Changing the Game

My Career in Collegiate Sports Marketing

Jim Host, Eric A. Moyen

• Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9780813179568
• Topic: Business
• Subtopic: Business Biographies
• Index: Business

Many Kentuckians and fans of intercollegiate athletics are familiar with the name Jim Host. As founder and CEO of Host Communications, he was the pioneer in college sports marketing. Host's prevailing innovation in collegiate sports was the concept of bundled licensing, which encouraged corporate partners to become official sponsors of athletic programs across media formats. Host and his team developed the NCAA Radio Network and introduced what became known as the NCAA Corporate Partner Program, employing companies such as Gillette, Valvoline, Coca-Cola, and Pizza Hut to promote university athletic programs and the NCAA at large. Host was involved with the construction of Rupp Arena, the Kentucky Horse Park, and the KFC Yum! Center. But few know his full story.

Changing the Game is the first complete account of Host's professional life, detailing his achievements in sports radio, management, and broadcasting; his time in minor league baseball, real estate, and the insurance business; and his foray into Kentucky politics, including his appointments under governors Louie B. Nunn and Ernie Fletcher. This memoir provides a behind-the-scenes look at the growth of big-time athletics and offers solutions for current challenges facing college sports.

1

Growing Roots

With more than eight decades of a remarkable life behind me, I owe much to so many selfless individuals and extraordinary circumstances. To understand me—or anyone, for that matter—my origins must be considered. This includes “place,” but it involves far more than just location. Heredity, culture, community, and upbringing all play major roles. Every individual decides how to respond to these influences, good and bad. Hard work, luck, the kindness of others, and, I believe, a higher power figure in the story of every successful person. I am certainly no exception.

While I love my old Kentucky home, I spent my first years outside of the Bluegrass State. I lived in many small Appalachian Mountain towns filled with hardworking blue-collar families of modest means. I learned about the importance of family and community in my childhood, but I always yearned to do more, to do better. I had big dreams, what some would call the American dream; it was the kind of yearning that filled the minds of so many of my contemporaries who were born during FDR’s New Deal and raised in the seemingly boundless optimism of postwar America.

I entered this world on November 23, 1937, in Kane, Pennsylvania, the eldest child of Beatrice “Bea” Hattie Jones Host and Wilford “Will” Joseph Host and the first-born grandchild on both sides of the family. My mother was the third of fifteen children, twelve of whom were girls. Her parents, Lloyd and Ella, lived in neighboring Sheffield, Pennsylvania. I was much closer to Mother’s side of the family, since Dad’s family lived in Michigan. My parents’ families could not have been more different. Mother and Dad each brought their unique childhood experiences and influences into their marriage and family.

My mother’s huge family hailed from eastern Pennsylvania, where my grandfather opened the first Chevrolet dealership in that part of the state. I deeply admired and emulated my maternal grandfather. He worked hard and planned ahead, always considering new ideas. I saw him as a strategist. Today he would be called an entrepreneur.

Never lacking for work with fifteen children, my grandmother somehow found time to make me feel special. For instance, when I visited their modest home during my childhood, she would take me to the attic, where she saved stacks of newspapers with the sports sections intact. I spent hours up there clipping out pictures of my favorite baseball players. My maternal grandparents were devout Methodists, which influenced Mother’s faith. Most important, their house was always filled with laughter and love. Even as a young child, I felt the closeness of family in their home, and I loved being a part of it.

Unlike my maternal grandparents, my father’s family showed little emotion or affection. A devout blue-collar Catholic family with German roots, they settled in Comstock Park, Michigan, where my dad grew up. We spent most of Dad’s vacation every year visiting his parents, Art and Wilhelmina, in Michigan. We would leave on a Friday after work and drive through the night. Dad hoped we would sleep, but we usually spent the night taking turns getting carsick. We always showed up exhausted but ready for adventure.

During my time there, I watched my grandfather rise early for work at a dairy plant every morning. He worked long hours, and upon arriving home, he immediately washed his hands, sat down in his chair, and started drinking beer. He was an absolute stoic, a tough guy. I cannot remember him smiling—ever! He viewed emotion as weakness. During one of our visits, he walked into the house and seemed visibly upset. I said, “Granddaddy, what’s wrong?” Remaining silent, he washed his hands at the sink. I walked over and saw blood, but he replied, “Nothing.” Then my dad realized that Granddaddy had cut off his finger. He exclaimed, “I gotta take you to the hospital!” My grandfather initially refused but eventually went, and the doctors removed the top half of his finger. Through it all, he never showed any emotion.

