I was absolutely living the good life. . . . When my first contract was up, if my football career had ended at that moment, I wouldn’t have had any money at all. I spent everything I had.
—Chris McAlister, former Ravens cornerback and tenth overall draft choice in 19991
Chris McAlister’s saga is all too familiar. In 2009, he was cut with two years left on his seven-year, $55 million contract. Things went downhill ever since. Having squandered about $50 million, McAlister is living at home with his parents: “I have been unemployed since 2009. I have no income . . . I live in my parent’s home. My parents provide me with my basic living expenses as I do not have the funds to do so.” He also owes multiple child support payments.2
Dozens of media accounts portray former NFL players as down and out after extravagantly spending the fortunes they made in the game. It’s accepted wisdom that NFL players and alumni are both rich and irresponsible. The master narratives: “Blowing money!” and “Going broke!” Sadly, too many of the stories are true. Nevertheless, and despite the sensational headlines, most former NFL players are doing fine; we just don’t hear about them. “Warren Sapp Is Broke!” is simply more intriguing than “Not Broke: How NFL Players Stay Financially Stable after the Game Ends,” even though the modest everyday prosperity of life after football is far more common than most people realize.3 For example, NFL alumni report higher annual incomes than their age peers and most have accumulated substantial assets.4
And there’s probably an Andre Blackburn for every Chris McAlister. Blackburn played in the same era as McAlister. A third round draft choice and solid starter for over a decade, he never matched McAlister’s star status or huge contracts. Nor did he subscribe to McAlister’s spending habits: “My 12 years in the NFL, I didn’t spend any of the money that I made through my regular season contracts.”5 Blackburn lived off his signing bonuses, postseason game checks, and side income. He’s hosted radio and TV shows, done promotional appearances and autograph signings. Since retiring, he’s run a modest chain of franchise ice cream shops. He lives a comfortable life, nothing extravagant, but the public never hears his story.
It’s important to be realistic about both earning and spending in the NFL. First, players since the free agency era have earned a lot of money—often millions—if they actually held roster spots for a few years. Second, players prior to free agency made far less. Third, and perhaps most significantly, due to the vagaries of NFL contracts and salary structures, as well as the low pay scales for older retirees, the money made in the NFL is often overestimated.6 When figuring a player’s cumulative assets, we must also remember that a player may pay his agent around three percent of what he earns. Taxes take another substantial chunk of his salary, perhaps 35 to 47 percent for top-earning players, and around 25 percent for younger players on the bottom salary rungs. Subtract union dues, retirement savings, the cost of game tickets for family and friends, and other miscellaneous “payroll deductions,” and some players actually take home as little as 40 percent of their gross pay.7 No doubt most former players pocketed a healthy sum, but for many, it doesn’t amount to millions.
We should also recognize that life in and after the NFL is legitimately expensive in ways that most people don’t recognize. There are myriad hidden costs—expenditures that players themselves fail to properly take into account. Even the most frugal players can be surprised by the cost of NFL living. George Koonce never really lived in the “fast lane,” but his life proved pricier than he anticipated:
Probably the biggest expense is your residence—your house. Actually, it’s usually two houses, multiple residences. You go to Green Bay and you need a place to stay during the season. So you maybe take a hotel until you’re sure you make the squad, then you lease an apartment or condo. That’s not too bad in Green Bay, but it’s a lot in New York or San Francisco. And it’s probably for the full year. Most of the guys split right away [after the season] because they have families back home. So you leave town and you get a place there too. Everyone advises you to invest in property, so you buy a house. Lots of guys, for example, played at the “U” [University of Miami] so they buy nice places in Florida. But you still have the place in Green Bay to pay for too. So, even if you aren’t trying to be extravagant, you’re paying off two big houses. . . . You got property taxes, and upkeep. You got two sets of everything, one for each house. You might be paying somebody half the time just to look after each place, two yard maintenance guys. Then you have two telephone bills, two cable bills, two electric bills, and two homes to furnish.8
Players and their families also spend a lot on travel—moving back and forth between residences. Running a player’s household has hidden expenses too. While wives and girlfriends typically manage all household details, unattached players often hire domestic surrogates—professionals to cook, or entourage members to manage mundane household details while the players are “at work.” This isn’t a personal extravagance. It’s a household management strategy.
Then there’s “personal maintenance” as well. Many players invest heavily in staying healthy, recovering from injury, working out, and staying in shape. Recently, standout linebacker James Harrison recounted just how much he spends on his body, admitting to keeping six different masseuses, a homeopathic doctor, chiropractor, and acupuncturist on his payroll:
My body is what helps me to make money. Whatever there is that I need to do to try and make myself better or get myself healthy, I’m going to do it. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to say that I spend anywhere between $400,000 and $600,000 on body work, as far as taking care of my body, year-in and year-out. . . . I rent a hyperbaric chamber [a sealed, pressurized compartment used to deliver 100 percent oxygen] when I’m in Arizona [in the off season]. I have massages, and I bring people in from New York, Arizona to where I’m at.9
Harrison’s former Steelers teammates used to call him a “massage whore,” in honor of the several hours of massages he received each day. Excessive spending? Perhaps. But, for some, it’s a reasonable career investment.
When all is said and done, most NFL players earn substantial money, yet their everyday lives are justifiably expensive. The complexities of their financial lives—both during and after football—certainly bear scrutiny, if only to understand how some do so well after they leave the game, while others’ finances plummet.
