Skimming the Volunteer Pool

By Mark J. Drozdowski

Any development veteran will tell you that volunteers are the lifeblood of our profession. Some can be petty, picky, and prickly; demanding, overbearing, and irritating; meddlesome, tiresome, and irksome. A few are worth their weight in platinum, while others add real value when you least expect it.

But we need them and want them, and can't survive without them. It's no wonder, then, that recruiting volunteers, often in the form of board members, is an important part of what we fund raisers do.

Such was my goal for a recent encounter with a bank vice president who was new to the area and looking to get involved in the community. We had just the cause for him.

He had suggested we meet after work at a local pub, which I hoped was in a decent part of town. I found the place and was comforted to see a few upscale cars in the lot. I figured my Acura would be intact when I returned.

Having seen his picture online, I recognized my date as soon as I entered the pub.

"Greetings," he said.

"Welcome to our lovely burg," I replied.

I ordered a beer and sat down on the barstool next to his. We spent the next few minutes engaged in the usual banter. I discovered where he was from, what attracted him to our semi-squalid conurbation, and what his professional goals were. Joining a board or two was high on his list.

"Want to continue our conversation over a friendly game of pool?" he asked, gesturing toward a billiards table in the corner of the room.

"Certainly." Now, I'd played pool a few times, but not since college. And even then, I participated more for the beer, the conversation, and the diversion from studying. I never was any good.

"Go ahead and rack 'em," he said. First I had to pick a cue stick among a dozen or so hanging on the wall. I assumed there was some science to this decision, some physics involving length and weight and balance, so I tried to look pensively selective. I finally chose the one sporting the fewest chew marks.

"While I'm setting up, let me tell you about the college and our foundation," I said as I began digging the balls out of the pockets.

"Well, first let's decide what we're playing," he interjected. "Eight-ball, nine-ball, beer-in-hand?"

"All I know is stripes and solids, and not to knock in the eight ball until the end," I admitted.

"That's called eight-ball," he said. "Line them up tight."

I started arranging the balls in the rack, knowing only that the eight ball goes somewhere in the middle. At the same time, I resumed my exegesis on the college.

"Let me help you with that," he offered, and began rearranging the balls in some rational order. Reflecting on my comments about the direction of the college, the role of the foundation as its fund-raising and asset-management arm, and our imminent capital campaign, my newfound friend, whom I decided to call Massachusetts Fats, asked a rather direct question.

"Why should people give money to a public institution, anyway?"

His question coincided with my attempt to break the neatly formed triangle. Instead of sending the balls scattering about the table, the cue ball bounced harmlessly off the group as if they were glued together and made a beeline for the side pocket.

"I guess that's a scratch," I said. "But let me scratch the surface of your question." If I couldn't play worth a damn, at least I could try to be clever.

I proceeded to enlighten Fats about public-college fund raising while he knocked in several balls in a row, all solid. I explained that state appropriations have dropped consistently over the past couple of decades, and that at some universities, state support represents a small fraction of the operating budget -- as low as 10 to 15 percent. A few institutions have even privatized some colleges to maximize autonomy and maintain control over assets. Which is why we joke that public colleges follow the trajectory from state-supported to state-assisted to state-located.

Evidently stunned by this news, Fats missed a shot and relinquished the table to me. Before deciding which striped ball was the likeliest candidate for an attack, I felt the need to use the chalk.

"What about you?" Fats asked as I furiously rubbed the nub over the cue stick's tip, puffed the excess into a cloud of blue smoke and checked my shirt for stains. "How much do you receive?"

"Roughly 45 percent of our budget," I said, circling the table. "That covers salaries and fringe benefits, and some part of our utilities bills." One of the striped balls rested tantalizingly close to a corner pocket, but it touched the eight ball. I thought about the advantages of sinking the eight and ending this embarrassment, but decided to pursue another tack, caroming the cue ball in several directions before returning it to its original home, the side pocket. I suddenly realized the genesis of the word "miscue."

"That's not bad," Fats replied, referring to the appropriation, not my shot. "You get almost half of your budget from the state."

"Commonwealth, actually."

"Right."

"No, it's not bad," I said, "but keep in mind that those funds essentially cover personnel and some basic operating costs. We can't rely on state funds to build new buildings, although we can occasionally persuade legislators to make such investments. And we can't count on them to fund new programs or invest in technology upgrades or support faculty initiatives or offer scholarship aid. We can't accomplish all of that without an infusion of philanthropy. Private gifts enable us to realize a measure of excellence beyond what the state provides."

"Measure of excellence?" Fats repeated, smirking. OK, so I sounded like a clichéd case statement. But I think he got my point. I hadn't had to make that argument for some time. For the past six years I had worked for private colleges, where the "culture of philanthropy" was understood and carefully cultivated. During my tenure at a public research university, one fairly new to fund raising, I fought similar battles, especially after the university began a state-bonded $1-billion program for capital improvements. Try squeezing alumni for relative chump change once they've read those headlines. Talk about being behind the eight ball.

Fats was down to three solids, one of which was black. Meanwhile, my guys outnumbered his by a wide margin. "Six in the corner," he predicted correctly.

"Does a career in banking help with bank shots?" I quipped in yet another poor attempt to be clever.

"No," he countered while missing a shot I could have easily made once every 100 tries, "but it does make me a likely candidate for nonprofit boards."

"Then let's talk," I said. "We need allies who understand the importance of private giving to a public college. Our foundation board, particularly our development committee, governs our fund-raising efforts and will be instrumental in our upcoming campaign. I'd love to be able to put your name before the group for consideration."

"That leaves the eight," Fats said, no doubt flattered by my proposition. "Left corner pocket."

Sure enough, the eight ball rolled deliberately into the target pocket, but unfortunately was followed eagerly by the cue.

"What's that mean?" I asked, surmising the answer.

"It means you win," Fats said, somewhat perplexed.

"Well, instead of bowing to a superior talent, just agree to consider my offer."

"I will," he said. "Sounds like an interesting challenge. First, how about a rematch?"

"Fine, but let's try something more my speed," I said as I walked over to the dartboard.

"I get your point," Fats said, smiling.

My new friend was going to be all right.