This is the time of year where America celebrates college basketball as a spectacle, and more and more, as a business. In 2010, the NCAA struck a 14-year, $10.8 billion deal with CBS and Turner Broadcasting System for the rights to the tournament. Part of that money eventually devolves down to the teams, some of which have become truly enormous profit generators. At The Atlantic, we wondered what this year's bracket would look like if, instead of their on-the-court play, teams won and lost based on their most recent balance sheets. Using data from the Department of Education, we calculated which teams earned the biggest profits during the 2010-2011 fiscal year, then set them up against each other.
The Final Four: Louisville, Duke Ohio State, and the University of North Carolina. Your national champion: Louisville. By a longshot. (Click the bracket below for a full-size version.)
The government's numbers have one major flaw for our purposes. Colleges can hide the true cost of running a money-losing team with some fancy accounting -- essentially by covering up their losses with dollars from the school's general fund. As a result, many teams appear to finish the year breaking exactly even, despite the fact that they're actually in the red. On the bracket, I've marked those programs as having "unknown losses."*
But while the data won't tell you much about most of the money losers, it will tell you a lot about the money makers. Louisville has been college basketball's earnings leader three years running, raking in a monstrous $40.89 million in revenue in FY 2010-2011, and $27.55 million in profit. Second place Duke made a total of $28.91 million in revenue, netting $15.1 million.
College basketball teams earn income off three main things -- ticket sales, donations, and distributions from the NCAA itself, says Transylvania University Professor Daniel Fulks, who analyzes university athletic department finances on behalf of the NCAA. The ticket sales are the most straight-forward part of the equation. Large schools with large stadiums that can pack a crowd have an obvious built-in advantage. Unsurprisingly, four of the five highest revenue generating teams in this year's tournament -- Louisville, UNC, Syracuse, and Kentucky -- also led the NCAA in average per-game attendance.
But a successful team can get by without massive attendance. Duke, with its relatively modest 9,300 seat stadium, is the second most formidable revenue earner in the tournament. They do it with donations from alumni and boosters. Before Blue Devils fans are allowed to buy season tickets at Cameron Indoor Stadium, they're required to make a sizable donations. According to Duke Senior Associate Athletic Director Mike Cragg, the two worst seats in the house require an $8,000 dollar gift on top of the ticket price. Fans give all the way to up to the cost of a year-long scholarship, roughly $55,000. Many other universities have adopted similar practices.
Finally, there are the funds the NCAA distributes to conferences based on their performance in the national championship tournament. Conferences earn money based on the number of games their teams have played in the big dance during the past six years. The more games, the more the conference earns. Last year, the NCAA doled out about $180 million this way. It's up to each conferences to split up its haul between its teams.
Combined, those three categories make up three quarters of most basketball teams' revenue, Fulks says. Now consider Louisville. The Cardinals play in the brand new, 22,000 seat YUM Center, where prospective season ticket buyers are essentially required to make donations before they can claim a seat. According to Forbes, the team received more than $20 million in total contributions last year. It also plays in the Big East, which received the single biggest portion of last year's NCAA tournament bounty.
Wealthy teams, like Louisville, only stand to get richer. In the last few years, the top athletic conferences have signed lucrative television deals for football and basketball worth many millions of dollars to each of their member schools.
But just like in any other game, earning a nice financial return won't necessarily earn a college basketball team points on the court. Arizona is sitting out March Madness, even though it was the third most profitable school in Division I-A last year, with more than $14 million in net income. Other big spending, big-earnings schools such as the Universities of Illinois and Minnesota* will also be watching from home. On the other hand, Mississippi Valley State, which operated at a loss despite a shoestring budget of $682,000, got a shot at the tournament.
Thankfully, in real life, the big money doesn't always win.
*A note about the bracket: In matchups between teams with two unknown financial losses, I gave points for thriftiness and advanced the squad with lower expenses. When a program with an unknown loss played one with a known loss, I gave points for honesty and advanced the team with the known loss.
*An earlier version of this piece mistakenly stated that Wisconsin had not made the tournament (despite having them on my bracket). Having spent time working in the badger state, I realize that residents there rightly get frustrated about being mixed up with their next door neighbor. My sincere apologies.
They weren’t the first victims of a mass shooting the Florida radiologist had seen—but their wounds were radically different.
As I opened the CT scan last week to read the next case, I was baffled. The history simply read “gunshot wound.” I have been a radiologist in one of the busiest trauma centers in the nation for 13 years, and have diagnosed thousands of handgun injuries to the brain, lung, liver, spleen, bowel, and other vital organs. I thought that I knew all that I needed to know about gunshot wounds, but the specific pattern of injury on my computer screen was one that I had seen only once before.
