With Pickens and the others looking on, Holder put his spreadsheet numbers on a whiteboard in Pickens’s conference room at BP Capital’s headquarters. Then he broke down each item—building out the west end of the football stadium and adding more luxury suites, a new practice facility, new locker rooms, new training facilities and on and on.
“Now, what is it that you need to get this done?” Pickens asked after the presentation.
“One hundred sixty-five million dollars,” Holder said.
Schmidly and Hargis braced themselves.
“Okay,” Pickens said. “I’ll give $165 million.”
Schmidly and Hargis were speechless.
“They were flabbergasted,” Holder said. “This was fantasy stuff. OSU is out in the middle of nowhere. OSU was the stepchild of the conference. Our alumni can’t give large amounts of money to build beautiful stadiums. To think that someone would give our institution $165 million was shocking.”
Holder looked at Stillwell. Both men were fully aware that the balance of power in the Big 12 and across college football had just shifted. It would take a couple years to complete all the construction. And it would take a couple more years for new crops of recruits to get into the OSU system. But the Cowboys were about to become players.
SEVEN YEARS LATER
Friday, September 28, 2012, began like any other business day for Boone Pickens. The eighty-four-year-old started with a 6:15 call with his two traders. They briefed him on how the world markets had performed overnight. At 6:30 the personal trainer arrived, putting Pickens through an in-home workout. After a shower, Pickens drove himself to his Dallas office. He was at his desk by 8:00. Thirty minutes later he met face-to-face with the chief operating officer of a major transportation company. Then it was a battery of phone interviews—Parade magazine, a radio station in the Midwest, another magazine—and meetings: one with a political strategist to discuss House and Senate races, another with his staff to look at investment opportunities. He hustled off to the Dallas Country Club for a lunch in his honor, hosted by the chairman of the Texas Railroad Commission, then returned to his office for another round of business meetings.
But at 3:15 sharp, everything came to a screeching halt. No more calls. No more meetings. No more talk of equities, natural gas and alternative energy solutions. It was the weekend of the Oklahoma State–Texas game in Stillwater, Oklahoma. Pickens had a plane to catch.
His assistants handed him last-minute messages while following him past framed pictures and autographed footballs decorating his office walls. Each one symbolized the great returns on his investment in OSU football. In 2010 the team set a school record for wins, going 11-2, including a particularly satisfying 36–16 shellacking of Texas. In 2011, OSU went 12-1, thumping both Texas and Oklahoma and winning the conference and the Fiesta Bowl. Only Alabama and LSU finished ahead of OSU in the national rankings. Pickens had been there for every moment, having a lot more fun than even he had anticipated.
He said good-bye to his staff, hopped behind the wheel of his car and sped off. Fifteen minutes later he pulled up to the gate at a private runway entrance. He pushed a button and announced his password into an intercom. The gate opened and Pickens eased his car to a stop alongside his Gulfstream G550. His pilot and co-pilot were waiting. So were a dozen passengers, all personal friends Pickens had invited to the game—the former mayor of Dallas and his wife, a retired CEO and his wife, an old grammar school mate and his wife. Most of the couples were Boone’s age. Some were big OSU fans. A few had strong ties to the University of Texas. But guests of Boone’s knew to root for OSU.
It’s the least they could do. Boone treated game-day guests to Four Seasons hospitality. His Gulfstream—replete with leather seats, gold-plated fixtures and polished wood paneling—delivered them to Mesa Vista Ranch, a sixty-eight-thousand-acre pristine oasis that Pickens owned in the far northeastern corner of the Texas Panhandle. It’s where he went before every home game, secluded by rolling hills, bluffs and twenty-eight miles of waterways with all sorts of wildlife, including lots of quail. Guests stayed in his twenty-three-thousand-square-foot lodge. The exterior was grand and muscular—stone façade with thick wooden doors bookended by nickel-plated longhorns mounted to the exterior. But the inside was perfectly appointed—leather furniture, western artwork, cathedral ceilings.
Cocktails were at 6:30 in the great room. At 7:30 guests filed into a dimly lit dining room with screened windows and doors that bordered an outdoor patio. The tables were candlelit and covered in white tablecloths. Pickens took his place at a corner table and tapped his wineglass with a spoon.