“Man, you crazy!” exclaimed Terrell Owens when he heard about Adam “Pacman” Jones’s spending spree. Evidently without hyperbole, Jones told a 2012 NFL Rookie Symposium that he once spent over a million dollars in one Las Vegas weekend.10 Others drop $100,000 on birthday presents for themselves, burn hundred-dollar bills for fun, and run up $100,000 bar tabs.11 Beyond such shocking anecdotes, however, a more substantial basis for the myth that most former NFL players are broke traces back to a 2009 Sports Illustrated article, “How (and Why) Athletes Go Broke,” by Pablo S. Torre. Literally scores of journalists, authors, financial analysts, and internet sites repeat, if not quote, the following maxim:
Athletes from the nation’s biggest and most profitable leagues—the NBA, NFL, and Major League Baseball—are suffering from a financial pandemic. Although salaries have risen steadily during the last three decades, reports from a host of sources (athletes, players’ associations, agents and financial advisers) indicate that . . . [b]y the time they have been retired for two years, 78% of former NFL players have gone bankrupt or are under financial stress because of joblessness or divorce.12
Torre is a highly reputable journalist and SI is a trusted source, yet a thorough internet search fails to reveal any further details about how this figure was derived. SI and myriad other sources provide copious anecdotal evidence that NFL players and former players are extravagant spenders, but the claim that four out of five former players “have gone bankrupt or are under financial stress” is vague and problematic.
Sociologist Joel Best cautions us about media aphorisms that use terms like “epidemic” or “pandemic” because such claims are often more sensationalized and rhetorical than factual. With the proliferation of internet journalists, pundits, and bloggers, word travels far and fast, even if it’s not verifiable, so contemporary axioms are even more suspect.13 While not questioning SI’s basic premise that many NFL players squander fortunes, we’re skeptical about the “78 percent” figure.14 The NFL Player Care study systematically assessed a large random sample of former NFL players and found little to support the claim that a vast majority “go broke”—“losing most or all of their money”—as SI trumpets and myriad others echo. The study did find that about ten percent of the former players surveyed had incomes below twice the poverty level, but also established the annual median income of the sample at around $88,000.15 Retired players sometimes spoke to us about financial difficulties, but only one of several dozen that we interviewed indicated that he might be under severe financial duress. Many said that things were not as “flush” as during their playing days, but they didn’t say they were broke. The upshot of our skepticism is not to deny that many former NFL players suffer financial woes, but to caution readers about accepting undocumented, sensationalized claims, and to temper the image of all former players as wanton spendthrifts.
That said, far too many former NFL players have little to show for their years of financial bonanza. Warren Sapp, former All-Pro defensive lineman and media star since his retirement, may be the most egregious recent example. According to media reports, Sapp made $82,185,056 during his NFL career. He ended up with $826.04 in his bank account. In 2012, he filed for bankruptcy, declaring that he had $6.45 million in assets but owed more than $6.7 million. Among his assets: a 15,000-square-foot house, purchased for $4.1 million, complete with swimming pool, water slide, two-story wine cellar, five full bathrooms, a movie theater, and a lake of its own; 240 pairs of Air Jordan sneakers; and a $1,200 lion skin rug. Sapp had two children with his ex-wife. He fathered four other children with four different women. He owes them a total of $75,495 a month in alimony and child support. Since he quit playing, Sapp has worked on Showtime’s Inside the NFL and the NFL Network’s NFL Total Access as well as finishing second on season seven of Dancing with the Stars. He’s probably made over $100,000 per month since he retired, but he can’t seem to make ends meet.16
Andre Rison, an All-Pro veteran of seven NFL teams, used money to “make it rain”—tossing currency in the air and watching it float to the ground. Rison and Leon Searcy, who played 11 years with four teams, were fond of “bling”—expensive jewelry. “Custom diamond pieces, chains, crosses, you name it. I guarantee I spent $1 million on jewelry,” admits Rison. Searcy indulged in clothes: “You got to dress up. Everybody has their suit guy. Tailor made. The Rolex and bracelet on your wrist. And then you had to throw in a mink.”17 Hall of Famer Deion Sanders reportedly owned nearly 2,000 suits.18 Adds JaMarcus Russell, the first overall pick of the 2007 NFL draft, “Probably the dumbest thing I ever bought was a fox coat, with a big hood on it and a gray stripe running down it. Made me almost look like a silver back [gorilla]. I wore it maybe three times.” But these are petty cash items compared to the extravagance of Keith McCants, the number four pick in the 1990 draft: “$7.6 million, 2.5 million a year. No. 1 all time—that’s the biggest contract in the NFL for a defensive player. . . . I bought myself a yacht, a mansion, and a couple of cars. That ain’t a million dollars. That’s several million. I pretty much gave it away.”19
Many players feel they’ve struck it rich when they reach the NFL. Top draft choices receive million-dollar signing bonuses, but even an undrafted rookie receives a $925 weekly stipend during training camp. If he makes the practice squad, he’ll earn $5,700 a week. If he makes the roster, he jumps to over $400,000 for the season. It’s new financial territory for most players.
Some say that an NFL player signing his first contract is like a lottery winner—a kid who’s suddenly rich, with absolutely no financial responsibilities, acumen, or expertise. Virtually overnight, some players have more money than they know what to do with; even the lowest paid have more cash on hand than they’ve ever seen. But, like other lottery winners, NFL players discover pitfalls that they can’t handle. Tales abound of lottery winners losing their winnings almost as fast as they get them via spending sprees, shaky investments, conniving wives or boyfriends, or shady money mangers.20 Too often, newly minted NFL players take the same paths. Research on the happiness of lottery winners says there is no guarantee of contentment.21 There seems to be a ceiling on just how happy new-found wealth can make a person. They call it “happiness adaptation.” But with plenty of cash on hand, what’s to stop a player from escalating his spending in search of greater heights, upping the ante on exhilaration.22 Not all players take the financial plunge, but they’re all tempted.
“With athletes, there’s an extraordinary metamorphosis of financial challenge,” says sports agent Leigh Steinberg, who has represented eight number-one NFL draft choices (and who, ironically, filed for bankruptcy himself in 2012). Some NFL observers say newly rich rookies often can’t write a check and have never opened a bank account. They don’t know a thing about taxes and payroll deductions. Steinberg adds, “Coming off college scholarships, they probably haven’t even learned the basics of budgeting or keeping receipts.”23 The NFL and NFLPA are combating this through aggressive programming at the league-wide and team levels. They hold orientation symposia and classes directed specifically at teaching younger players how to manage their finances.24 Nevertheless, many players simply aren’t ready to take advantage of the advice. Former NFL defensive back and current investment analyst Eugene Profit elaborates, “[Players] don’t have the experience to handle the amount of money they are suddenly endowed with. Naturally, they want to go out and do the one thing they always dreamed about. ‘I need to buy that house on the hill or that Mercedes.’”25 It’s not that football players or lottery winners are incapable of handling their good financial fortunes. It’s just that they may be completely unprepared for the sudden opportunity and responsibility. They simply aren’t ready for “prime time.”
