By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
He knows Ford Stadium is not an elixir. Oh, it's pretty enough -- lots of red brick and glass and aesthetically pleasing sightlines -- but it's not going to cure everything that ails his team. Actually, when it all shakes down, GFS, with its luxury suites and club boxes, could very well be the first stage of an unwanted litany: new stadium, losing season, dwindling fan base, pink slip.
"The stadium is great, but that won't get the program back to how it was [before the death penalty]," Cavan says casually. Dressed in a dark blue Mustangs shirt, khaki pants, and brown loafers sans socks, he looks at ease. That'll probably change in less than a month when the season begins at home against Kansas.
"The way you get back there is you win. You win. That's the only way back. The allure of the stadium will wear off quickly. I've said that from the start. We've got to win."
He's right, of course. They've got to win because, in the end, winning really is everything -- at least as far as ticket sales are concerned. After all, you could replicate the Vatican in Big D, but if all you've got to fill it with is a fat Elvis impersonator and a few elderly cocktail waitresses, who's gonna go?
If they don't go to GFS, if the team struggles to another mediocre record -- the Mustangs were 4-6 last season -- and the novelty of an on-campus venue wears off sooner rather than later, what then? You know what. If Southern Methodist is left with 32,000 empty, or emptying, seats, someone's head is going to roll. Actually, at $56.8 million, regardless of the fact that it's a beautiful facility, the higher-ups are going to want a whole bunch of scalps -- and likely some limbs and a few torsos too.
You get one guess whose name would be at, or near, the top of the list.
"Nobody puts more pressure on football coaches than the coaches themselves," Cavan says in an even tone. "Every year I feel pressure, no matter what. I hope there is a lot of pressure. It's better to have high expectations and pressure than apathy. That means we're headed in the right direction."
For things to continually pan out the way the university's administration hopes -- lots of fickle SMU kids and alumni filling lots of seats at lots of games -- SMU will need to buck a disquieting trend. There's been this little problem with history and SMU football and its supporters. The little problem being, when the team is bad, or even when it's OK but not Eric Dickerson-level great, fans don't show. Simple as that. Since 1995, the team has averaged a meager four wins per year, including an atrocious 1-10 mark five seasons ago. During that stretch, attendance hovered right around 20,000 a game. But even those figures are perverted slightly because of huge turnouts the last two years when Arkansas came calling. Take away the 50,000-plus fans from the Hogs match-ups, and the ticket sales dip to about 17,000 a game.
By contrast, other regional private schools like TCU (7-4 record, 26,290 average attendance) and Baylor (1-10, 29,169) each outdrew the Mustangs last year. "It's no secret our fan support wasn't outstanding," says junior quarterback Josh McCown.
Some of that had to do with the team playing in the drab Cotton Bowl -- it even makes that erector set they call Texas Stadium look good -- and some of it had to do with fan indifference and reluctance to drive to Fair Park. Most of it, though, had to do with that whole sucking thing.
Luckily for athletic director Jim Copeland and the other higher-ups, the fans have short-term memories. Apparently the ticket-sale phones have been ringing nonstop.
"Pulling everything together by September 2, it's coming close now," Copeland, a big, bear-like fellow, says excitedly. "I think we're in pretty good shape right now. But it is hectic. [But] selling tickets, it's the kind of busy you like to have."