“Welcome to Mesa Vista,” he said. “I have brought together people that are friends.”
Guests nodded, expressing thanks.
He went over the menu: largemouth bass caught earlier in the day on the ranch, risotto, ham loaf, green beans and Napa Valley wine. It was all arranged buffet-style on a nearby table.
All of this was part of the buildup to the big game. It was a weekend excursion filled with exquisite food, fine wine, great companionship and resort-like accommodations.
Saturday was game day. Pickens followed his routine. The morning was spent tooling around the ranch. While his guests shot skeet, played tennis and took a helicopter tour of the ranch, Pickens inspected the oil exploration project under way on the far corners of his property. By noon the televisions around the lodge were tuned to college football games on ESPN, ABC and CBS. Ohio State faced Michigan State in one room. West Virginia versus Baylor in another. By 4:00, Pickens had reappeared in the library wearing orange leather boots and an orange sweater vest. Everyone knew what that meant—time to head to the main event.
The Gulfstream engine purred on the ranch runway as passengers filed on board. Pickens sank into his seat and fastened his seat belt. Georgia and Tennessee were knotted up 30–30 on the flat-screen monitor at the front of the plane. Disinterested, Pickens glanced out the window at a herd of black cows grazing on prairie grass beneath a wooden windmill off the runway. The pilot invited everyone to relax. It was 178 miles to Stillwater: flight time, thirty-six minutes. At 4:30 sharp, it was wheels up.
In the nineteenth century, the American author Washington Irving visited Stillwater and described it as “a vast and glorious prairie, spreading out beneath the golden beams of an autumnal sun.” In many respects, that’s how Stillwater looked as Pickens’s jet approached Stillwater Flight Center, touching down shortly after five. Normally, the tiny regional airport was dead on weekends. But not on OSU game nights. The runway was stacked up with more than twenty private planes from Dallas, Houston, Austin, Tulsa and Wichita, all carrying well-heeled alumni from Texas and Oklahoma State. It was all part of the new economics of college football.
Pickens’s jet was the biggest plane. And the ground crew knew him by name. “Mr. Pickens, welcome back to Stillwater,” shouted a man in a green shirt, khaki pants and earplugs, wind whipping his hair as he clutched a handheld radio. “Your van is here for you and your guests.”
Other similarly dressed workers served as ground escorts. Each smiled. The new stadium had brought more air traffic, which translated into overtime. Grateful for the work, they handed Pickens and his guests off to Jesse Martin, a stout associate athletic director standing in front of an OSU shuttle van parked on the runway.
On game day, Martin’s job revolved around Pickens and getting him where he needed to be. The drive toward campus was scenic and quiet until the stadium came into focus. At that moment the impact of Pickens’s money became obvious. Stillwater’s total population is forty-six thousand. Yet close to sixty thousand people decked out in orange and black were trudging toward the stadium entrances. And those were just the ones with tickets. Thousands more had put down blankets and set up lawn chairs in the surrounding lots. They were in overalls and cowboy hats, Wrangler jeans and OSU sweatshirts. Smoke rose from the burgers and hot dogs on their barbecues and hibachis. Mini satellite dishes and televisions plugged in
to portable generators enabled them to see the game as their grass-stained kids tossed footballs. They had come to campus to be part of the experience.
Martin snaked the shuttle around pedestrians, easing to a stop at the only parking space right next to the stadium’s main entrance. The sign above the space read GAME DAY PARKING. T. BOONE PICKENS. Moments later, Pickens was inside the stadium on a private elevator that delivered him and his guests to the skybox level. It was bustling with the luxury-suites crowd—prestigious alumni, big donors, corporate executives, real estate developers, construction contractors, bankers and lawyers. There were ice cream and popcorn vendors, bartenders, waiters, waitresses and cheerleaders. Everything was pristine—the Italian tile, the recessed lights, the mahogany trim around the individual suite entrances.
