We Have Met the Enemy

(LEXINGTON, Ky.) – When Mitch Barnhart recently voiced his full-throated support for Mark Stoops, he probably thought he was calming the restless masses. “Mark’s our guy,” he implied, the reassuring tone of an athletics director defending his man. But Barnhart’s statement did more than prop up his coach. It exposed the entire sickness infecting college sports—a terminal case of greed that no pep talk or newspaper column could possibly cure.

Let’s be clear: Mark Stoops isn’t the problem. Mitch Barnhart isn’t even the problem. We are the problem.

We—the fans, the donors, the talking heads, the administrators, the boosters, the bag men, the media. We’ve all created this Frankenstein. And we keep feeding our beloved monster.

We say we love “college sports,” but what we really love is status. We want our school’s name trending, our team in the playoff, our logo plastered on ESPN’s Top-Ten list. We crave the dopamine hit of relevance, and we’ll sell our souls—and a few tuition hikes—to get it.

It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, college football was about Saturday pageantry, marching bands, and kids chasing dreams. Now it’s about endowments, end zones, and NIL endorsements. The purity died somewhere between the first seven-figure buyout and the last kid to enter the transfer portal because his Lamborghini lease expired.

We’ve turned something guardedly sacred into something horrifically sick.

Every time a donor writes a six-figure check to a “collective,” another nail goes into the coffin of amateurism. Every time a fan clicks on a rumor about a player’s NIL deal, the beast grows stronger. Every time we shrug off a $50 million buyout as “the cost of doing business,” we surrender another piece of our moral compass.

We’ve built cathedrals of concrete—palaces of privilege—and filled them with golden idols wearing shoulder pads. It’s like Joel Osteen preaching the prosperity gospel. The sermons are televised, the offering plates are digital, and the message of the day is that God rewards those who have the most money in their piggy banks. We used to look up to our student-athletes as examples of perseverance and humility. Now we look up to them from behind velvet ropes and say, “Can I get a selfie—for $25 no less?”

And the universities? They’re no better. Presidents and athletics directors speak of “student-athletes” with straight faces while green-lighting $400 million facility projects financed on the backs of deferred maintenance, internal loans, and student fees. Entire campuses crumble while locker rooms get hot tubs. Every time a coach goes 7–5, a new clause gets triggered, a bonus gets cashed, and some poor faculty member teaching Intro to Philosophy wonders why their department just lost another TA.

Mitch Barnhart, to his credit, has tried to walk a fine line. He’s talked about faith, family, and gratitude. He’s one of the last old-school athletics directors who still relishes sending emails while buttoning the top button on his polo shirt. But even he can’t stop the tidal wave of greed that’s sweeping the sport away.

When Barnhart says Stoops is “our guy,” he’s really saying, “He’s the guy holding this fragile circus together while we mortgage the future.” Because the truth is, everyone’s complicit. Everyone has their hand in the pot. Coaches demand raises. Agents negotiate extensions. Boosters expect access. Reporters chase clicks. Fans go gaga over player autographs and appearances.

And then we all act shocked when a legacy, hometown, all-star receiver transfers for a bigger payday. Shocked when a school cuts non-revenue sports. Shocked and incredulous when we see ticket prices soar, parking fees skyrocket, and those $9 hot dogs at stadium concessions.

We’ve met the enemy, and he’s tailgating right next to us.

We are the ones posting #BBNForever while shopping the transfer portal like it’s Amazon Prime Day. We’re the ones who scream “loyalty” while secretly cheering against our team so we can fire the head coach. We’re the ones wearing jerseys of players who’ll be gone by spring practice—because they didn’t give a hoot about the name on the front anyway.

I’m as guilty as anyone. I’ve sat in press boxes and justified the madness as “the new reality.” I’ve covered the coaching carousel like it’s breaking news, not moral decay. I’ve written about “market value” for 18-year-olds who haven’t finished English 101.

But at some point, you just have to scream out, “THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES!”

Barnhart’s loyalty speech should’ve been a wake-up call. Instead, it became background noise to a system that no longer listens. We keep cheering, we keep spending, and we keep pretending we’re not the problem.

It’s not sustainable. The math doesn’t work. The algorithm has gone horribly corrupt. And we’re waiting for Congress to fix it? Seriously?

Eventually, the infrastructure loans will come due. The donors will tire. The players will unionize. The soul of college sports will be repossessed, and we’ll all act like we never saw it coming.

We’ve met the enemy. And he’s wearing blue. Or crimson. Or red and black. Take your pick.

Until we stop confusing greed with growth and stop baptizing selfishness as success, nothing will change. The next Barnhart will say the same words. The next Stoops will sign the same deal. The next generation will inherit the same broken machine.

And maybe—just maybe—right before our shot clock expires—we’ll realize that the thing we loved most about college sports wasn’t the scoreboard. It was the soul.

And we sold it.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his latest, “Whining For Posterity,” and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD