The Fund Raiser

Bowled Over

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By Mark J. Drozdowski

Any time a new board member starts his tenure at our college, I jump at the chance to offer my own version of orientation. Plebes are so impressionable, so free of the jaded weariness that many years of dedicated service can bring. I figure it's my job to provide a road map clearly delineating opportunities and land mines.

So when I got word that our newest alumni board member wanted to chat, I eagerly dialed the phone. For no particular reason, I'll call this chap "Lane."

"Hi, Lane, I heard you want to learn more about your duties as a board member," I said.

"Absolutely," Lane replied. "I'm looking forward to the challenge."

"Great. Why don't we grab lunch?"

"I have a better idea," Lane countered. "You bowl?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, bowling."

"I guess," I blurted before I could conjure up some debilitating injury that would render such activity impossible. I'm not averse to bowling, mind you, and I've actually enjoyed the sport on occasion, especially when I've been too inebriated to care who's watching me. But somehow bowling during business hours, in a suit, with a board member, seemed, well, somewhat undignified. Nonetheless, duty called.

"What kind of bowling?"

"Tenpin. None of that candlepin stuff. By the way, I also want to discuss our capital campaign."

Seemed like a recipe for a jolly time.

We met at the local alley, and upon entering I instantly recognized a familiar smell that brought me back to previous bowling adventures. Not the smoke: I mean the smell of dirty shoes. I knew I had to get myself a pair.

The attendant found my size and, after inspecting one shoe closely, sprayed it with disinfectant in an attempt to eradicate whatever life form was still making a home in it. He then pushed a score sheet in my direction and pointed me toward my destination. Accepting my fate, I turned and saw Lane coming in.

"Looks like we're on five and six." Lane didn't need to visit the shoe guy because he'd brought his own pair. He also had his own ball. I, meanwhile, had to find one that fit my fingers and didn't have chunks bitten out of it.

As I was slipping on my red-and-brown-striped shoes, which happened to match my tie, I ventured into the campaign conversation.

"You mentioned our campaign," I reminded Lane. "What do you want to know?"

"For starters, why is it so small?"

"Small?" I asked, thinking his opening salvo didn't bode well. "It's more money than we've ever tried to raise. By far."

"Yeah, but it's a pittance compared to the billions some big universities are getting," Lane retorted. "Some place just announced over $4-billion. I think it was Stanford."

"It was," I said. "Actually, $4.3-billion. Columbia and Cornell launched $4-billion campaigns around the same time. Yale and Virginia are aiming for $3-billion. Harvard may soon eclipse them all."

"And yet," he continued, "we're at, what, $15-million?"

"Yeah, give or take."

"So why so low?"

"We're smaller, younger, have fewer alumni, have fewer rich alumni, have fewer fund raisers, and have less history of fund raising," I explained. "Other than that, we're pretty similar."

"But will $15-million make a difference?" Lane asked as he sidled up to the ball return, grabbed his monogrammed orb, and spun it feverishly in a towel. Properly buffed, the ball came to rest under his chin while Lane studied his target. He had obviously perfected his delivery over time -- five steps, a graceful glide across the floor, a smooth arc of a follow-through. His ball teetered along the edge of the gutter before making a sharp left turn into the belly of the pins. Strike one.

"Absolutely," I assured him.

"As much as $4-billion will make at Stanford?"

I thought about that as I prepared for my initial toss. I tried to emulate Lane, though my approach more resembled Willem Dafoe staggering across a rice paddy. My ball, like Lane's, traveled along the precipice of the gutter for most of its journey, but instead dropped in, bobbed along for a bit and snuck out just in time to nick the ten-pin.

"One pin," I informed Lane. "But let's get back to your question, which I'll answer in a couple of ways. First, no, we won't see the kind of dramatic transformation Stanford might realize through its campaign. Their goal is about 2,800 times larger than ours, and they're not 2,800 times bigger. On the other hand, an individual donor can make more of an impact here with $1-million than he could there."

Lane sashayed his way to another strike. "How so?"

"Simple," I said before heaving my ball, which landed with a thunk and made its way down the middle. My momentary dreams of a dramatic result quickly faded as I watched the headpin and the three behind it fall, leaving the rest to mock me while I pondered the physics. "Four."

"A $1-million gift," I continued, "could establish a center, or endow a chair, or name a building. It would cause a big splash here. That same gift at Stanford doesn't make the front page of the campus newspaper. Look at it this way: Our expenses are less, so that money would represent a larger percentage of our budget."

"But their campaign made every front page," Lane said, buffing his ball again. "I can't believe institutions that rich can convince people they need more money."

"The bar keeps rising," I said as Lane walked back, dejected over having left the seven-pin standing, "but donors keep meeting the challenge. I wonder if it has to stop sometime."

"You think?"

"Well, for starters," I suggested, "there aren't enough billionaires to go around. Often the lead gift in a campaign will equal 20 percent of the goal. If you get much higher, you'd be looking at a $1-billion gift. That's a bit outrageous, no? Or you would have to get many more eight- and nine-figure donations. And with campaigns running every decade, donors might become tapped out. You can make a 'gift of a lifetime' only once.

"Then again," I thought aloud while removing my shoe to scratch my foot, "we're anticipating this great intergenerational transfer of wealth over the next 50 years. Some estimates put that figure at $40-trillion. So maybe a $10-billion campaign isn't so crazy. The bottom line is, Wealthy alumni will always support their alma maters, even if the public believes these institutions are demonstrating greed, not need."

"Meanwhile," Lane replied, "we'll have to be satisfied with $15-million."

A few more marks and some fancy calculus put his score over 250. I managed to spare in the final frame and eke out a 100-something. "I do want to talk about my role in this campaign," Lane said as he lowered his ball into its leather case, "and how I might motivate other alums to give. Let's take a break and get a beer."

Finally, I thought. Something right up my alley.