"What can you do for me, Coach?" These might be the seven most controversial words in the entire landscape of college athletics. If you’re a purist, you might want to stop reading. Right now, nothing stirs more debate than the idea of paying athletes, framed under the banner of Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL). I'm not here to discuss the morality of it—there’s a whole separate Substack for that. What I do want to dive into is the raw landscape of recruiting, where every conversation is framed around that pivotal question: "What can you do for me?"
Recruiting today is about more than just selling a university’s facilities, traditions, or culture. It’s about transactions and not just the legal ones. Coaches and entire departments brainstorm, strategize, and gather in large meeting rooms, asking themselves how best to answer this question to gain an edge. Entire sections of the NCAA rulebook have evolved to regulate what coaches can and cannot provide to athletes—and the changes ushered in by the NIL era have shifted the power dynamics dramatically.
“Sometimes, there’s hungry nights . . .”
In 2014, Shabazz Napier, a star basketball player for the University of Connecticut, brought national attention to a stark reality faced by many student-athletes: despite their grueling schedules and the millions of dollars they generate for their schools, some go hungry. I remember hearing his statement on ESPN, "There are hungry nights that I go to bed and I'm starving," reverberated through the world of college sports, prompting widespread discussion about the fairness of NCAA regulations. It was an emotional moment—raw, unfiltered, and completely at odds with the image of the high-profile athlete living a luxurious lifestyle on campus.
The NCAA, already under pressure to reform, responded swiftly. Within months, they implemented a rule allowing Division I athletes access to unlimited meals, a small but significant victory in the long-standing debate over how college athletes are treated. However, like many blanket policies, this rule had widely different effects depending on a school’s resources. At powerhouse programs with deep pockets, “unlimited meals” meant personalized nutrition plans, chefs, and an entire team of professionals dedicated to optimizing an athlete’s performance. At mid-major programs or smaller schools, the rule translated into breakfast bars and a mini-fridge stocked with Gatorades, just enough to keep athletes fueled but nowhere near the same level of care.
The disparity between these two interpretations of the same rule speaks to a larger issue in college sports—the existence of two different "games" being played. For wealthier programs, “unlimited meals” offers yet another way to enhance the already elevated experience they provide for their athletes. These schools have the luxury of resources to spare, creating an environment where athletes receive the best of everything—nutrition, training, facilities, and even academic support. But for smaller programs, the rule's impact is muted. They do their best with limited budgets, trying to meet the NCAA’s standards while competing against schools that operate on an entirely different financial plane.
This reality directly ties into the recruiting process, where a high school athlete, full of potential, sits across from a coach and asks, “What can you do for me?” Now we are a full decade removed from the landmark legislation of 2014 and in the differences of unlimited meals. In many ways, the answer to that question depends on whether the athlete is sitting in the office of a major program or a mid-major one. The “haves” and “have nots” play by the same rulebook, but they operate in different worlds. The richer programs can offer more—more resources, more exposure, and more support—while smaller schools often have to rely on intangibles like team culture and personal development to attract athletes.
The NCAA’s attempts to level the playing field, such as the Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) ruling and the unlimited meals policy, only serve to highlight the existing divides. NIL compensation has provided athletes the opportunity to earn money for their personal brands, but the athletes from bigger programs—those with national TV exposure and massive followings—are the ones benefitting the most. For every star quarterback signing endorsement deals, there are hundreds of athletes in smaller programs who struggle to make ends meet. The question remains: how can the system claim fairness when these differences are so pronounced?
Ultimately, this illustrates the tension at the heart of modern college recruiting. When athletes walk into these meetings with coaches, they are asking for a glimpse of their future—what resources will they have at their disposal? What support will they receive on and off the field? Coaches are not only selling a team but an entire experience, one that might vastly differ depending on the financial landscape of their program.
This is where the wisdom of the Proverbs, particularly Proverbs 9, begins to parallel this modern dilemma. Just as Proverbs 9 contrasts the calls of wisdom and folly, so too do athletes face two competing voices in the world of college recruiting. One path may lead to temporary pleasures and immediate rewards, but it lacks the depth and foundation of something more meaningful. The other path, harder to follow and often less glamorous, leads to long-term fulfillment and growth.
Napier’s comments didn’t just expose a moment of personal struggle—they laid bare a systemic issue. In the push to create fairness, the NCAA has instead exposed the deep inequalities between athletic programs. It’s a reminder that in this “game,” like in life, some will always have access to more, and others will have to fight for every scrap. As coaches, as leaders, the challenge is to guide athletes toward the path of wisdom, one that transcends immediate gratification and asks them to consider what will sustain them in the long run.
The two games being played—those of the “haves” and “have nots”—are not just about food or facilities. They are about the very nature of what college athletics should represent. And in this, there are parallels to a much older conversation about wisdom, choices, and the paths we take in life.
The haves and the have-nots
In our recruiting process, my staff and I took a different approach. We didn’t entertain the question, "What can you do for me, coach?" Instead, we led with, "Here’s what we do in our program." Our goal was to attract athletes not by dazzling them with perks or promises of instant gratification but by focusing on the long-term, intangible benefits they would gain from being a part of our team. We emphasized the value of the education they’d receive, the close attention from professors, and our dedication to helping them grow—not just as athletes, but as individuals. We made it clear that our goal was to develop their leadership abilities, foster community involvement, and provide the support they needed during their transition into adulthood.
This wasn’t always easy. We struggled with budgets and relied heavily on fundraising and donations to make our program a success. But we believed that if we were transparent about our values and backed up our words with actions, we would attract the kind of athletes who sought more than just what other programs could offer in terms of financial or material rewards. Proverbs 9 teaches that wisdom offers a more meaningful, lasting feast—one that nourishes the soul rather than just satisfying immediate hunger. Similarly, we sought to offer something deeper, something that wouldn’t just serve them as athletes, but as students and, eventually, as professionals.
In the world of college sports, where the “haves” and “have-nots” are starkly divided, I’d like to think that we focused on what we did have—the genuine interest in our athletes’ overall well-being, in the classroom, on the field, and long after graduation. The other programs might have had more resources, but what we offered was something they often couldn’t: a place where athletes were seen as more than machines, and where their growth as people was our primary concern. That’s our version of the "haves" and "have-nots"—we have your best interests in mind, now and in the future.
This approach aligns with the wisdom presented in Proverbs 9, where wisdom and folly offer two different invitations. Wisdom’s house is built with intention, and her feast is prepared with thoughtfulness. She calls those who are simple to grow and gain understanding. Folly, on the other hand, promises immediate pleasure but leads to destruction. In recruiting, programs may offer flashy perks and quick gains, but the question is, what are they cultivating in the long run? Just as in Proverbs, it’s about choosing the invitation that leads to lasting growth, not just temporary satisfaction.