I enjoyed spending time with my father’s family, but the stern atmosphere was much different from that at my other grandparents’ home in Pennsylvania. Only later would I learn that Dad’s parents, especially his mother, never approved of his marrying a non-Catholic or raising us as Methodists. Even if this tension had not existed, my dad’s family was just much more reserved than my mother’s.

Growing up, many of these traits found their way into my own developing personality and worldview. My parents graduated from high school but never attended college, even though my mother would have loved that opportunity. In the Host tradition, my father took a blue-collar job with U.S. Leather, working in a tannery; this brought him to Pennsylvania, where he met my mother. They married at a relatively young age, and I was the oldest of three boys. Mother gave birth to my brother Jon when I was two, and my youngest brother Jay came along eighteen months after Jon.

When I was four, my dad received a promotion and moved the family about sixty miles north to Salamanca, New York. Controlled by the Seneca Nation, this town on the Allegheny River had a unique policy that required non–Native Americans to rent property from the Seneca Nation. We had fantastic neighbors, some of whom remained longtime family friends.

Starting school in Salamanca, I developed an affinity for math, as numbers came easily to me. I kept statistics (albeit rudimentary) about almost everything within my limited purview. Dad taught me how to keep score in bowling, so I scored his games and learned how to figure the bowling averages of everyone in Dad’s league. I took on a paper route while in elementary school, which we called “passing papers.” I stuffed the newspapers into my bike’s basket and delivered them daily. I kept close tabs on all my accounts and saved most of the money I made. With my earnings, I opened a savings account at a local bank and joined a Christmas Club, depositing a small amount each week to save up to buy gifts during the holidays. When I did spend money, it was usually on movies. I rode my bike downtown to see friends on Saturdays and to watch Roy Rogers or other movie stars in westerns.

Our time in Salamanca coincided with World War II. As a young boy, I could not appreciate the impact of world events on small communities like Salamanca. People talked about the war regularly, but I do not remember many specifics. I do recall listening to radio reports about the Normandy invasion and people celebrating downtown when the war ended. At my age, I had no memory of a time without war, and I recall a real sense of pride and optimism when the United States won.

Although unrelated to the war, my first experience with death came in Salamanca. After we moved to New York, my mother’s mother struggled with stomach problems. She had been seriously ill for weeks when my parents received word that she had passed away at only fifty-eight years old. My family assumed she had died from some sort of stomach cancer. As a young boy, my sadness came not only from losing my grandmother but also from watching my mother grieve. My grandfather also suffered. He had always been friendly and smiling, but losing his wife permanently changed him, as a certain sadness overtook him. My grandmother’s passing taught me an unwelcome but valuable lesson about the temporal nature of life and the importance of relationships.

I also developed a lifetime love of baseball in Salamanca. There were no organized leagues, so the neighborhood kids would recruit one another and play sandlot baseball. I enjoyed every minute of it. The feeling was euphoric. I loved watching the sport too. I will never forget Dad taking me to see the minor league Olean Dodgers play an exhibition game against their major league team, the Brooklyn Dodgers. I watched Gil Hodges at first base and Pee Wee Reese at shortstop. Just as important, 1947 was Jackie Robinson’s first year in the league. At the time, I did not understand the significance of Robinson breaking the color barrier and its social and political implications. In fact, I have no memory of even thinking about Jackie Robinson being a black man, but I did see a large section of African Americans watching the game. Little did I know how significant that event was for all people, but for the black community in particular. I was simply smitten with being at the ballpark, watching the game.

After six years in New York, Dad was promoted to assistant superintendent at a tannery in Iron Gate, Virginia. I was ten when we moved into a duplex in Iron Gate owned by U.S. Leather, probably because housing was in short supply after the war. My parents, my two brothers, and I shared a single bedroom. As the oldest, I got the top bunk, while my brothers were relegated to a mattress below. The duplex had only one bathroom, with a door on either side, that we shared with our neighbors. I cannot imagine how my mother managed to live in that space. My dad had supposedly moved up in the company, but our lifestyle definitely had not changed for the better. Even at ten years of age, I knew that our situation was far from ideal.

We lived in Iron Gate for less than a year, but a few memories from that time have stayed with me. Dad bought a cow in Virginia, which we named Moo Moo. Of course, he had bought it to feed the family, and I was with him when he walked out to the field, aimed his gun, and shot poor Moo Moo right between the eyes. Then he took the cow to the butcher. I was mortified. I know that my aversion to guns stems from witnessing that event.