Pickens’s suite was overlooking the fifty-yard line. Inside, two chefs prepared beef tenderloin, sautéed mushrooms, potatoes, beets, carrots and creamy spinach. There were hot hors d’oeuvres, cold beverages and plenty of glossy game-day programs sponsored by Verizon and Blue Cross Blue Shield. Additional VIPs milled around—friends like Steven W. Taylor, chief justice of the Supreme Court of Oklahoma. Taylor was more of a basketball fan. But he was Boone’s special guest at all football games. A 1971 OSU graduate, Taylor had volunteered countless hours to improving and enhancing the university’s academic programs. That’s how he met Pickens. In addition to the record-setting gifts to the football program and other sports, Pickens had given just as much—well over $200 million—to fund professorships, department chairs, scholarships and the Boone Pickens School of Geology. As a result, when the state cut OSU’s general education budget by 4.7 percent in 2011, OSU didn’t miss a beat, continuing to hire faculty and planning a new business school.
By hanging around with Pickens, Taylor became a big believer in the notion that a winning football team can lift a university’s academic profile. “It was his philosophy that for this university to grow, the football team had to be competitive,” Taylor said. “Boone told me many times, ‘If we have a successful athletic program, then the giving everywhere else will increase—the chairs, the professorships and the buildings.’ ”
That’s precisely what happened. In the four years prior to Pickens’s gift, OSU received $327 million in donations. In the four years after his gift, the university took in over $1 billion in donations.
“It’s all because he put the big money in and everybody followed,” Taylor said. “He has changed this university.”
As soon as his guests were settled, Pickens grabbed Taylor’s arm. “Come with me,” he said, hustling down to the field for a pregame interview with a local television station. The minute he reached the field, Pickens walked past the student section. Shirtless guys sporting giant cowboy hats and orange-painted chests chanted alongside girls wearing black bra tops and jean shorts: “T-Boone. T-Boone. T-Boone.” Of the nearly fifty thousand season ticket holders, more than eleven thousand were students who paid a reduced rate—$200—for a season pass. That’s nearly half of the entire student body. Many were holding orange wooden paddles that said POKES. Others had orange wigs. But every one of them was jubilant, and they all knew the man responsible for the surge in campus spirit. “T-Boone. T-Boone. T-Boone.”
He went up to the stands and shook their hands.
“We love you, Boone,” one guy in an orange tuxedo jacket and orange bow tie said.
“Thank you, Boone,” another yelled.
A group of army reservists from the ROTC wanted in on the act. They were wearing their military fatigues, standing behind the sideline, right in front of the student section. They all recognized Pickens and lined up to shake his hand. One by one, he greeted each of them.
Chief Justice Taylor stood back and watched Boone work the student section of the stadium. “If you could have seen this when it was Lewis Field,” he said to a reporter, “it looked like a medium-sized Texas high school football stadium. Exposed iron. Bleacher seats. No suites. It was just a big iron football stadium that had been dubbed ‘Rustoleum’ because it was so rusty. Before Boone came along, an OSU game against Texas would draw twenty-five thousand on a good night. Tonight there were over fifty-eight thousand people in attendance. The alumni spirit and student pride is off the charts. This is a different university. And it’s just because one guy decided to do something.”
After Pickens finished his television interview, he and Taylor left the field and headed up the tunnel. “Mr. Pickens,” someone shouted. Pickens looked up. A man in his sixties was on the other side of the chain-link fence that prevented spectators in the bleacher seats from falling into the tunnel opening. He had a game program in his hand and was wearing blue jeans and an OSU football jersey and baseball cap. “Mr. Pickens, I just wanna thank you,” the man said, “for what you’ve done for this community, for your generosity. This is a magnificent stadium.”
A number of senior couples seated within earshot of the man stared at Pickens. “You have given us something to cheer for,” the man continued. “You’ve brought us together. We thank you.”
Pickens reached up to shake the man’s hand. “Well, thank you,” Pickens said. “I appreciate it.”
More than seeing his name on the stadium, Pickens got a lift from the heartfelt expressions of appreciation from students, veterans, retirees and the thousands of blue-collar people who came together around OSU football.
Suddenly a security guard ran up from behind, waving a radio. “You’ve either got to go or stay,” she yelled at Pickens, “because they are coming. But you gotta decide right now.”
