form of praise for all the hero has done for the community and a profession of faith in the innocence and continued goodness of the hero.  This type of response is evident in a statement made by prominent author Stephen Covey, in support of Provo's current embattled sports hero:

"I believe in Coach Louis Wong. He is so much more than just a football coach. He represents Timpview      and he stands for excellence. He is as fine a man and leader as I know."

Another example from the hero's attorney:

 "What Lou did for the school and community went far beyond the field of play.  What he did is what we want our educators to do — care about the kids who are entrusted to their care, to help them, to teach them to make the right choices, to be team players, to cooperate and to work for what they get." 

While much of what is contained in these statements is probably true--I don't doubt that the coach really did care about students and players or that he possesses tremendous leadership skills--they make no attempt to address the wrongdoing.  Instead, they seem to imply that, because of the hero's long record of good deeds and established reputation as a good citizen, it isn't possible that he could be guilty as charged.  The same type of response was apparent in the Penn St. scandal as well when Paterno supporters criticized his termination by providing long lists of his good deeds (again, supporters rarely addressed the validity of the actual charges, just provided character references and expected that to be enough to clear him).  Beneath all of this rhetoric seems to be a belief that heroes', through their good deeds and exemplary lives, earn "free passes," that society is then obligated to accept as payment for wrongdoing.  

I don't know whether Louis Wong is completely innocent, just naive, or guilty.  We'll probably never know, and to give him any one of those labels would probably be overly simplistic.  However, it would be helpful if more of us were willing to admit that our heroes are usually both heroic and flawed as evidenced in this statement from Bob Gentry, interim Superintendent for the Provo School District:

"It’s extremely gut-wrenching and heartbreaking.  I know Coach Wong personally, and I think he’s a good man. I personally think he didn’t have criminal intent, but he made mistakes and we can’t ignore those mistakes." 


What would really be heroic in all of this would be for everyone involved to be completely honest about mistakes that were made.  That would include Wong as well as the former principal at the school, district officials, parents, assistant coaches, and anyone else involved.  But, that would be a fairy tale.

What does it mean when a student cries in my office?

I've had an interesting week.  On Monday morning I walked into my office after having been away from campus for the better part of three weeks, attending conferences, going on vacation with my wife, and playing hooky so that I could spend time with a three-year-old girl who is growing up far too fast.  Being gone that long, coupled with the fact that this is a busy time of year in the department where I work, meant that work had piled up and deadlines were fast approaching.  I was extremely overwhelmed, didn't have any idea how I would get everything done, and wished I were 35 years older and could retire.  On Tuesday, I felt even worse. A day had passed, the list had grown longer, and was worn out.  On top of that, I looked at my schedule and saw that I had meetings scheduled with about 20 students, some who work in our department, others who would be interviewing for a chance to work here.  It was going to take a lot of time, I would have to be a good listener and ask good questions, and it was likely to be emotionally and physically draining.  On that morning (and even now as I type this) I felt guilty--guilty because I am supposed to care about students, be interested in their welfare, and show a commitment to serving them.  All I wanted to do was close my door, drop my blinds, and work on my list.  Listening to students, caring, and forgetting about my concerns takes work and effort.  And, I wasn't sure I was up to it.

Letting Microsoft Outlook run my life is typically not a virtue, but on that Tuesday morning it was and I kept all my appointments that day and every day for the rest of the week.  I survived the week and it's now Friday evening and I'm getting ready to head home for the weekend.  Although my list is still just as long and I have an entire paper to write and submit in the next 6 days, I feel both calm and reflective.  That strikes me as a bit odd because my meetings with students this week were just as draining and time-consuming as I anticipated.  And, they were some of the more unique meetings I remember having in quite some time.  Here's a summary of some of the interesting ones:

• A student whose father passed away just before Christmas and who told me about how hard things have been and how much her grades have suffered.  But, who believes she is a completely different person--in a good way--than she was four months ago.
• A student who is suffering from anxiety and depression, whose parents are in my estimation both  insensitive and unsupportive, who is at sea trying to find a major and life path, and who has felt like a failure in her work in my department for most of the semester.  But, who, after telling me all of this, somehow left with a sense of optimism and contentment I haven't seen in her before.
• An applicant to our department who broke down in tears while telling us about her first failed test from the previous semester and how she recovered from it and finished the semester with an A- (I've written about this course in a past post).
• An applicant who was so nervous, unsure of herself, and concerned about how she was being perceived that, when asked at the end of the interview if she had any questions, responded:  "Give me some feedback.  How did I do in this interview?"
• A student who I had initially viewed as lazy or unmotivated, but who now has my utmost respect because of his courage to tell me about the anxiety and extreme self-criticism that have plagued him the last 10 years of his life.  

I honestly don't know what any of this means.  And, this is likely to end up as one of the most incoherent posts that will ever appear on this blog.  But, I feel like I've learned some important things this week that bear articulating, even if they are fuzzy and disconnected.

1.  Keep appointments, even if you don't want to.  You might help someone.  If nothing else, you'll feel good about being dependable.

