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"Mr Rich, there's a lawyer out her to see you?”

“Not another lawyer,” he said. “Okay,” he coughed, “send him in.”

The door opened.

“Hey, come on in.” He waved away the cigar smoke, and adjusted his vest as he stood up. Two large men, hands in their coat pockets, stood by the door.

“Hello. Mr. Rich?”

“That's me. But, call me Jimmy, we're friends here. So, you're a lawyer, huh?”

“Sorry to tell you this...Jimmy...I have to serve you with these papers.”

The two large men moved quickly toward the lawyer, but Jimmy scowled and waved them back.

“You're getting sued civilly under the Rico Act. O'Bannon vs NCAA. It's a class action.”

“Not again.” he said. He took the papers and toss them on the desk. Then he looked up. “Wait, I never took no lady across no state line for any 'Immoral purposes.' Hell I go to Vegas for that.” He laughed and blew smoke from his cigar.

“No no, that's the Mann Act. This is the Rico Act. The Racketeering act.

“I know, I know, the one they used to bust up the Mafia, Organized Crime, hassle the teamsters. Criminal stuff. But I'm Jimmy Rich, president of the NCAA. Collegiate Athletics. We ain't the Mob. We run a class act here, my friend. I think you got the wrong office. Federal Reserve is just down the hall.”

“No, I think I found the right place. Issue here is whether student-athletes should get paid when you use their images on clothing, and in DVD's, sports games, and TV replays, after they leave sports.

The lawyer put his palms up. “Seems student-athletes have to sign up with the NCAA, or they don't play. They don't really have a choice, do they. How much do you make a year off these athletes?”

“Kind of question is that?” asked Jimmy. He shook his head, looked off at his two body guards. “It's a living. Look around. We do okay. What, making money somehow against the law now?”

“We calculate it's around $4 Billion a year. N.C.A.A. is Tax-Exempt too, right?”

“SO?” He squinted at the lawyer. “We're a business. That a crime, too?” He chewed on his cigar.

“Well, seems you're a lot like a protection racket. Pay me money and we will protect your storefront. If not, a molotov cocktail hits the display window. Poof, no more store, no more income. Same thing, if you don't sign, no way to really play football, basketball, you name it. Athletes work hard for you and get nothing in return.

“Molotov cocktail? What are you talkin'?” He slapped the table. “You been watching to much TV, buddy.” The two large men by the door laughed hard.

“Well...Jimmy...the players have had it. Christian Laettner's three point buzzer-beater in the 1992 NCAA tournament. How much have you made off of that? I've seen it in commercials for nearly twenty years. You pay Laettner anything for it?”

“He'd be nothing without us. Nothing.” said Jimmy.

"All we're saying is that no one has a right to own another person’s image for eternity without paying him for it. Student athletes should have a say in how you use it during their lifetime."

Jimmy poked his cigar in the air. “Look, Mr. Know it all lawyer, we got lawyers too, you know. This ain't the first time we've been sued for this. Ungrateful bastards.” He cleared his throat, took a plastic card out of his bottom drawer, and read it out loud, his finger moving along the line.

'At this preliminary stage of this case, these wild accusations do not diminish the N.C.A.A.’s confidence that we will ultimately prevail in this civil action.” He looked up. “You get all that?”

He leaned back, and jammed the cigar in his mouth. “We're here for protection..er..I mean to protect a young man's ..and woman's amateurism. That's what we do. We're here to prevent all this commercialization. Keep sports clean. Young kids just want to go out there to play ball. That's what they want. We provide all that for them.”

“And it they don't play ball?”

“What?”

“What gives you the right to make money off Ed O’Bannon and his teammates without paying them anything? It's been fourteen years since he's played basketball. We can still see images of him on DVDs and video games. N.C.A.A. cashes in big, but where's his?”.

Jimmy's began to sweat just above his bushy eyebrows. “It's Electronic Arts. They're the real crooks here. Making all that money off all them video games. You think this is an easy job? Computer games. They're the ones you should be hounding, not us.” He pointed his cigar at the lawyer. “Coming in here, talking to me like this.”

“Kinda like slavery”

“What?”

“Kid leaves the plantation and now 15 years later he has a wife and children and the plantation still owns him, no matter what.”

Jimmy jumped up, his chair fell back. The two large men lunged forward. “WHAT? Are you NUTS? Slavery? That's not funny. Get the hell out of here! I ain't no criminal.”

The two large men were now beside the lawyer, hoovering. Clenched fists.

And Jimmy was shouting. “Selling some jerseys, some DVDs. They're getting a college education free of charge. A damn scholarship, and all they have to do is play football, baseball, whatever. They'd do it anyway. Hell nobody cares. They couldn't pay for college anyway. And how about the dumb ones who couldn't get into college any other way, you think of that? We get them in. That's what we do. Why don't you cry babies wise up. Wasn't for us promoting them, they'd never go nowhere. That's what we do . We make it all happen.” Again he pointed his cigar.

“Sonofabitch lawyers come in here. They can always say no. They can always say, I don't want to sign.

“Like that is going to happen.

“They're usually too filled of gratitude. I'm proud of what we do here.”

Jimmy stared at the lawyer for a second, chewing on his cigar. The two large men glowered down at the lawyer. Then Jimmy looked back at the card on his desk. And read, “I deny categorical any infringements of the rights of any former or current student-athlete.” He looked up. “Okay. Like I say, we're big here, too big to fail, like all them banks. You got nothin.' And there's nothin' you can do anyway. Hell, without us there'd be no athletics in school. Haven't you heard? There a recession going on.

“People will be shocked at how down right nasty all this is. It's thievery, you ask me. You're not a public service. You're all about making money. Every place else in America you share the proceeds. Profits here go to men with cigars, and big bellies, not the struggling students, playing soccer, or baseball, or football.”

“Out!” He snapped his fingers. “Get this chump out of here.” The two large men seized the lawyer violently by the arms and jerked him toward the door.

“You got no idea how tough it is in this racke...ah...er...business. Always somebody on your ass to get it done. So what if we make a few bucks. Kids are getting a college education.”

As they pitched the lawyer out into the hallway, he heard these last words on the subject from the N.C.A.A.

“You clowns don't like it you can kiss my...” Then the door slammed shut.

That's my take. Should these student-athletes get a piece of the pie? You tell me.

CorneliusButterfield.com

CorneliusButterfield@yahoo.com