“It wasn’t money. ‘Loot!’ That’s what we called it back in the day. . . . My first check was for $500,000. Then I went on a splurge.” That was Andre Rison’s approach to money management. A cornerback for five different teams, Dante Wesley’s first contract was relatively modest, but, as he recalls, “The first thing I bought for myself was a Cadillac Escalade.” Bart Scott, a linebacker for the Ravens and Jets, was so far out of his element that he didn’t know what to do with his bonus check: “I cashed my first NFL check at a check cashing joint, and they just laughed at me.” But as Leon Searcy reminds us, “I am here to tell you. It doesn’t last forever. Before you know it, I looked up and I was broke.”26 Take it from Raghib “Rocket” Ismail, former NFL and CFL wide receiver: “I was so busy focusing on football that the first year was suddenly over. I’d started with this $4 million base salary, but then I looked at my bank statement, and I just went, ‘What the . . .?’”27 Incredulous at today’s relative wealth, Will Siegel, a 1950s veteran, agrees that contemporary players aren’t prepared to manage their money:
How can you take a young man right out of college [and give him big money]. All the way from high school, he gets all this praise, praise, praise. Then they give him $20 million dollars, and you question that he has trouble. . . . I’m surprised there is not more trouble than there is. . . . You give them that kind of money, and you wonder why they go out and drink and party? Why would you not?28
Roman Oben sums it up in street terms: “It’s ‘ghetto economics.’ Guys have been poor for so long that they have to show people how much money they make.”29 While the term “ghetto economics” is generally used derisively to characterize supposed patterns of economic behavior that trap ghetto residents in poverty, it does resonate with some players’ experience. Tommy Jones, for example, traces his free spending after being drafted in 1993 to his “street” background, growing up poor, and wanting something better.
It has to do with the habit that I brought to the league. . . . In Compton, where I grew up, gang banging was at the all-time high, but my mom was working two jobs as a nurse to barely support her family. . . . When I went to [the NFL], there was no supervision. I was on my own. I was an eighth round draft pick, so I made $118,000 my first year. I got $25,000 to sign, but now you are talking about a youngster in Virginia making $7,000, $8,000 every few weeks, and I had never seen that much money before, and to me that was a lot. . . . Now I had my own cash. That was my name on the check. I know guys that were making millions more than that, but when I cashed that $8,000 check, I was walking around with five of it in my pocket. We went to the mall. I went to the Ford dealer and put $5,000 down and got me a truck. . . . I wasn’t thinking about any mutual funds.30
Kids like Jones from the impoverished inner city—often black kids—are probably less prepared to deal with sudden wealth than others. For example, sociologist Elijah Anderson suggests that urban street values discount prioritized spending and future-oriented saving. Ostentatious displays command respect, whereas “reserve” or “prudence” may be taken as weakness.31 When he entered the NFL, Jones was no longer living in “the hood,” but it still had its sway. At age 22, his prior experience didn’t encourage a long-term, big picture approach to financial management, and vestiges of street values fueled his spending spree. He began literally establishing his worth by flaunting his cash.
While Anderson was writing about African American urban street culture, economically disadvantaged backgrounds of all sorts can leave players ill prepared to handle financial windfalls. In general, individuals from economically impoverished circumstances—black or white—are not inclined to save any surplus income, if indeed any surplus exists. There’s some evidence that at low income levels, African Americans tend to save less than whites. In addition, due to their impoverished circumstances, the disadvantaged of all races tend to commit larger shares of their accumulated wealth to functional assets—such as houses and cars—and consumables. Again, blacks are more so inclined than whites.32 This might suggest that black players are less prepared to deal with sudden wealth than their white counterparts, but the more compelling factor seems to be economic disadvantage.
While the NFL is predominantly African American—and has been for quite some time—there’s little reason to believe that black players come into the league disproportionately prone to undisciplined spending, if we take socioeconomic background into account. The former players we studied come from a wide spectrum of racial and economic backgrounds, and among them, there’s only a slight correlation between their socioeconomic circumstances and a proclivity for impulsive, extravagant spending. Race doesn’t seem to be a deciding factor, either. Leaguewide, there’s no systematic data regarding the socioeconomic backgrounds of NFL players, so we’re reluctant to generalize from our sample. While players’ socioeconomic backgrounds may influence players’ readiness to deal with “financial challenge,” other factors definitely come into play.
Credit the NFL player ethos for promoting a live-for-today, “spend it while you got it” mentality that drains some players’ bank accounts. Listen carefully as even thoughtful players recount the circumstances surrounding the compulsion to spend. Player after player repeats this refrain: “I’ve made it to the NFL. I’m going to live the life.” “I deserve to spend the money I’ve made.” “If I want it, I can have it.” They’re axioms of the NFL ethos, embodiments of “livin’ large.” Raised in a frugal household, George Koonce found it hard to resist:
I watched a lot of guys around me fall prey to the rampant spending that characterizes the professional football culture, regardless of their upbringing. I was no different. There is so much excitement; you have basically just hit the lottery. Once I made the roster, my first big purchase was a 1992 white Corvette with red interior for $38,000. . . . [Later] I bought a Mercedes and a Hummer. . . . Players really go overboard on automobiles.33
The ethos is ubiquitous and stealthy. It tempted the fiscally conservative Koonce with cars, houses, and jewelry. When Tommy Jones flaunted his early earnings, his agent tried to intervene. He cautioned Jones to consider the future and curtail the spending. Jones would have none of it: “My mind was not focused on reality. It was focused on the whole persona of the NFL.”34 That persona, of course, was larger than life, and relentlessly trampled the more mundane aspects of Jones’s reality. Jones ended up with very little to show for his five years in the NFL. Brandon Gold came from a white, middle-class background, much different from Tommy Jones’s. But he, too, spent his money on cars, drugs, women, and “body maintenance.” Livin’ large clouded his long-term vision.