He looked over his shoulder. The Longhorns had just come off the field and were headed back to the locker room for final preparations. They were running right toward him and Taylor.
“Let’s go,” Pickens said. He took off running up the tunnel, Longhorns at his heels.
At 6:34, Boone stood, placed his hand over his heart and stared in silence during the national anthem. Then the crowd chanted:
“Orange!”
“Power!”
“Orange!”
“Power!”
A black stallion ran down the field, and the OSU team raced out of the tunnel, through a smoke screen and onto the field.
“We welcome you to Boone Pickens Stadium,” the PA announcer said. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a beautiful night in Stillwater, Oklahoma. Are you ready for Cowboy football?”
More noise.
Pickens grabbed his binoculars.
On the second play from scrimmage, OSU’s running back broke loose for a sixty-nine-yard run. Less than one minute into the game, OSU was up 7–0.
“Pretty good,” Boone said.
Ozzy Osbourne thundered through the PA system. “All aboard! Ha, ha, ha, ha.” The crowd went into a frenzy.
But minutes later, Texas quarterback David Ash tossed a forty-four-yard touchdown pass to Jaxon Shipley, tying the game and silencing the crowd.
“That shut them up,” Pickens said.
Another CEO entered Boone’s suite. James “Jim Bob” Moffett was listed as one of the twenty-five-highest-paid men in America on the Forbes list. His total compensation in 2010 was $35 million. He had barely taken a seat next to Pickens when Ash threw another touchdown pass to Shipley—14–7 Texas.
Five minutes later OSU’s quarterback tossed a forty-four-yard touchdown, tying the game at 14.
The game was a barn burner, both teams marching up and down the field, putting up points, giving fans their money’s worth. With 9:36 to play in the fourth quarter, OSU’s running back barreled into the end zone, giving the Cowboys their first lead since the start of the game—33–28. Pickens rose to his feet to applaud. Everyone in his suite followed. Cannons blasted. The black stallion charged across the field, his masked rider hoisting an OSU flag. Cheerleaders kicked and flipped. The army reservists banged out thirty-three push-ups in the OSU end zone while the eleven thousand students in the student section cheered them on. And in the suite next to Boone’s—t
he one occupied by OSU’s president, V. Burns Hargis, and his wife—twenty-four VIPs jumped up and down, hollering with excitement.
Hargis had plenty to smile about. On the one hand, revenue had poured into the athletic program. OSU sold forty-six thousand season tickets in the first year of the new stadium. That number had risen to nearly fifty thousand by 2010. On the other hand, student enrollment had skyrocketed 44 percent in the four-year period since the stadium upgrade. Annual giving was off the charts, too.
By midway through the fourth quarter the sky was dark. Moths flooded the stadium lights. Texas was driving. In the bleachers beneath the suites, bowlegged men in cowboy boots and cowboy hats were on their feet, hands on their hips. But their hands went to their heads as Texas running back Joe Bergeron punched it in from one yard out, putting Texas back up 34–33 with 5:48 left. But they grabbed their hats and waved them in a circular motion above their heads when Texas failed to make a two-point conversion. OSU had life.
Pickens stayed on his feet as OSU drove deep into Texas territory. With 2:34 remaining, Quinn Sharp nailed a field goal. OSU was up 36–34. The crowd noise was deafening.
But with time running out, Texas made a last-ditch drive deep into OSU territory. Pickens had seen enough. He stood and everyone in his party quickly gathered their jackets. It was time to roll. OSU still had the lead. But Boone was a betting man, and he didn’t like OSU’s hand. By the time he reached his shuttle van, Texas had gotten in the end zone to go back up 41–36 with twenty-nine seconds to play.
Final score: Texas 41, Oklahoma State 36.
Pickens hated to lose, but he couldn’t complain. As his Gulfstream took flight a few minutes later, he looked down on streams of car lights that stretched for miles. All of them led back to Boone Pickens Stadium. The crowd was emptying out. Texas had won the game, but Oklahoma State had clearly become one of the top programs in the nation.
The System: The Glory and Scandal of Big-Time College Football Page 20