2.  Students are incredibly reflective when invited.  All we really need to do is listen, ask a few questions, and try to understand.  Most often, they'll figure things out and leave feeling a whole lot better.

3.  It's better to listen than to try to give advice or solve others' problems.  We feel inadequate, they feel misunderstood or judged, and we both leave the conversation frustrated.

4.  If we work with students during times of transition (e.g. virtually any point in their college experience), we're likely to have someone cry.  And, tears (at least the sincere ones that seem to come unexpectedly) seem to make the crier feel better.  And, somehow, the rest of the conversation seems more open and comfortable (I still don't understand this).

5.  Just because someone cries in an interview doesn't mean we should hire them (or not hire them).

6.  Human beings are complex.  We never have each other "figured out" or know the whole story.  Give people the benefit of the doubt and listen (see #3 above).  You'll rarely be sorry you did.

7.  Being in relationship with people is both hard and incredibly rewarding.

8.  Focusing on people doesn't make the list get shorter or the workload get lighter, but you feel better about the list, the work, the people around you, and yourself.  

9. Going on vacation with your wife and playing hooky with your three-year old daughter are worth it, even if it means a lot of work when you get back.

10.  Things always look better on Friday night.

The First-Year Experience movement: Are we serving or exploiting?

"I am not confident that we serve those we research well. . . .  With skepticism we should continue to question our rationale for studying the disenfranchised. . .we serve ourselves too by taking up their cause."


This is one of the more insightful things I've read in the last few months.  It comes from a book I've referenced before in a previous post.  The author is a qualitative researcher and, like many of his methodological peers, he spends a great deal of time researching populations who society views as "in need" in some way or another.  However, unlike many of his peers, he is astute (and probably humble) enough to realize that his work may not always be as helpful as he thinks.  And, it made me question the motives I have in my work and whether I am as "helpful" as I think I am.


I would consider myself to be one who is involved in what has come to be known as "the first-year experience movement."  I am an administrator in a program designed to serve first-year students, I have in the past been heavily involved in new student orientation programming on my campus, and the research I do is either focused directly on first-year issues or involves data gathered from either first-year students or the peer mentors who work with them.  I would like to think that my work serves this population in some way and that what I do each day when I come to work makes some kind of difference.  On the whole, I would like to think that my motives are pure and see myself as one who "serves" the students on my campus.  However, it would be unfair to claim that I am completely selfless in all of this.  Not only do I do this work for a salary and benefits (pretty good benefits compared to most of higher ed), but I travel to conferences 2 - 3 times a year (usually in warm places that are nice to visit anyway), am beginning to publish research on my work, and occasionally get invited to make presentations relating to my work and research.  So, the first-year experience movement has been good to me.


All of this has me wondering if, despite our good intentions and noble purposes, those of us who do this work might occasionally (and probably unintentionally) be guilty of exploiting the very population we claim to be serving.  We claim to do work that helps or serves these students as they make the transition into higher education and our scholarship is intended to advocate for these students and somehow improve the experience they have on college campuses.  But, what if the article I publish is only read by a handful of people?  And, what if after reading it, they don’t approach their work any differently than before?  Have I then used the first-year student population on our campus and elsewhere to further my career, without making any real contribution to the experiences of the real people experiencing the first year of college?  Or worse, when write a conference proposal am I ever more interested in visiting a new city and taking my wife with me, than in moving forward an argument or idea with real merit? What about that article that will be published this month? Do I really think it will add to the dialogue and help other practitioners, or did I just want a line on the vitae I'm trying to build?  


It seems like those of us purporting to serve first-year students (and this may be true for any researcher or practitioner, especially those in the social sciences) should take care to avoid becoming a player in the scholarship game where we do research, publish studies, and present at conferences, simply for the sake of those activities.  Ultimately, we probably can’t ever really know if our work or scholarship is a benefit to others and if we spend too much time worrying about any of this, we'll go crazy. All of us will at some point sincerely try to conduct a study and write a report that will “serve” someone somewhere and still miss the target.  Maybe the important thing is to be vigilant, honest, and ethical by holding ourselves to high standards and continually committing to doing the highest quality work we can. . .a helpful thing for me to remember next week when I'm enjoying warm weather and the San Antonio Riverwalk at the Annual Conference on the First-Year Experience.

What if admissions offices cooperated rather than competed?

Earlier this week, Inside Higher Ed reported on initial results of the Predictive Analytics Reporting Framework and the potential for this data to connect students to those online institutions to which they are best suited (the title of this particular section of the article is "Match.com for Higher Ed").  The senior statistician for the project, Sebastian Diaz, comments that his data set positions admissions and recruitment officials more effectively find, recruit, and enroll those students who are most likely to be successful on their campuses.  But, the article points out that this sort of academic matching service would require a level of collaboration and sharing among institutions that doesn't seem very feasible at present.

