If you're stinking, filthy rich, a good athletic director or university fundraiser has already contacted you for above-board donations, and you likely won't get into the business of paying players. It's the guys with just about 10 or 15 grand to burn annually and don't aspire for ego-stroking that usually become bag men.
"I think it took me seven years. I knew some guys. They knew some older guys. And before, I really didn't believe any of this happened. Then I start coming around different events, parties, tailgates. After a while one guy says, 'Oh hey, I know him. It's okay, he loves the [team],' and starts talking who needed to get what. And so I was a part of it. I wanted to be."
Once properly vetted, your money usually buys you first or secondhand access to information most fans (or journalists) would kill for: player run-ins with the law that go unreported, what certain coaches are really like, what kind of power an A.D. or president really has, and most importantly, who really is in charge of your football program.
These kind of shadowy networks of local guys help explain why college football doesn't seem just like hired gladiators -- State U.'s football team is supported by a vast network of boosters, some public, some covert, who find ways to make the mothers of high school stars loyal. It's a test of the community. Football is a war game and lot of guys who are too old to be on the front lines still like to be part of the resource-gathering for the wars and to earn some degree of right to be part of the strategy conversation.
For the legendary expats of Tangier, a life devoted to beauty reaches full flower in this North African hothouse of history and hedonism.
Extremely rarely, you hear of an individual who shares some of the tastes of the SEC bag men and some of the tastes of the Tangier aesthetes, and it becomes the biggest story in the history of the world for awhile, but might I suggest that Jerry Sandusky is what you can roughly call the exception who proves the rule?