In “Big Time,” college profs battle to survive amid sports run amok

Chapter 1 

The smell of artificial butter made Professor Eugene Mooney queasy. What choice did he have, though, when the authentic stuff was so expensive? Two hours before game time, he felt vaguely nauseated as the corn popped and the first industrial-sized batch emerged. The sick feeling would last well past the opening kickoff, and probably another three hours. 

Or at least until they sold out of popcorn. 

Mooney and his remaining History Department colleagues were operating concessions at Coors State University’s football stadium for the first time. He’d prepared for their new gig by reverting to what he did best: meticulous research. All week, library books had sprawled across his dining room table. He was filling another box when a man in battle fatigues leapt over the counter with a piercing howl. Startled, Mooney jerked his hands into the air as though it were a stickup. Popcorn scattered across the floor. 

It was Peter Braverman, his best friend from History. 

“Typical,” Braverman said. “Our esteemed Professor Mooney is prepared for everything except battle.” Braverman sometimes spoke as if a documentary film crew were trailing him. He brushed the spilled popcorn off Mooney’s chest and his tone softened. “Hey, you okay, Eugene?” he asked, squeezing his shoulder. 

Mooney fumbled for a snappy retort, but all he could manage was, “You almost gave me a heart attack.” 

“How do you like my getup?” Braverman asked, gesturing at his camouflage trousers and slouch hat. He said they were marketing tools to bring attention to his first book. His gaunt face and frame fit well with battle fatigues, Mooney had to admit, but selling their own books at a Silver Bullets football game was humiliating. 

“You should wear a sombrero to promote your book,” Braverman said, crunching over the spilled popcorn. 

“A sombrero with this?” Mooney was sporting a number 10 jersey to honor quarterback Trevor Knighton. 

“You know who looks good in varsity gear?” Braverman asked. “Varsity players.” 

Mooney was about to answer, but Braverman didn’t give him a chance. “Everyone looks good in battle fatigues,” he said. “That’s why your war machine government hasn’t needed a draft since Vietnam. This outfit does their recruiting.” He paused then said, “Man, it smells weird in here.” He reached elbow-deep into the popcorn machine anyway and jammed a handful into his mouth. 

Last week, almost exactly a year after the University’s rebranding, History had gotten the good news—they were no longer assigned to stadium bathroom cleanup, responsible for toilets that smelled far worse than the artificial butter. Instead, they had been granted control of the fifteen concession stands during football games, something they hadn’t even applied for. The opportunity to take over concessions was a total surprise to everyone in History except Eugene Mooney, but their dwindling faculty had just six days to set it all up. 

Mooney had tried to toss a high five to Braverman at the announcement, but he was rebuked. “Celebrating a sellout?” Braverman said. “Not me.” 

Mooney didn’t see it like that. With their new assignment, History would survive, maybe even thrive. A colleague from Accounting estimated they might earn $100,000 each football game. Basketball wouldn’t be as lucrative on a per-game basis because its arena seated only 18,000. Then again, the team played at home more often. They would know more when the department met on Monday to total their take, which would then be pooled for salaries. With any luck, they might even approach their pay scale from before the rebranding. Unfortunately, other departments hadn’t experienced History’s resurrection, a fact Mooney had tried to bring up at that same meeting. 

“It’s too late to save English, but Philosophy might still survive,” he had said at the meeting. When he spoke, his colleagues usually listened since he was the senior member. Years earlier, his fourth book, Arriba, Amigos: Pancho Villa’s Appropriation of Salsa as Signifier in Coopting the Mexican Underclass (University of South Dakota Press), propelled him into his position as a full professor, one of the few left in History. 

“So I’m suggesting,” Mooney added, “we consider sharing our new concessions revenues with struggling departments.” 

It was quiet for a moment, then he was booed by everyone except Braverman. It was the first time Mooney had ever been booed. Things had certainly become less collegial since the rebranding. 

Next, predictably, History could not agree on a menu. Bitter fights erupted. Mooney had had to intervene when Braverman called a Modern European scholar “a food Nazi,” but in the end, the sacred principle of academic freedom prevailed: the professors would determine their own menus. 

Mooney’s final suggestion—that he and Braverman work as a duo—was greeted with enthusiasm. They all knew Braverman would offend customers if left unmonitored, and nobody else wanted to work with him anyway. Mooney had considered it a rare win until the meeting broke up and Braverman steamrolled him with his demand to peddle their own books along with the popcorn. 