When I was not in school or doing chores, I was playing baseball. I would find rocks to set up as bases and recruit my friends to join me. I played any position—even catcher—if it meant we could have a game. I even skipped meals if the neighborhood kids were willing to keep playing. Dad, who also loved the game, took me to see the Roanoke Red Sox when we were in Virginia. I remember watching Jim Suchecki pitch that night, and I decided then and there that I was going to pitch in the big leagues.

After nine months in Iron Gate, Dad became superintendent of a tannery in Paw Paw, West Virginia. My junior high school did not have a baseball team, so I settled for basketball. I was taller than most of my classmates, but I was slow. I also followed professional baseball. One day, Grandpa Jones took me to see the Washington Senators play the Boston Red Sox. We arrived at the Old Griffith Stadium in time to watch batting practice, and I was starstruck watching Bobby Doerr, Vern Stephens, and Johnny Pesky. Ted Williams, however, was unlike any player I had ever seen. During batting practice, he hit pitch after pitch off the giant wall in right field. The sights and smells of that stadium—popcorn, hotdogs, and peanuts—were magical.

Grandpa Jones passed away unexpectedly not long afterward, apparently from a heart attack or an aneurysm. However, I believe he died from a broken heart. He outlived my grandmother by three years, but he never recovered from her death. The joy he had when I was young had left him. I had lost two of the most important individuals in my life before finishing junior high school.

After witnessing that major league game, I started collecting every baseball card I could find. I also clipped newspaper and magazine photos and articles about my favorite players, organized them, and kept the players’ stats. While in Paw Paw, I had a little transistor radio tucked under my pillow at night so I could listen to Rosie Rosewell and Bob Prince call Pittsburgh games. Their vivid descriptions of the stadium and the players made the action come alive. I looked forward to every game. Dad also took me to hear the Philadelphia A’s Hall of Fame pitcher Lefty Grove speak at the local Lions Club. He autographed a photo I had of him, which I still have. Virtually every experience with baseball made me love the sport more.

I enjoyed other sports and recreational activities as well, including swimming, until one small incident impacted my feelings about water. One day, at a swimming hole in West Virginia with friends, I dove into the water and split my head open on some shallow rocks. It knocked me out briefly, and when I recovered, I noticed blood coming from the gash on my head. Although the injury was not serious, I was fortunate that I didn’t end up paralyzed, and from that day forward, water terrified me. This fear eventually kept me from becoming an Eagle Scout, and in my required college swimming class, I was scared to swim any length in the pool. I knew it was irrational, but that fear stayed with me.

Not long after we moved to West Virginia, Dad lost his job. Shoes were converting from leather soles to rubber ones, and Dad’s job was a casualty of this transition. I helped Mother in the garden, where she grew all kinds of vegetables, along with watermelons and cantaloupes. She canned as many fruits and vegetables as possible. I joined 4-H that year and grew an award-winning watermelon. During the summer I also worked in a nearby apple orchard. We got paid based on the amount of apples we picked, and I was determined to pick more than anyone else, which I did! Mother’s garden helped the family through that rough patch while Dad searched for work. Looking back, I am amazed that my parents were able to ensure that their sons never went without.

Dad also managed to send me to a YMCA camp in Bradford, Pennsylvania. I subsidized part of the cost by serving as a camp counselor. The camp program offered numerous activities, but I focused on baseball. I benefited from some good coaching and learned new aspects of the game. Paul Owens, future general manager of the Philadelphia Phillies, actually scouted me. He lived in Bradford and had heard about me. I thought it was only a matter of time until I reached the big leagues.

Dad eventually found work as an assistant superintendent at A. C. Lawrence Leather in Ashland, Kentucky. I entered the eighth grade when we moved to Kentucky. Excited that my dad had found another job, I had no idea that this would be our family’s last move and that Kentucky would become “home.” Ashland, a rough-and-tumble blue-collar town with around 30,000 residents, seemed huge to me. Steel and oil were the primary industries, and the factories and plants billowed smoke, creating serious smog for such a small place. The tannery where Dad worked, like all the others, emitted the most god-awful smell. I will never forget the odor of burnt animal hair. The whole treatment process was noxious, but it paid the bills. I never wanted to earn a living in a tannery.

My parents purchased a three-bedroom, one-bathroom house just outside of town on Elm Street. Modest even by 1950s standards, it was the nicest place we had ever lived. I enjoyed finally having my own bedroom, and my brothers shared a room. A nearby field next to the Old Putnam Stadium (along with Central Park downtown) provided a place to play sandlot baseball. Those games produced some of the fondest memories of my childhood. I also picked up another paper route to earn a little extra cash. Most important to me, my school was large enough to have a baseball team!