I had absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of money. . . . It takes a lot of money to sustain that [NFL] lifestyle. And when I talk about sustaining it, I don’t mean [just paying for] your Benz. I mean upkeeping “the machine.” That machine was me. . . . I felt like, “I’m in the pros. I’m living the fast life, and this money will continue to roll in for the rest of my life.”35
At the start of careers, the compulsion for livin’ large is hard to resist. As careers proceed, it becomes a habit that’s hard to break. Former player and current coach Darryl Gatlin reflects on how extravagant spending isn’t as much a character flaw as it is a cultural way of life.
Most people think if you have $3 million in the bank, you set for the rest of your life. . . . That is really not true. . . . If you’re obligated to living a certain lifestyle, human nature is going to say you have $3 million, you are supposed to live like you have $3 million. So you can spend $3 million. If you get a $15 million contract and you are making $4 million a year, it is hard not to go buy a million-dollar house or hard not to go buy a new Mercedes-Benz. I think players get caught up in a lifestyle that is hard to get out of when they get done playing. The more money you make, the higher your expenses are, and when you get done playing and you are not making that money anymore, it is easy to keep spending that money. You try to live that lifestyle after you finish playing, and I think that makes it hard.36
The key to Gatlin’s analysis is the phrase “obligated to living a certain lifestyle.” “Obligation” connotes a constellation of expectations that command a player to live large, to spend ostentatiously. According to Gatlin, it becomes a habitual way of living that doesn’t go away when the NFL paychecks stop. That obligation is a form of peer pressure that seems irresistible. The player ethos becomes a lifetime social contract—a commitment to the NFL lifestyle—of which players are only vaguely aware, but that encourages them to live large, even when it’s fiscally impossible.
Gatlin suggests that the mandate to live large gradually insinuates itself into players lives, but the player ethos is often boisterous and demanding. Around the locker room, players’ cars, clothes, houses, and “bling” are constantly scrutinized. If they’re not up to par, they’re ridiculed. During his playing days, Roman Oben eschewed a new Cadillac for a Toyota Land Cruiser with 68,000 miles on it. His teammates taunted him mercilessly.37 Back in the 1990s, former Pro Bowl linebacker Winfred Tubbs wasn’t up to date with his electronic technology: “I got on a plane with a cassette player, and [a teammate] would tell me, ‘They make CD players. You’re in the NFL now.’”38
Livin’ large is a competitive sport in the NFL. When winning is the only thing, players are easily trapped in a race to outspend one another. Herm Edwards calls it “keeping up with the Joneses.”39 Yet there’s another colloquial use of the term “jones,” suggesting that “keeping up with the joneses” might also mean fulfilling an intense desire for things seemingly irresistible. A “jones” is a sort of addiction. Both meanings come into play as NFL players measure themselves against their peers, practicing fiscal one-upmanship. “Stunting” to show one’s financial wherewithal can involve pricey entertainment, “bling,” cars, houses, entourages. Any form of conspicuous consumption can demonstrate livin’ large. Leon Searcy liked to flaunt his largess: “I wanted people to know that, ‘Hey, this is Leon Searcy at the big table, spending the money, popping the champagne.’ . . . That was the coolest thing, to walk into a club and say I am here. I got me a bottle. Louis the 13th, $5,000 a bottle.” Some of the off-field competitive drive comes from what some players call “helmet syndrome.” When they’re on the field, players’ faces are hidden from view by their helmets. They are even penalized if they take their helmets off while they’re in the game. Consequently, NFL players often compete for the sorts of attention that highlight their off-field personas and provide actual “face time” with the world.40
The competitive ethos and livin’ large infiltrate even the most basic principles of money management. “Man, I’m growing my $10 million into $11.2 million. That’s not sexy,” facetiously notes Darren Rovell, ESPN business reporter. “It’s not sexy to invest in a mutual fund. It is not very exciting,” chimes in Wharton Sports Institute’s Mori Taheripour. “Owning a bar, owning a club, that’s far more exciting.41 Ivan Thornton, a senior partner with the Fiduciary Management Group, notes that players often make bad investments because “the average adviser won’t give pushback because he’ll get fired. You’ll have some players earning seven percent on their investments, but then they’ll be listening to their teammate telling them there’s a guy who can get them 18 percent.”42 Everything’s a competition.
There’s another subtle form of competition at work as players judge and juggle their finances. Everyone engages in self-evaluation. We compare ourselves to others, especially those who we figure are similar to us, in order to gauge just where we stand.43 One way to conceptualize this process is “benchmarking.” We envision standards for comparison, then see if we measure up. The trap for many NFL players comes when they set unrealistic benchmarks. This becomes obvious in spending competitions, but it also affects the more basic ways players think about life and money. Recall, for example, how Darryl Gatlin almost reflexively said that if “you have $3 million, you are supposed to live like you have $3 million.” This axiom reflects the NFL ethos and embeds standards for comparison that few outside the league would share. Gatlin continues: “If a player is living off of $20,000 a month, in 12 months, he is going to spend $240,000, so he has to be making almost $450,000 to live that lifestyle after he finishes playing.”44 These are compelling observations to be sure, but they also reflect a highly skewed vision of the “real” financial world for most people.
The notion of spending $3 million sounds reasonable only in relation to circumstances where $3 million is commonplace. While that may be the case in the 21st-century NFL, it’s a far cry from “normal” standards. Not everyone needs to spend $2 million dollars for the “nice house,” as Gatlin says today’s NFL life requires. Nor would most people agree that it’s “human nature” to spend so freely, as he implies. Gatlin’s benchmarks are products of his life in the bubble. They are understandable, given what he’s seen and experienced in the NFL. When it comes time to inhabit a more mundane financial world outside the bubble, more modest benchmarks might be in order.
We see this in Andre Blackburn’s post-career success story. His benchmarks stand in vivid contrast to those Gatlin mentions:
I could have come out of [my home town] probably making $65,000 a year working for Philip Morris or Allied Chemical, probably $45,000 escalating to $65,000 within five to seven years. So I figured, I’m seeing people with that type of lifestyle, . . . they had pretty good situations, pretty stable lifestyles, families were in good communities, kids were in good schools. I knew that would be enough money that I could actually maintain a very stable happiness. So that is pretty much where I put my monetary need for off the field. I didn’t buy a car every year. I didn’t buy a lot of expensive jewelry. I have a lot of patience. . . . I was able to do something that most players don’t get a chance to do: be in the black when you leave the game.45
The key to this scenario is how Blackburn used modest yet realistic standards—lives and careers forged by college graduates entering near the bottom of a prominent local industry—as targets for his post-NFL life. Setting his NFL ego aside, he aspired to the lifestyle of others in his community who had done well for themselves by more “conventional” means. In doing so, as he modestly neglects to mention, he’s probably achieved far more economic success and security than the guys he knows who went to work for Phillip Morris.
Profligate spending may be the reason some NFL players lose their money, but bad financial advice combined with injudicious investing comes in a close second. Sports Illustrated’s Pablo Torre argues that “hiring the wrong people as advisors and trusting them far too much” are often to blame. The “wrong people” range from scam artists, to inept or unscrupulous advisors, to well intentioned friends and family members without a hint of financial expertise. Magic Johnson, one of the most successful businessmen among former professional athletes, couldn’t put it much plainer. He gets literally dozens of calls from star players asking for financial counsel, but ends discussions immediately if they mention friends and family managing their money: “It won’t even be a conversation,” says Johnson. “They hire these people not because of expertise but because they’re friends. Well, they’ll fail.”46 A bit less wealthy, but every bit as wise, Hakeem Chapman underscores Johnson’s point: “These guys are hurting, and you know why? Bad decision making. Working with their brothers, aunts, and uncles, and everybody who is going to show them how to invest their money.”47 Nearly half of NFL alumni report some form of business or investment losses at one time or another, and about 42 percent say they have received bad financial advice.48
One source of trouble is too much money invested in real estate and private equity investments,49 according to Ed Butowsky, managing partner of Chapwood Capital Investment Management. They typically involve personal connections and high risk, a recipe for far too many investment fiascos. Says Butowsky, “Coming out of college, you don’t want to hear about the different and safe ways you can invest your money. You’re more concerned about . . . the women, clubs and who knows who. You are concerned about the wrong things. . . . Young guys don’t want to take the time to learn about how they should be investing their money.”50 Bart Scott elaborates: “Guys open up restaurants, and that is one of the most volatile industries that you can get into. . . . Restaurants in the hood. You know, [friends] ask you to do it, and then you ask for their business plan, and they say what is that? Exactly.” Car washes are also popular investments, according to Andre Rison: “For some reason, professional athletes got this fad with buying car washes.” One of these car wash deals went bad for Leon Searcy: “It wasn’t no car wash. It was a fake deal. A friend of mine that I trusted. I gave him a lot of money to take care of it, and I haven’t seen him or the money since.” Rison also liked to dabble in the music industry: “I spent a lot of money in music. . . . If you bumped into me back in the ’90s, and you were an aspiring guitar player or keyboard player, I gave you money to go buy equipment.”51
How do players get into so much financial trouble with the throng of prospective advisors trailing them around? Perhaps that’s the problem. Many players fall under the sway of seemingly well-intentioned adults when they’re mere teens. Remember, De’Anthony Thomas has been Snoop Dog’s protégé since he was 12. Agents court players from the earliest opportunity, often skirting college rules and NFL standards. Unofficial advisors—often known as “street agents”—crawl out from under just about every rock. Even if players enlist legitimate professional help, there’s no guarantee that an agent or legal representative will provide solid investment advice, or that financial advisors will handle players’ money with players’ long-range prospects in mind.
The NFLPA requires player agents and financial advisors to be registered and certified. An agent must pass a background check, have undergraduate and postgraduate degrees, attend two NFLPA-sponsored seminars, and pass a written examination covering the CBA, the salary cap, player benefits, NFLPA regulations governing contract advisors, substance abuse and performance-enhancing-drug policies, and other relevant topics. Ongoing compliance with the NFLPA regulations is required to maintain good standing. This includes paying an annual fee, having professional liability insurance, attending an annual NFLPA seminar for certified contract advisors, updating application information annually, and negotiating at least one player contract within a three-year period.52 Registered NFLPA financial advisors must hold a bachelor’s degree, have eight years of licensed experience (FINRA, CPA, insurance license, or license to practice law), have professional liability insurance, no civil, criminal, or regulatory history related to fraud, and have no pending client complaints.53
Regulated or not, shady advisors have made quite a mark on the NFL financial scene. According to the NFLPA, before closer scrutiny was instituted, at least 78 players lost more than $42 million between 1999 and 2002 because they trusted money to agents and financial advisors with questionable backgrounds. Included in these cases are Luigi DiFonzo, a former felon who claimed he was an Italian count and defrauded players such as Hall of Fame running back Eric Dickerson, and William “Tank” Black, who built a pyramid scheme that took about $12 million from at least a dozen players. In 2008, Atlanta hedge fund manager Kirk Wright was convicted on 47 counts of fraud and money laundering in a scheme involving more than $150 million. His client list included at least eight NFL players and former players, several of whom lost millions. In 2008, Jeff Blake, who played for seven NFL teams from 1992 to 2005, sent a shady e-mail message to 102 other retired players on behalf of Triton Financial, an investment firm in Austin, Texas, whose “athlete services” department Blake directs along with several other former players, including Chris Weinke and brothers Ty and Koy Detmer. The e-mail unabashedly claimed that “Triton is averaging 32% annualized return on its investments within the past five years.” A close examination of Triton revealed no such success. The firm wasn’t even registered with the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission. There are dozens of other documented accounts of scams and schemes, shady investments, and tax fraud that have cost players nearly everything they ever earned in the NFL.54