Mooney and Braverman had plenty in common besides being professors at the big state school in Colorado—maybe too much. They’d been hired the same year, 1997, over two decades before the school rebranded. Soon after arriving on campus, each had been dumped by his spouse—Braverman in the aching aftermath of a stillborn daughter. Both were enamored with the anti-war protests and civil rights movements of the 1960s. 

Mooney had two older brothers who had been genuine radicals then, but Braverman was actively involved, even after the end of the Vietnam War, in his teenage years. “I did my part” was his mysterious mantra. They were now in their late fifties, although Braverman often acted like a junior high school kid with anger issues. Running partners for a few years, they covered five miles most mornings until Mooney’s knee went bust. He adapted by lifting weights at a local health club, but over time he’d ballooned up to 230 pounds. Braverman, protestor thin, still ran. 

Mooney and Braverman agreed the school’s overemphasis on revenue sports was appalling. Where they strongly differed was on the remedy. 

Braverman wanted to blow shit up. He’d harangue whoever was nearby, post angry missives on the school’s Faculty Talk email chain, and sneer at the professors who, like him, had remained. He could do righteous indignation better than anyone. He refused to accept that football and basketball were more valuable than physics and biology. Mooney still took pride in their department despite the depressing developments, and he believed one need only apply the right pressure on the right levers within the complex democratic structure already in place. Braverman was like a human museum piece, a link to 1960s’ protest movements. When teaching his classes on the Vietnam War, he constantly namedropped to flash his radical credentials at the kids, and sometimes he did it to Mooney. 

Mooney loved Braverman anyway, admired his idealism, which he mostly found amusing. 

Their new concession stand was small, cold, windowless, and solid concrete, not a place you’d ever want to be stuck in. While Braverman set up the soft drink machine, Mooney sat in the corner and reviewed what he’d learned, should customers have questions. 

Mexican history was Mooney’s field, but he’d had to educate himself about popcorn’s prominent past. Cortez, after invading Mexico in 1519, found popcorn among the native Aztecs, who used it for ceremonial decoration and food. The ancient Peruvians made popcorn, too. In the bat caves of central New Mexico, archaeologists uncovered ears of corn that had been carbon dated from the year—he fished a notecard from his pocket for the correct date. 

Mooney’s research into culinary history and the psychology behind it indicated that a subtle buttery smell attracted customers who weren’t even hungry, so he rigged up a cheap box fan to spread the phony aroma. When another batch of popped corn spewed out, he put down his notes and filled more red-and- white striped boxes, arranging them into rows. Someday they’d introduce an extra-large bag. This was the sort of strategic thinking now integral to his job. 

Dozens of other departments were working at the stadium as well, but not English. Mooney felt awful that English had been eliminated by Football, but they had put themselves in jeopardy by refusing to switch with History and take on bathroom duty. They had to assume some responsibility for their own demise. The only survivors of the purge were two poetry professors because, it was rumored, one poet was planning to retire, and the newly hired poet was something of a pop star whose classes were already overflowing. They were now known as the Poetry Department and had a humble new gig hawking game programs until kickoff. 

In fact, when Mooney arrived that evening, a pod of poetry students, and probably their two faculty members, had been posted outside the stadium, getting ready to sell the programs. Mooney had purchased one from what might have been a grad student, dreadlocked and dressed like a retro-hippie. Selling programs was simple once the first issue was edited and published, and if a couple dozen students pitched in, Poetry didn’t require a big staff. It wasn’t the worst early-season gig, but profits would evaporate as the fans memorized the players’ names and programs became unnecessary—although sales could likely be counted on to keep a two-person department afloat. 

Mooney fired up the popcorn machine for one more batch, then took a peek at the program. The poets had employed a— well, a poetic tone. One player was described as “…a mythical force of nature whose velocity would elicit tears of envy from the Gods of Sparta whilst a chorus of human passion from the Coors State aficionados doubtless will lift him above; woe be it to the mortals whom he shall battle in imminent clashes.” No, that wasn’t written by a poet, he thought, it must have been a recently fired Medievalist. The Poetry Department was taking advantage of the work that had been completed before English had been canned. He closed the program and noticed a sticker on the front. “Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.” William Shakespeare—Compliments of the English Department. Yes, Poetry was obviously recycling parts of last year’s programs; they’d have to be careful about plagiarism. 

