The Final Four have played their last games of the season with fierce competitive spirit, the contest won by the men from Kansas and the women from Tennessee. But the madness of mid-March and early April is not only reserved for the NCAA — for this season is also lead-up to commencement and the sprint to secure the ultimate graduation speaker is underway.

“Back in the day,” a phrase I have grown fond of saying now that I’ve entered the current stage of my career, commencement ceremonies were pleasant affairs, designed to honor the students who had completed their course of study and earned their degrees with a modest, if classic, celebration: lines of graduates in academic regalia, processing two-by-two along with members of the faculty and staff, led by the head marshal and her mace, flags waving and Sir Edward Elgar’s music echoing from the instruments of the school’s marching band. At most halls of ivy, a few guests were invited to receive an honorary degree — perhaps the mayor, congressman, prominent alumnus, or benefactor. And the university’s president gave a charge to the class, wishing the students well in their forthcoming endeavors. Parents rarely forgot the moment. Students rarely remembered a word of the speech. On a sunny day, all was right with the world, mellow and full of tradition.

During the late 1960s and early 70s, the ceremonies dramatically changed, they took on a political quality. From coast to coast, as campuses experienced the heated disruptions of the Vietnam War protests, graduations became opportunities for activist, springtime occasions with placards held high and speakers heckled. In some cases entire commencements were canceled due to the concern of potential violence. As a dean, I myself called one off at Boston University after a credible bomb threat. Out of those tumultuous times came two unhappy innovations, the first of which I call signs and symbols: wearing armbands and writing slogans on mortar boards, making statements — sometimes advocating noble causes and sometimes making no social statement at all, just appreciative love. “Hi, Mom and Dad. I made it!”

The second innovation was borrowed from Madison Avenue: the world of public relations. Even from show business. Speakers who were decried by students drew attention to the campus itself. Frustrating a speaker from addressing graduation was seen as challenging the very nature of a university community, which has almost always treasured academic freedom. Free speech. The First Amendment. Alumni responses poured in, the controversies took on a very public air and the press enjoyed the action. After all, there is nothing “newsworthy” about a typical commencement, but give a TV reporter a picture with moving parts, and we were feeding red meat to a lion.

Administrators thought perhaps it would be more agreeable to the students, not to mention themselves, if the school identified some honorees without political baggage, maybe a well-respected writer or a musician, news anchor or media star: Walter Cronkite rather than the white-bread alumnus who happened to be the Secretary of Defense. And on some campuses the students asked for, and were granted, a ballot on speakers. Sometimes, the administration retained control of main ceremony but ceded to students the selection of class-day orators.

I must confess, I fell into that very trap. Each year I wrote to the famous: alumni and those with no institutional affiliations — we would honor them and their presence honored us — a win-win. I was good at it. GW was a draw. And we scored big time. Each year better than the previous one. And the students loved the celebrity and came to expect it. By March, the student newspaper would wonder aloud about the upcoming festivities. Who will speak this year, they asked, and soon they offered their own suggestions. “Get Bono!”

Over the decades, the voices of protest turned from politics to fame or perhaps celebrity. More than once I heard students complain that the speaker at last year’s commencement was “more famous” than the one at their own ceremony and, of course, not only is fame fleeting, but it is relative. Someone adorning the cover of People Magazine often had far more cachet than a person selected from the roster of Nobel Prize winners. Each year the news magazines print a list of speakers on campuses in a manner not unlike the U.S. News and World Report rankings. (Now that’s an idea, how about adding “quality” of commencement speaker to the magazine’s ratings formula?)

Institutions began paying a fee to a graduation speaker for appearing, as if commencement was a Las Vegas gig, a weekend show. The honor of being invited should, of course, be reward enough, not to mention the ego value of the honorary degree. But as I said, headliners — not unlike Final Four selections — make alumni and future applicants very happy. So after 30 years of chasing the headline, last year I almost became one myself when it was announced by the trustees that I would personally give the graduation speech, in the final year that I would preside over a GW commencement. What I heard from undergraduates is, “What, you couldn’t find anyone more famous?” And then there was the killer line, “After paying this tuition, we deserve someone better than you. We have been listening to you for four years!” So I modestly withdrew.

Perhaps I’m becoming a bit more mellow or maybe it is a just a case of old-fashioned sour grapes, but I’ve come to believe that the institutions, like Columbia University and others, who have retained olde ways, the annual commencement address given by the president, without an outside speaker and simply awarding a couple of LL.D. degrees to honorees who accept the parchment in silent gratitude have got it right. Focus belongs on the graduating class before the podium, not on a stranger at the podium.

Go forth, be strong.