Of all the skills a fund raiser must possess, none prove more valuable than the ability to hit a golf ball. And that facility -- or lack thereof -- is displayed every year, countless times, by development folks who descend en masse on Florida, home to wealthy retirees and those who prefer to “winter” in warmer climes. People with lots of money and time on their hands, it seems, enjoy the sport.
Blessed with an abundance of moderate talent and sporting a 15 handicap, which elevates me just above the average hacker, I never miss an opportunity to hit the links down yonder with a donor or prospect. So when Chip, an alum, invited me to play a round at his private club, I naturally answered the call of duty. I knew that Chip had made a pile in pharmaceuticals, that he’d been rather generous to us in the past, and that he was intrigued by our proposed humanities building. A Renaissance man with a taste for fine Zinfandels and an enviable collection of Slim Whitman records, Chip had studied business but fancied himself a closet poet as well as a budding member of the PGA’s Senior Tour.
Chip arrived a bit late and found me putting on the practice green. He wore white slacks, a blue polo shirt emblazoned with “Ping,” which trumpeted his $2,000 set of clubs, and a wide-brimmed straw hat featuring the Greg Norman multicolored shark. A walking advertisement for a pro shop, I thought. Let’s see if he has the game to back it up.
As we drove our cart to the first tee, Chip announced his intent to support the humanities building. “That thing come with naming opportunities?” he asked.
“Yes, and plenty are left,” I replied. “They start at $25,000.”
“How much to name the whole thing?” Chip inquired.
I stood frozen with amazement, not by the potential of a gift large enough to name the building but by Chip’s preshot routine, no doubt the result of two or three lessons from the resident pro. It entailed six practice swings, four butt wiggles, and 10 seconds of rocking back and forth on his heels before picking a spot on the fairway and envisioning the flight of the ball toward that perfect target. His routine complete, Chip swung violently and sent his Titleist screaming in the direction of the pin for about 200 feet, at which point it took a sharp right turn, conked off a tree, and landed on the cart path. “That’ll work!” he shouted.
“About $3-million,” I said as I delivered my own tee shot and headed to retrieve his. “We normally ask for half of the construction cost to name a new facility.”
Chip took his free drop off the path and pulled out his six iron. “That’s a bit steep, to be honest. What are my choices inside?”
I told Chip I’d share a floor plan showing all the naming opportunities, which ranged as high as $500,000 for the entrance foyer or the main lecture hall. I also offered to send him a CD-ROM featuring a virtual walk-through.
Six practice swings and four butt wiggles later, Chip readied himself and with pensive determination sent his ball dribbling about 20 feet, while his divot, roughly the size of William Shatner’s rug, outdistanced it by twice that amount.
“Lifted my head,” he snarled.
“Happens to the best of us,” I said before landing my second shot just off the green.
“I’ll spot you this hole,” Chip said as he rubbed dirt from his club.
Back in the cart, we continued our conversation.
“Didn’t somebody recently name the science building?” Chip asked. “I remember reading about it in the alumni magazine. How much did that set him back?”
"$1-million,” I replied.
“That’s all?”
“Well,” I explained, “the donor named an existing facility. We don’t use the 50-percent rule because it wouldn’t make sense, given the continual rise in construction costs.”
“What was the money used for?” he asked. “I mean, the building was already built.”
“We used some of it to offset renovation costs and put the rest in an endowment to sustain continued maintenance,” I said.
“And how did you decide on a price?”
“It’s always a combination of a structure’s relative value on the campus and what a donor is willing to give.”
“Relative value?”
“Yes.” I paused while he hovered over his putt, his eyes darting from the ball to the hole a few dozen times. Chip’s effort from about 25 feet left him a second putt of about 20 from the opposite side of the green.
“They need to water these things,” he mumbled.
Tapping in for a bogie, I resumed my explanation.
“We assume, for instance, that we can attract more for the business building than for the education or social-work building,” I said. “We figure there’s greater potential among donors. The same goes for naming the school itself. And the library or football stadium, because of their importance and visibility, may garner even more. I’m not sure if all institutions set prices this way, but that’s been my experience.”
“Watch me get it within 10 feet,” Chip said as we approached a par-3 hole. “We use this hole for our closest-to-the-pin competition during tournaments.”
This time Chip’s wiggles and gyrations resulted in a worm-burner that barely cleared the women’s tee.
“How about closest to the fairway?” I quipped. “Ah, I shouldn’t tease a major donor.”
“Yeah, about that,” he said. “So you’re telling me the business school is worth more than other schools on campus?”
“It’s worth more because we think we can get more,” I explained.
“How much?”
“I don’t know ... maybe a couple million.”
“What if I offered one and a half?”
“We’d probably take it, but I’m in no position to decide that.”
"$1.3-million?”
“Show me the money,” I said, holding out my hand. “Seriously, though, you’d have to talk with the president.”
“Does he golf?”
I demurred momentarily on that question while Chip examined the green from every conceivable angle, as if searching for a lost contact lens.
“If I sink this putt, you’ll get the money,” he teased.
“Maybe you should make a bequest,” I countered. “We’d get it sooner.”
An admirable attempt left him about a club’s length shy.
“Pick it up,” I said, more as an effort to expedite matters than to concede the shot.
“It’s a gimme, anyway,” he grumbled. “But let me ask you this: What happens if I give you enough to name a building and then you guys decide to tear it down in five years and construct a new one? Would that one be named for me too?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “We might erect a plaque recognizing you in some way, but most likely the new building would present another naming opportunity.”
“So it’s a gamble,” Chip concluded.
“In a sense, I suppose.”
“Then I think I’ll stick with the humanities,” he said. “I’ll look at that list of naming options and get back to you. Watch out for this next par-5. It’s a dogleg to the right, about 520 yards.”
“That should play to your slice,” I chuckled. “And hey, I’d be happy to review those materials with you later. They’re in my car.”
“Yeah, sure,” Chip said. “Maybe I’ll pick the foyer. Or you know what? Maybe I should endow the golf coach’s position, and you can name it after me.”
“That would be wrong on so many levels,” I replied. “Let’s focus on the building, if it’s OK.”
“Of course,” he said as we entered the clubhouse to get lunch. “I’d rather inspire a new generation of scholars than future golfers, anyhow.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Mark J. Drozdowski is a fund raiser at a New England liberal arts college. He writes a regular column about careers in university fund raising and development.