With the corn popped and the fountain drinks ready, Braverman said he needed help carrying the other snacks into the stadium. They left their post and walked the empty concourse to the delivery dock. Boxes of candy, pickles, and his new book, Hell No! We Won’t Go! were crammed into the trunk of Braverman’s beloved 1972 Volvo. He’d conned his way past parking attendants (aka Urban Planning professors) distracting them by discussing the possibility of solar-powered lights at the stadium. They’d eventually let him pass but insisted he move the car immediately after unloading.

Braverman treasured his Volvo, the only car he’d ever owned, the only material possession he was proud of. His ranch house gutters were decaying, his lawn was desolate, his office was a disaster, he never bought new clothes, but he was passionate about his Volvo. 

After they stacked the boxes at the delivery door, Braverman checked to make sure the Urban Planning profs weren’t around, shut off the hazard flashers, and zipped his Volvo into a primo vacant spot, right next to the stadium. 

“Bad decision,” Mooney said, pointing to the sign. Coaches Only. 

“They’re already in the stadium. And how many football coaches can there be?” Braverman asked, waving at the vacant spaces. It was a rhetorical question because Mooney and Braverman knew the answer. Besides the head coach, the university employed twenty-five assistant coaches. Also, eight strength coaches, six directors of football operations, four film coordinators, three dieticians, two steroid counselors, two social media advisors, and an academic coordinator. That didn’t count the dozen graduate assistants. One staff member for every two players, basically. Until recently, Football had ten academic support workers, but because the team had accumulated a GPA over 3.0 during their first year as the Coors State Silver Bullets, they rechanneled their resources into more weightlifting coaches. 

Mooney feared that the Volvo, with its “Save Tibet” and “Bernie Sanders” bumper stickers, could be towed, but before he could warn him again, Braverman said, “Nobody would dare. The car stays.” 

This kind of civil disobedience was how Braverman rebelled, so Mooney said nothing. They hoisted up the bulky boxes and headed back to the stand. The gates would not open to the public for a few more minutes, and the only people walking the stadium concourse were Criminal Justice professors in their electric-yellow vests. They served as ushers, frisked fans, and policed the campus. Complaints about excessive force were common. They had gotten big heads because their enrollments were up and so many athletes majored in Criminal Justice. 

Mooney and Braverman wobbled past two of the guards coming from the other direction. One carried a Taser. 

“Need help?” one guard snickered without slowing his stride. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Braverman said over his shoulder. 

“Hey, Fatso,” the other guard yelled, “you better return that jersey to Trevor Knighton, it’s almost game time.” 

Braverman was about to lash out yet again, but Mooney told him to cool it. Some professors had degenerated into trash-talking each other after academics had been castrated. Braverman was the worst. Or the best, depending on your viewpoint. Mooney was sensitive about his weight, but infighting was bad for university morale, and he prided himself on never losing his cool. 

After they dropped off the boxes at the concession stand, Mooney walked the concourse, making notes of their History colleagues’ menu listings. He wanted to avoid an accidental price war, but how could he compare popcorn to a pastrami sandwich? Or a Baby Ruth to a bowl of hummus? Each stand had a single professor flanked by two grad students, and their menus were confusing. What the heck were Cold War Nuggets? What exactly were Pillars of Western Civilization w/ Cheese? Well, his colleagues were trying, and it wasn’t Mooney’s place to complain. The acquiescence of their own History faculty made Braverman crazy, but it was good they were keeping an upbeat attitude about the challenges ahead. 

When Mooney returned, Braverman was arranging their book displays. He unfurled an American flag with the peace sign in place of the stars, a replica of his new publication’s cover. He duct-taped the flag between the pickles and popcorn machine, then listed the prices on the poster board. Naturally, he put his new book first, Mooney’s next, then the snacks. At the bottom it read: 

Academic Special!!!
Large Coke
Popcorn
One book (your choice) $25 

“Good luck with that one,” Mooney said. The popcorn machine hid a modest stack of Arriba, Amigos. Mooney had hoped Braverman would forget to bring his book. No such luck. 

While the two professors often bickered like brothers, that morning on the phone Mooney nearly got his friend to admit that new books wouldn’t save History. This concession stand assignment might. 

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