On the surface, viewing admissions as a purely competitive process makes sense.  After all, for any given institution there is a limited number of students who are, first, at all interested in enrolling at that campus and, second, who are good candidates for the experience provided, whether that is an intimate liberal arts experience, a distance ed experience, or the traditional state school experience (if there is even such a thing any longer).  What's more, for a group of institutions who share much in common, this pool of students is largely the same.  So, at some level, it is perfectly understandable that institutions compete for students.

However, this standard view of the admissions process, while acknowledging the competitive dynamic among peer institutions, fails to acknowledge two things.  First, among institutions who are very different, there is no real need to compete for students.  Second, many of the students who apply to a particular school aren't students that school is competing for and, in fact, may be better candidates for another institution.  And, despite the best efforts of campus recruiters and sometimes very expensive marketing campaigns, campuses don't always get the students they want.  So, if you and I are both in admissions on our respective campuses (and lets assume we aren't at "peer institutions" but that our campuses differ in some meaningful ways) I will, inevitably, receive applications from students that my institution doesn't want, but that yours does (and the reverse is also likely to be true--you'll receive applications from students that I want).  The trouble is that we aren't ever likely to realize this or talk to one another about it.  Instead, we'll each send our diplomatically written "thanks but no thanks" letters to our respective applicants, they will hit the trail again hoping to find a school that does want them, and we will hope that the next application we receive is from a student we do want.  Ironically, we both have pieces of information that would be helpful to each other, but we'll never share it.

So, what if an institution worked to develop collaborative partnerships with a diverse group of institutions, whose missions, enrollments, geographic locations, were different from its own .  This might be something akin to the "bridging capital" Bob Putnam describes in his book Bowling Alone, that connects us loosely to people quite different from ourselves and that facilitates access to community assets and promotes information dissemination.  If these partnerships were formalized in some way, institutions could "compete" with their peers, by collaborating with their "distant relatives.  These partnerships might give member institutions access to students they may never have found and help students by connecting them with institutions better suited for their needs, interests, goals, etc.

Typically, college athletics is not a good place to look when trying to solve broader institutional challenges; however, in the case of admissions, we might be wise to make an exception.  Like admissions, the college sports landscape is highly competitive.  Each year there are a small number of blue-chip recruits that every Div I coach wants to sign and bring to campus in the fall.  But, once you get through those 100 or so athletes for the particular sport in question, things are a lot less competitive--athletes are trying to find coaches who want them and coaches are trying to find athletes who would be a good fit for their team and campus.  What's more, the NCAA's practice of classifying athletic programs into divisions (Division I, Division II, and Division III), there is a clear and simple way of knowing if another coach's program is a "peer" or a "distant cousin."  Consequently, it isn't uncommon for a Division I coach to court a recruit and then, after realizing   that she probably won't be recruited by top Div. I programs, to make a phone call to a fellow coach at the Div. II level to let the coach know that they ought to "take a look at her."  I saw this happen fairly regularly as a student athlete.  As an example, one of my teammates at Mars Hill College in the late 90s was initially recruited by a handful of good Div. I soccer programs; however, his standardized test scores were not high enough to qualify him to compete at the Div. I level (due to NCAA regulations).  At that point, the coach from one of these programs contacted his friend who was the head coach at Mars Hill and let him know that this player may be a good fit for the program.  In this situation, both my friend and Mars Hill benefited.  We got a great player who was a four year starter and all-region player, and he got a nice scholarship and a great experience at a small liberal arts college.  The Div. I coach didn't benefit directly from this exchange; however, in coaching, reputation is everything, so he likely benefited indirectly.  The difference, then, between athletics and admissions is that when an athlete isn't a good fit for a team, there is at least some chance that the coach who has turned him down might be able to help him find another home.

While it would take some coordination and there would definitely be complexities to work out, is there any reason why this sort of sharing and collaboration among distantly related institutions couldn't happen at the level of general admissions and even be formalized in some way?  If it were to happen, it would seem to require a few things:

1)  The right kind of groupings or consortiums:  As mentioned, if everyone in the partnership is competing for the same students, it isn't likely that much sharing will take place.  So, member institutions would need to be different enough that they aren't drawing from the same applicant pools.  At the same time, if the institutions are too different, they aren't likely to have applicants that, although not a good fit for one institution, would fit somewhere else.

2)  Very clear understanding of one another's missions:  If the members of the group don't know each other well (their missions, their geographic locales, their academic offerings, etc.), they won't be positioned to make good referrals.

3)  Lots and lots of trust and good will:  As with any social contract, the success of an arrangement like this would require a collection of campuses that are willing to commit to act in the interest of one another and of the students they serve.  At the point that one member starts to hold onto students who would be better served by another member of the group, just to bump enrollments and increase tuition, things will fall apart.  Similarly, if back-room alliances between selected members result, the whole enterprise is in trouble.

I'm not overly familiar with the admissions landscape, so it's possible that this proposal has grown from a gross naivete on my part.  But, as an occasional idealist and advocate for the power of community, I want to think that it has promise (or, better yet, that it is already happening in some corner of higher ed and I don't know it).