In a typical handgun injury that I diagnose almost daily, a bullet leaves a laceration through an organ like the liver. To a radiologist, it appears as a linear, thin, grey bullet track through the organ. There may be bleeding and some bullet fragments.
Today, readers on the culture, psychology, and politics of regulating guns.
Really, pay attention to Australia—white-male privilege and all. Several previous messages have referred to Australia’s modern experience with guns. In short: After the mass-casualty “Port Arthur massacre” of 1996, a conservative government (technically, the Liberal party) changed gun policy, and since then Australia has had its share of gun violence but no remotely comparable massacres. By contrast, the five deadliest mass shootings in U.S. history, and 7 of the 10 worst, have all happened since 1996.
Decades before he ran the Trump campaign, Paul Manafort’s pursuit of foreign cash and shady deals laid the groundwork for the corruption of Washington.
The clinic permitted Paul Manafort one 10-minute call each day. And each day, he would use it to ring his wife from Arizona, his voice often soaked in tears. “Apparently he sobs daily,” his daughter Andrea, then 29, texted a friend. During the spring of 2015, Manafort’s life had tipped into a deep trough. A few months earlier, he had intimated to his other daughter, Jessica, that suicide was a possibility. He would “be gone forever,” she texted Andrea.
His work, the source of the status he cherished, had taken a devastating turn. For nearly a decade, he had counted primarily on a single client, albeit an exceedingly lucrative one. He’d been the chief political strategist to the man who became the president of Ukraine, Viktor Yanukovych, with whom he’d developed a highly personal relationship.
For the past decade, Rick Gates was fiercely loyal to his risk-taking boss. Not anymore.
There should be no denying Paul Manafort’s fate. Special Counsel Robert Mueller’s list of charges keeps on swelling—a repeatedly amended compendium of malfeasance that is now so long and so pointillistic that it could be only defused by a world-historic prosecutorial gaffe. Despite this seeming comprehensiveness, each fresh filing in court contains a moment where the special prosecutor winks at his target, as if letting him know that he has only begun to bring the pain: a small display of how comprehensively he has surveilled Manafort and his minions; a further sampling of the evidence that could be sitting in his reserve stash.
Everyone understands Manafort’s fate, except apparently the man himself. Rather than cutting a deal—as his longtime deputy Rick Gates did yesterday—Manafort continues to cut a figure of defiance. He has, in essence, dismissed Gates as a weakling. And even as the bedraggled Gates turned against him, Manafort boasted in a statement that he would not be knocked from his stance: “This does not alter my commitment to defend myself against the untrue piled up charges contained in the indictments against me."
Many seniors are stuck with lives of never-ending work—a fate that could befall millions in the coming decades.
CORONA, Calif.—Roberta Gordon never thought she’d still be alive at age 76. She definitely didn’t think she’d still be working. But every Saturday, she goes down to the local grocery store and hands out samples, earning $50 a day, because she needs the money.
“I’m a working woman again,” she told me, in the common room of the senior apartment complex where she now lives, here in California’s Inland Empire. Gordon has worked dozens of odd jobs throughout her life—as a house cleaner, a home health aide, a telemarketer, a librarian, a fundraiser—but at many times in her life, she didn’t have a steady job that paid into Social Security. She didn’t receive a pension. And she definitely wasn’t making enough to put aside money for retirement.
The revolutionary ideals of Black Panther’s profound and complex villain have been twisted into a desire for hegemony.
The following article contains major spoilers.
Black Panther is a love letter to people of African descent all over the world. Its actors, its costume design, its music, and countless other facets of the film are drawn from all over the continent and its diaspora, in a science-fiction celebration of the imaginary country of Wakanda, a high-tech utopia that is a fictive manifestation of African potential unfettered by slavery and colonialism.
But it is first and foremost an African American love letter, and as such it is consumed with The Void, the psychic and cultural wound caused by the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, the loss of life, culture, language, and history that could never be restored. It is the attempt to penetrate The Void that brought us Alex Haley’s Roots, that draws thousands of African Americans across the ocean to visit West Africa every year, that left me crumpled on the rocks outside the Door of No Return at Gorée Island’s slave house as I stared out over a horizon that my ancestors might have traversed once and forever. Because all they have was lost to The Void, I can never know who they were, and neither can anyone else.
In the 19th century, fire escapes saved tenement-dwellers from peril. Today they are more likely to cause harm than to prevent it.
Tony wooed Maria from one in West Side Story. Rosario Dawson belted from one in Rent. They became just another piece in a gritty urban jungle gym for the kids in The Get Down. Police procedurals regularly feature guys fleeing (or entering) by means of them.
Fire escapes, the clunky metal accessories to buildings constructed in response to industrial building-code reform, have become an iconic part of the urban landscape. They serve purposes as numerous as their pop-cultural cameos. Part emergency exit, part makeshift patio, the fire escape has played an integral role in shaping the development of the cities whose buildings bear them. It continues to impact the urban landscape today, in ways that few could have imagined when they were first thought up. And despite having been invented expressly for public safety, the fire escape always created as much danger as it replaced.
The Mueller investigation is showing the extent of Russian operations. But its real import extends far beyond that.
These days, it’s never good news for Paul Manafort. On Friday, special counsel Robert Mueller released his latest indictment against President Donald Trump’s one-time campaign chairman. It charged that Manafort “secretly retained” a small group of former European leaders to “act informally and without any visible relationship with the Government of Ukraine.” Dubbed the “Hapsburg Group,” this coterie of paid lobbyists allegedly worked to advance the interests of the corrupt regime of Viktor Yanukovych, the former president of Ukraine, in both Europe and the United States.
The group as a whole reportedly received at least $2 million for its services. It was led by “a former European chancellor,” a person the indictment doesn’t name but who has since been identified in numerous press reports as Alfred Gusenbauer. Gusenbauer, the former chancellor of Austria, has confirmed that he lobbied not on behalf of Yanukovych, but only for the cause of bringing Ukraine closer to the rest of Europe. He has not denied that he was paid for his services by a U.S. company. Reports have also alleged that another of Manafort’s secretly paid lobbyists was Romano Prodi, the former prime minister of Italy and EU Commission president. In a statement, Prodi acknowledged working to bring the European Union closer to Ukraine, an effort that involved “numerous meetings and public speeches (some of them regularly paid), which took place in a variety of European capitals.” In his statement, he denied “both to have played a role in any lobbying effort and to be part of a secret lobby,” and added that he “did not receive any money for these activities.”
The Republican Party is full of honorable, competent people—yet it now aims no higher than the embodiment of its most buffoonish stereotypes.
On Thursday at a conference sponsored by the American Conservative Union, Ben Domenech, the publisher of The Federalist, had an illuminating exchange with Senator Ted Cruz, the Texas Republican who once called Donald Trump “a pathological liar,” but has since lined up behind the billionaire who spread lies about his father, insulted the appearance of his wife, and nicknamed him “Lyin’ Ted.”
Domenech and Cruz attempted to understand U.S. politics through The Simpsons, the long-running cartoon comedy that anticipated a Donald Trump presidency in 2000.
Their focus was an episode of the show about the gun debate:
Ben Domenech: You’re a big fan of The Simpsons. I know you believe that they can tell us a lot about America. And I actually believe that you can learn a lot about deep policy by using The Simpsons as a starting point. For instance, when Homer and Lisa were having a conversation about gun rights in America—look it up, it’s in “The Cartridge Family” episode—Homer points out that guns are for things like protecting your family, hunting delicious animals, and making sure that the King of England never shows up to push you around.
Ted Cruz: All good things.
Domenech: Lisa’s response to this is to say, well, Dad, it’s actually a relic, a remnant of the Revolutionary War era that doesn’t really mean anything anymore. What do you say to that?
Ted Cruz: I think the Democrats are the party of Lisa Simpson. And Republicans are happily the party of Homer, and Bart, and Maggie, and Marge.
By “camouflaging” their condition, many women on the spectrum learn to fit in—and risk psychological harm.
Except for her family and closest friends, no one in Jennifer’s various circles knows that she is on the spectrum. Jennifer was not diagnosed with autism until she was 45 years old—and then only because she wanted confirmation of what she had figured out for herself over the previous decade. Most of her life, she says, she evaded a diagnosis by forcing herself to stop doing things her parents and others found strange or unacceptable. (Because of the stigma associated with autism, Jennifer asked to be identified only by her first name.)
Over several weeks of emailing back and forth, Jennifer confides in me some of the tricks she uses to mask her autism—for example, staring at the spot between someone’s eyes instead of into their eyes, which makes her uncomfortable. But when we speak for the first time over video chat one Friday afternoon in January, I cannot pick up on any of these ploys.