Against the Grain II
By Vaughn Wilson
I am fully in favor of student-athletes being paid. I also believed the old transfer rules—before the portal era—were unfair and outdated.
That said, when the NCAA opened Pandora’s box a few years ago, it didn’t just change policies. It fundamentally altered the culture of college athletics.
Fans can no longer follow players from beginning to end. Athletes are no longer viewed as amateurs working their way through college. Today’s landscape more closely resembles unlimited free agency—year-to-year contracts, roster turnover, negotiations, and extended eligibility that stretch the very definition of “college athlete.”
My understanding of college eligibility began as a child watching Florida A&M University men’s basketball, and in particular, the great Clemon Johnson. My father took me to every home game, and Johnson was the most recognizable figure of my youth. He dominated on the court, but what stayed with me was who he was off it—kind, respectful, always smiling.
I didn’t understand college rules then, so when Clemon played his final game in Gaither Gym, I was genuinely distraught. On his very last play, he dunked through the lane to beat Bethune-Cookman by a single point. To me, he was immortal.
When basketball season rolled around again, I told my father I couldn’t wait to see Clemon. That’s when he explained that Clemon had moved on—that he’d used up his eligibility and was headed to the NBA. I couldn’t process it. Four years of eligibility didn’t make sense to a kid. But that limitation is exactly what made Clemon legendary in my mind. His story had an ending.
Years later, as a freshman baseball player in college, I remember Melvin “Red” Gilliam chastising a fan who was criticizing one of our players. “They’re just kids trying to get through college,” he said. No truer words have ever been spoken.
While every baseball player dreams of the major leagues, the reality was clear: baseball was the vehicle, education was the destination. Not a single player on our team transferred. Everyone stayed. They waited their turn—two, three, sometimes four years. Florida A&M University was their choice, and they committed to it. That world feels distant now.
Today, athletes play ping-pong with their careers. Recruiting has become a nationwide bidding war for one-year contracts. A player can start on the West Coast, bounce twice, and finish nearly 3,000 miles away in Miami.
Indiana University, the most recent College Football Playoff national champion, fielded one of the oldest teams in history. The average age was 23. Forty-seven players were between 22 and 25 years old—numbers comparable to NFL rosters. Endless eligibility challenges and legal maneuvering have pushed college athletics far from its original intent.
Multi-million-dollar NIL deals are now routine. Top programs manage payrolls and rosters just like professional franchises. Loyalty, once a cornerstone of college sports, has faded for some athletes as contract disputes and broken agreements become common.
Duke University quarterback Darian Mensah is one example. After starting his career at Tulane, Mensah transferred to Duke, led the Blue Devils to their first-ever ACC championship, then settled a multi-year NIL deal out of court. In 2026, he will suit up for his third college program, the Miami Hurricanes.
This isn’t exclusive to football. It’s happening across sports. One of the most high-profile examples came in softball, where NiJaree Canady left Stanford University for Texas Tech University following a record-setting NIL deal.
What’s missing is what college athletics was meant to provide. The camaraderie of campus life. The shared traditions. The experience of growing alongside the same teammates, year after year. That journey is being replaced by constant calculation—what school, what conference, what coast offers the best deal next season.
As a former FAMU football player, I wouldn’t trade the brotherhood built over four years for anything. Not an NIL deal. Not a bigger stage. Not a different uniform.
Sharing life with 100 new brothers was priceless. To this day, we stay connected—group texts, social media, phone calls. We show up for weddings, funerals, and homecomings. We check on one another. We are uncles to each other’s children. When we reunite, the energy is unmatched. I still smile thinking about those years.
The parties. The girlfriends. The challenges. The wins and losses. The summers grinding for the season. The long, quiet bus rides after defeat, replaying every mistake. The victory trips where nothing else mattered. Hours of playing spades, conversations, and learning one another.
Those moments are irreplaceable. Character-building. Life-shaping. I don’t resent today’s athletes or today’s system. It’s simply different—remarkably different. And while today’s players are benefiting financially in ways we never could, it comes at the cost of something that lasts far longer than any NIL deal.
Long after the last dollar is spent, brotherhood remains.