Not only are some agents frauds, but they overcharge their clients as well. “It’s basically large-scale shoplifting,” says Ed Butowsky. “Athletes don’t know industry standards, so virtually every one of them is being robbed.” Stock brokers, for example, may tout bonds with longer maturities because the commissions on them are bigger. Other advisors may overcharge for portfolio management, getting two or three percent instead of the customary one percent. Butowsky recalls meeting a former NFL player whose financial advisor—a former player himself—said that he couldn’t reveal how much he was charging to manage the player’s tax-exempt municipal bonds “because of the Patriot Act.” Butowsky said the advisor was taking $146,000 every year.55 ESPN business analyst Darren Rovell calls the NFLPA’s efforts to regulate agents and advisors “a joke,” claiming it’s something of a scam itself, a revenue stream for the union. Says Rovell, “I don’t think that they can look you in the eye and tell you that they are doing a better job at controlling who should be an official advisor and who shouldn’t.”56
Grave danger also lies in players’ willingness to let agents take over other aspects of their lives. Butowsky says agents are more than ready: “‘I am going to take care of your insurance. I am going to take care of helping you find a house. I am going to take care of getting you endorsements,’ which very rarely happens by the way. ‘And I am going to take care of your finances.’”57 Players don’t see their bills, or keep track of payments. They’re in the dark about taxes. They lose touch with their own money, learn only what their advisors want them to know, and often end up with far less than they thought they had. “You think of sharks in the hood, you think of gang bangers and drug dealers. You haven’t seen nothing ’til you step into some of these white collar criminals. . . . Look at all the players who got caught up in the pyramid schemes,” laments Bart Scott. Butowsky concurs: “I know many people who have had money wired out of their accounts to private equity accounts or into other accounts without their knowledge. A lot of signature forgery, and that is criminal.”58 Unfortunately, the humiliation of being duped keeps players quiet about their losses, allowing the scamming to thrive. It’s a sad story, told too late, according to Leon Searcy:
NFL guys are very egotistic. They don’t like anybody to get the best of them on the field or off of the field. So, when they do get [scammed] by an investor or schemer, most of the time they are not telling you, because they don’t want you to know they done got got.59
Most NFL players insist that they’re good family men, a noble sentiment that sometimes can be costly. George Koonce learned the hard way:
You sign that first contract and you’re overwhelmed with excitement and expectation. You made it. You’ve been drafted. Then you try to concentrate on football, making the team. And you turn to your trusted friends or relatives to help you stay focused on the job at hand, to earn a spot on that opening day roster. But are your friends and family relatives really equipped to manage your finances? In most cases no. But they are going to try anyway, and you want to let them.60
Like so many others, Koonce found his family descending upon him from all angles. Former coach Brian Billick warns that relatives suddenly emerge that players have never before met. “However big you think your family is, it will grow in the weeks leading up to your appearance at the NFL draft. At the 2003 draft, Charles Rogers had 98 people in his entourage.”61 Pulling no punches, Bart Scott warns that “getting money sometimes is like turning the lights on in a dark house in the ghetto. It exposes a lot of roaches and rats.”62
These “new” families often start treating players as breadwinners—or lottery winners—even though their connections are tenuous. Koonce remembers feeling anxious and confused. Adult family members were suddenly asking him for financial advice and help. “They felt that because I was making a lot of money I had all of the answers.”63 At least they were asking. Bernie Kosar signed a $6 million contract in the 1980s and saw his family immediately take over:
I wanted to get an agent to separate the money, football, and the family, so that we all could kind of coexist. But my family wanted to represent me; they wanted to manage my money. My father, he didn’t really have a job after the mills had closed, and there weren’t a lot of opportunities. I knew with my signing bonus he was paying off his mortgage and paying off the house and cars, and things of that nature. But, as I came to find out later, the Cleveland Browns also cut a contract with my father who also got a million dollars.64
Not only did Kosar’s family hijack his income, he reports willingly loaning millions more to family members, teammates, and friends—money never repaid. He says financial advisors he “loved and trusted” mismanaged his money, losing as much as $15 million in a rash of bad investments.65
While Kosar’s situation isn’t typical, it’s hardly unique. Some family members become de facto money and investment managers, while others approach players with “surefire” investment opportunities, showing up needing a little cash to get a hot new business off the ground. Says a former player’s wife about how friends and family tap into NFL salaries: “My husband will go places and meet friends, and everybody has this wonderful idea that just needs some investors. Basically, they want to play with your money. If the investment makes it, then everybody is happy, but if it doesn’t, they haven’t lost anything; only you have. I think that people play on that. ‘Hey, we’ve been friends for years.’”66
More commonly, friends and family are just looking for a little help from someone they’ve known all their lives who’s now stumbled onto some good financial fortune. Koonce remembers an onslaught of requests from his family shortly after his first payday. His parents had never discussed family finances with him, but suddenly they were lamenting their tight situation. Aunts, uncles, and distant cousins he barely knew were telling him about their financial woes: “If you don’t come through for me, I am basically going to lose everything I got.” “I’ve been out of work, you know the situation with my car, the bills.” Koonce remembers asking himself, “When did I become the bank?” He typically responded with compassion and measured generosity, with only one big regret: “I started a trucking company with my sister. I think I lost over half a million.”67
Family members’ sense of entitlement is sometimes overwhelming. They fail to recognize the burden their requests actually amount to; tickets to games, airfare to game sites, hotel rooms, and restaurants become expensive. Players sometimes support family members and acquaintances who previously helped them pursue the NFL dream, and married players find their in-laws are suddenly much more “congenial.” Most of the demands aren’t outrageous, but they presuppose the player’s ability and willingness to take care of everyday expenses without batting an eye.68
Family and friends are generally ignorant of the player’s actual financial situation. They’re unaware that his salary is non-guaranteed and he’s at risk of being released at any time with no compensation. One player and his wife were incredulous when his parents asked him to pay off their home mortgage, even before he made an NFL roster. An undrafted free agent, he had signed a $230,000 contract and received a $15,000 signing bonus. When he was demoted to the practice squad, his salary dipped to $73,950.69
Clearly, one of the greatest challenges of managing new-found wealth is learning to say “No.” George Koonce isn’t the only player to hear the “tragic” stories of folks he’s known for years. Leon Searcy recalls some of his own:
People that you have known all of your life all of a sudden can’t function without you. “I can’t keep the lights on. I can’t pay the mortgage, my car note is due.” They knew when payday was. They knew it better than I did. They had it circled on the calendar. . . . They were sitting out in the parking lot, leaning up against my car, asking me to help pay for their car note. . . . You give two or three thousand to eight to ten guys. “I got to have $200 here, $3,000 there. I got this child support; I got to pay my baby mama.” I couldn’t say no.70
