Why you can't put a price tag on the value of lessons learned on a college campus

The COVID-19 pandemic, spiraling costs, a growing mental health crisis and a variety of other concerns have raised the debate about the value of the residential college experience. 

As the son of a high school principal, I am reluctant to write this, but in my case, preparing to be a productive member of society was largely influenced by the social and extracurricular atmosphere college life offered. 

I arrived in Iowa City as a sophomore, two weeks after classes had begun, on crutches with my ankle in a cast up to my knee and sweating in the late summer heat. With my mom in tow we scrambled to enroll and find me a place to live. Though University of Iowa basketball coach Lute Olson encouraged me to walk on to his team, my primary motivation was a girl — academics and even basketball were distant thoughts as I hobbled, hopelessly lovestruck, across campus. 

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The residential college experience represented an entrance exam to adulthood; a gauntlet of sorts, bridging passage from teenager to adult. Suffering a broken heart watching a girlfriend entertain the advances of another, managing money or navigating social situations with kids from very different backgrounds had little to do with getting a degree but everything to do with growing up. Balancing the demands of academics and athletics was challenging, particularly for me. Just making it out of bed in time for class was a victory.

Avoiding the sciences, business or mathematics, and only flirting with declaring a major, I ended up with a degree called a Bachelor of General Studies, which usually elicits polite smiles when I mention it. Meanwhile, I spent as much time as possible at parties and in the bars — which meant only Saturday nights during basketball season but every chance I got in the spring and fall.

Basketball was important, but so was EPB 

Passing the old Field House today where we played and practiced, I am often overcome reflecting on the impact basketball has had on my life; but passing the English-Philosophy Building (known to all UI students simply as "EPB") evokes similar feelings, where driven by a dream to write but lacking self-confidence and afraid to be judged, I took literature classes instead; finding nourishment reading good books while rubbing elbows with published authors and famous Writer’s Workshop faculty. 

The profound, if irrational, love I feel for the University of Iowa developed because I thrived socially on both the macro and micro levels. “Macro” for me represented a cosmopolitan university environment seamlessly integrated to a hip downtown where the august Old Capitol and the formidable Iowa River — a muse for generations of students — created a classic picture postcard backdrop. “Micro” represented the basketball team — where focus, structure and discipline were paramount; we had each other’s backs; we were our own tribe, and we had a common goal. 

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For most of my teammates, early athletic promise led to unequivocal expectations that they’d never have to pay for college. One day, teammate Greg Boyle returned from the mailbox with a pained look on his face. “University bills arrived today,” he said, plopping down beside me. “I saw several kids staring at them with a look of dread. One kid was in tears.” After a pause he added, “I’ve never gotten a U Bill.” We sat in silence pondering the contrast between our situation and the financial tightrope so many students walk.

College years are an emotional roller coaster

The American Psychological Association reports that students seeking counseling services has been on the rise for five straight years, and students showing up with severe mental health symptoms has increased by 50%. As I watch fresh-faced kids bustling around campus, I can remember an emotional seesaw I lived through from a dismal first year crammed into a Burge Hall triple, feeling isolated and searching for an identity, to the next, where I experienced a close encounter with history and glory as a member of a team that reached the NCAA Final Four. 

Our basketball teams played before sold-out crowds at a time when the student demand for tickets required a lottery. The high point for me occurred on a March evening near midnight, returning home as NCAA East Region champions to find 12,000 screaming fans in the Field House. That memory is indelible, but so too are grueling practices and academic stress from dropped classes, missed assignments, or looming midterms I barely studied for.  

Though I always had a plan — from internships to publishing my first article for this newspaper — academically, I lived in a state of anxiety. Especially after the basketball season, when neglected studies complicated the transition from the demands of the team to the flowering freedom of springtime. Before mid-terms and final exams, I often felt an oppressive weight hanging over each step until rumors of an off-campus party would eclipse my anxiety — at least until the morning light brought it back into focus.

I remember the exhilaration I felt discovering parties — turning a corner to find a crowd surrounding a bonfire in someone’s backyard or seeing a packed porch and kids spilling down the front steps; so keen was my interest to meet new people socially that recognizing no one was a bonus and not unlike the butterflies I felt stepping onto an opposing team’s court prior to a big game. It’s safe to say that my younger self never met a party he didn’t like.

Lessons learned the hard way

I cringe remembering bone-headed moves made under the influence back in the day (when the drinking age was 18), or the constant pressure to come up with excuses for missed classes or assignments. One such mea culpa was particularly humbling; I needed a D in my final class to graduate. I had no alternative but to sit down with a professor I’d never met, come clean and take my lumps. I somehow got that D, but the potency of that humiliation hounded me long after.

There was the day I arrived late for basketball practice and coach Olson threw me out, then removed me from my first Big Ten road trip. When I protested, he said, “If you’re ever late again, you’ll be off the team and lose your scholarship.” For decades afterward, I’d wake in a cold sweat, dreaming I was late for practice. 

On the eve of my senior year, I arrived at the athletic dorm to find I didn’t have a room assignment. Convinced it was a staff blunder, I marched up the hill to coach Olson’s office. With that steely gaze capable of freezing a subject like a Minnesota blizzard, coach confirmed he had locked me out. “You’ll be right over there,” he said, pointing out his window to a dormitory directly across the street. “I’m giving you a couple of months to figure out whether your priorities are academics, basketball and your social life or the other way around.”

Coach Olson, a lifelong friend and father figure, was just doing his part to push me through that gauntlet separating youth from adulthood.

Though I didn’t prioritize my academics or pursue a specific degree (to the lament of my parents) four years of socialization provided me with a roadmap and tools to grow and mature. In business I’ve learned how valuable and sometimes essential failure can be to future success. The microcosm of the residential college experience provided me with a valuable primer for life beyond college, and perhaps most important, the opportunity to fall, pick myself back up and carry on stronger.  

Jon Darsee, of Iowa City, is a regular contributor to the Des Moines Register. He is a West Des Moines Valley graduate and member of the University of Iowa’s 1980 Final Four team. Darsee was a medical device industry executive for more than 20 years before becoming the chief innovation officer for the University of Iowa. Email him at Jondarsee@gmail.com