But he had to learn. So did Bart Scott, who recalls taking care of five different households. “I paid more rent than government assistance.” Or Bernie Kosar, who, over the years, claims to have helped out “25 to 50” families. Ed Butowsky chimes in: “I have clients of mine who literally have six houses, for their parents and friends. And they bought them all, and they are making mortgage payments. When their career ends, what are they going to do? Call up and say it is time to move out.” Winfred Tubbs adds an exclamation point. “Out of 100 percent of the money I loaned out I didn’t get one cent paid back.” “It’s hard to tell people that you love, ‘No!’” says Herman Edwards.71 Braylon Edwards amplifies the sentiment:
It’s hard as hell. You know, your sister might come up to you. Your auntie . . . You might have to tell your mother no. And I know that sounds ridiculous. . . . You have to own your money. The checks that they sending you . . . it says “Braylon Edwards.” . . . These are your checks. The bank account is in your name. The money that they’re trying to come after is yours.72
Former NFL players are more likely to be currently married than comparable men in the general population. They’re divorced at rates approximately the same as their age peers.73 While it’s inaccurate to say their married lives are just like everyone else’s, their marriages are not as unstable as popular opinion would have it—or that the NFL apparently thinks they might be. Jerry Richardson, former NFL player and current owner of the Carolina Panthers, once told his team that divorce was the biggest financial threat they might face. He was probably referring to some of the huge financial settlements that have resulted from divorces involving highly paid NFL stars.74 While Richardson is undoubtedly exaggerating, he reflects a prevalent ambivalence around the league about marriage and women. On one hand they are viewed as steadying forces. On the other, they’re seen as threats to the NFL’s pervasive control of players’ lives. From management’s point of view, marriage is a variable to be managed carefully.
This is a very instrumental outlook on players’ domestic arrangements. By and large, management thinks marriage is a sign of maturity. Married players are likely to give up the “fast” life and become more committed to settling down to business. The message comes across to players, as George Koonce recalls:
I got caught up in what do the coaches want to see. I think the coaches feel like if you’re married, you got a family, you’re more responsible. [One player], my idol, he was married. Reggie White, the leader of the team, he was married. So I’m looking like this is what you’re supposed to do.75
Some younger players think that being married actually improves their chances of making a roster, so they make the commitment. Of course, that commitment is sometimes just for appearance’s sake. “These same guys never stopped seeing multiple girlfriends because they never developed an understanding of what it meant to love another individual as much as they loved themselves and football,” recalls Koonce. “To them, it was perfectly normal to give themselves physically but never emotionally to these women. These same players were shocked when their wives filed for divorce.”76
The NFL’s instrumental perspective carries over to divorce. It’s viewed as a distraction that needs to be “handled” if it can’t be avoided. Indeed, it’s sufficiently important to be a prime topic at the annual Rookie Symposium, an orientation program for new players. The advice dispensed there, of course, comes mainly in the form of graphic warnings about women who will try to entrap NFL players to tap into their big contracts—“gold diggers,” as they are called—and admonitions to players to protect themselves with prenuptial agreements and other financial safeguards.77
Realistically, while divorce won’t be a major financial problem for most players, it has deflated many post-career bank accounts. Bernie Kosar, for example, claims his divorce cost him between four and five million dollars.78 Troy Aikman reportedly paid over $1.75 million to settle his divorce.79 There are plenty of accounts of other expensive NFL divorce settlements, which tend to emphasize the cost to players and overlook the investments that wives may have put into the marriages.
While there’s no systematic evidence confirming that NFL players father more out-of-wedlock children than others of their age and background, anecdotal evidence abounds suggesting that a substantial number of players and former players are paying child support. Indeed, a 1998 Sports Illustrated article titled “Paternity Ward” reported that the number of out-of-wedlock children fathered by professional athletes is “staggering.” One sports agent says he spends more time dealing with paternity claims than he does negotiating contracts. Court records document myriad cases where former players are being held responsible for up to a dozen children fathered out of wedlock.80
Paternity at this volume can be an expensive proposition. In some states, a man proven to have fathered a child may be ordered to pay roughly 20 percent of his income as child support until the child turns 18. While the average annual child support payment in the U.S. (2010) is about $5,200, 20 percent of an average NFL salary comes to quite a bit more than that (approximately $154,000). Sometimes judges will cap support payments—for example, at $10,000 per month per child—regardless of the father’s income.81 Recently, we’ve seen a number of highly publicized figures for NFL fathers: As already noted, Warren Sapp owes a total of $75,495 a month in alimony and child support.82 Antonio Cromartie reportedly owes $294,000 a year in child support payments and recently took a $500,000 advance on his $1.7 million salary to cover child support.83 Former NFL wide receiver Terrell Owens says he owes child support of $240,000 annually for each of his four children by four different women. Travis Henry claimed to have a child support bill of $17,000 a month in 2009.84
Despite the financial horror stories, most NFL players fare pretty well financially after retirement. Even if the financial stream slows to a trickle, a modest lifestyle seems well within reach of most players. (Of course, as we’ve seen, modest aspirations aren’t the NFL norm.) In an effort to contextualize the “Greedy Players” myth, journalist Hank Koebler of the Huffington Post has constructed a scenario describing just how long an “average” player’s earnings might support himself (and his family) in an “average” lifestyle. Assuming an average career of 3.5 years, paid at the median salary of $770,000 per year, a player could expect total football earnings of about $2.7 million. Conservatively assuming that the player actually takes home around 40 percent of his gross pay after taxes, agent’s fees, and other payroll deductions, that leaves the player with a bit over a million dollars in hand. The United States Census Bureau listed the median U.S. household income for 2011 as around $50,000. Continuing to assume that a player would choose to live within the means of the average household, the accumulated NFL take-home pay for his average career could last him around 20 years, not counting any interest or investment income the savings might generate. That should carry the player to the time when he can tap into his NFL pension (at age 45). While this financial scenario might be quite a comedown from high times in the NFL, it demonstrates that being broke isn’t the only alternative for former players who haven’t struck it rich.85 And it provides an interesting counterpoint to Darryl Gatlin’s account of players’ “obligation” to the NFL lifestyle, raising the question: Does human nature inevitably say, “You have $3 million, you are supposed to live like you have $3 million. So you can spend $3 million”? It’s more likely that this is the NFL player ethos talking.
Many NFL alumni turn down the volume on the ethos and manage their financial circumstances responsibly, adroitly, and conservatively. Spending isn’t a personal compulsion or an irresistible cultural imperative. It isn’t necessarily contagious. Most players avoid the “broke” syndrome. Vestiges of the ethos may keep former players from bragging about their conservative lifestyles or their tax-free municipal bonds, but their success stories also need to be told.
It goes without saying that self-discipline is the foundation of these stories. They also include chapters about sensible, supportive wives and families, and concrete plans for life after football. Prudence and foresight are cross-cutting themes. Hakeem Chapman—who grew up in the same Compton neighborhood as Tommy Jones—offers compelling reflections.
Prepare for tomorrow. That means look at the things that you want to do with your life. Do you want to be in a position where you are comfortable? That worried me a lot. . . . The kids now, they [should be buying] the things that you need right now, not what you want. That is the key thing. Later on, you can buy what you want. . . . There are players, they sign a $10 million guaranteed thing [contract], OK. They don’t realize that the government gets one third of it, 35 percent. Then they [players] are going to go for [big ticket items that lose their value]. . . . You should buy the things that you need, not the things that you want.86
While there’s no strict formula, the trick is to resist the NFL imperative to live large. Rod Smith, formerly of the Denver Broncos, points the way. Smith graduated from college with three business-related degrees but no ticket to the NFL. He wasn’t drafted in 1994, went to training camp and was cut by the Patriots, made the Broncos practice squad, and eventually became a stalwart wide receiver. His humble beginnings taught him some important lessons:
I had a chance to be in the NFL, but not a chance to be in the NFL lifestyle, because I didn’t have the income for it. I didn’t come into the NFL with money. I started on the practice squad making $60,000 my first year. It was a whole lot of money to me, but nothing in comparison to the lifestyle of the guys I was around in the locker room. I was making $3,000 a week and people around me were making $100,000 per week. You could get caught up in that.87
Smith’s first lesson was clear: Beware of “livin’ large” beyond one’s means. It stuck with him, and he remained frugal, even as his contracts grew:
The most luxurious thing I bought was my house. I wasn’t a big jewelry or car guy. I don’t have Ferraris and Bentleys. I had a motto that I lived by, “There are two places I want to look good at: home and practice.” Most guys get caught up in looking good on the streets. If you have to show people you have money, you’re not rich.88
Smith’s caution was reinforced by fear—fear that it could suddenly end and he would be out in the financial cold, even if he was, by the latter part of his career, making good money:
I snuck up on my locker for 14 years. I saw them fire people, and when they did, the first thing they did was take their name off of the locker and put their stuff in a trash bag. That was my fear. For 14 years, I walked up to my locker, saw my name and thought, “I have one more day.” I was always in fear that one day they were going to decide I wasn’t good enough. I took advantage of every day and went to work.89
It’s especially significant that this is Rod Smith talking: a 12-year veteran; twice All-Pro; three time Pro-Bowler; two Super Bowl rings; holder of the NFL record for catches, yards, and touchdowns by an undrafted player. If his fear of failure was eventually unfounded, it was powerful motivation to keep his eye on the eventual financial prize and stay focused on the big picture. Smith worries that today’s players lack the work ethic, the foresight, and the humility to maximize their prospects: “You have these guys who call themselves celebrities now. They are not professional football players. As soon as the reality show is over, real life hits, your career is over and you are broke. If you look down and there aren’t cleats on your feet, that’s a problem.” Smith’s apprehension about his career ending made him “more conservative” and ultimately more financially successful. “That fear has me here [after retirement], living the way I want to live.90
When all is said and done, we’re left with opposing images of financial lives after football. One has players literally spending themselves into oblivion during and after their careers, supporting family and friends, livin’ large, taking bad advice, and making bad investments. A competing vision shows young men conscientiously building financial security, spending conservatively, investing wisely, partnering with sound advisors and, above all, planning for life after football. Why, then, do so many players choose the extravagant path?
There’s no simple answer. Players and circumstances differ. There’s one thing former players have in common, however. They’ve been in the bubble for years. Consequently many have had little responsibility for managing the mundane details their lives. As William Rhoden suggests, the “football machine” creates dependency. Players show up to play, Andrew Brandt reminds us, and colleges and the NFL take care of the rest. But who takes over when the end arrives? No matter how many times they’re warned to plan for the long term, many players fail to see the big picture. What captures their attention? It’s the locker room culture, the NFL player ethos, and the hypercompetitive, hypermasculine atmosphere in which they’re totally immersed. It’s the allure of livin’ large. These influences are fundamentally incompatible with financial life outside the bubble.