I delivered papers early in the morning, returned home to bathe, and then hitched a ride to the high school, located downtown on Central Avenue. Even when I was old enough to drive, Dad wouldn’t let me near his car, so I usually thumbed a ride or occasionally rode my bike to school. After spending the day in classes, I headed out to practice whatever sport I could.

While playing on the baseball team, I decided to participate in basketball as well. In my sophomore year (1952) I tried out for Coach George Conley, the father of future University of Kentucky (UK) great and sportscaster Larry Conley. He coached both baseball and basketball, but he loved basketball. Ashland High School was loaded with talent. I thought I could make the team, but I was far too slow. Conley knew I was a much better baseball player, so he cut me from the basketball team but asked me to be its manager. I decided to be the best manager possible. I also spent time in spring football camp. I could throw the football farther than anyone, but I could not scramble at all. My speed, or lack thereof, made it clear that I should focus on baseball.

I spent my afternoons over the next few years learning from Coach Conley. Without question, he was the biggest influence in my life during high school. One of the toughest, meanest coaches ever, he motivated through fear. Not wanting to experience his wrath, his players usually did exactly what he told them. Later in life, whenever anyone asked me, “Wasn’t Harry Lancaster tough?” I just laughed and said, “He was nothing compared to George Conley!” Today, most of his tactics would be forbidden, but he taught me what it means to work hard, and I learned that wholehearted effort produces results.

Coach Conley experienced a couple of heartbreaking losses in the Kentucky state basketball tournament. My sophomore year, we had one of the most talented high school teams in the state’s history. Ten players from that roster played college basketball. We breezed through the regular season with only two losses, and then we beat a Lafayette team that included Doug Shively, Vernon Hatton, and “Big” Bill Florence. After making it to the state tournament at Memorial Coliseum, we thought we were destined to win the championship. Dewayne McIntosh from Paducah Tilghman High School crushed those dreams when he hit a last-second shot to win the game by a single point. Coach Conley went ballistic in the locker room. I had seen him upset many times, but this seemed like the worst outburst he could possibly muster. I was wrong.

The next year, Conley did a masterful job with a less talented team. We advanced to the semifinal game of the state tournament, and with less than a minute left in the game, we held a three-point lead on Newport Catholic. Coach Conley called a time-out and told the players, “We’ve got the ball. We’re ahead by three points. Hold the ball. I don’t care if you are open. Do NOT shoot it! Hold it!” Back on the court, a wide-open Bill Gray drove to the basket, shot, and missed. Newport Catholic rebounded and took it down the court for a quick score. They stole the ball on the ensuing play, scored another basket, and won the game. Coach Conley walked into the locker room and threw his clipboard at the wall, smashing it to pieces. He then punched the side of a toilet stall. Everyone was dead silent. He turned to us and said, “All you sons of bitches, I have coached my last game. There is no justification that you didn’t just listen to me.” He quit right then and did not show up for the consolation game later that night. The loss was so devastating that I cannot recall anything that happened later that evening. I’m not even sure if we won or lost the consolation game. Sure enough, George Conley had coached his last game. He served four years as a state senator and then became a college basketball referee. Despite the short time I spent with him, Coach Conley had a lasting influence on me.

Even though I focused on sports, I actually looked forward to going to school. I was comfortable being alone but also enjoyed the company of my classmates. Public speaking came easy to me, and I developed good relationships with my teachers. I enjoyed most of my classes, but history and English were my favorite subjects. I also found what I call “concrete” math fascinating—the basics through algebra. Now “abstract” math, like geometry and physics, that was a different story.

I wanted to make a little extra cash to supplement the earnings from my paper route, so I took a night job at the YMCA, often working until midnight. At the time, the Y rented rooms, primarily for men coming off the railroad in Ashland. For about a dollar a night, the Y provided a small bedroom and a communal bathroom. I made sixty cents an hour and managed to complete my homework in between checking people in and selling snacks in the lobby. I worked a lot with Bob Barney, who later succeeded Dave Thomas as the CEO of Wendy’s. Norris “Bo” McMillan (UK quarterback in the 1930s) and Ernie Chattin managed the Y and looked out for us boys. For example, either Ernie or Bo would come down to Central Park and furnish bats and balls so that the kids in Ashland could play baseball.

During those days, the Catholic kids attended school at Holy Family, and the black kids attended Booker T. Washington School. When we p...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Preface
• 1. Growing Roots
• 2. Chasing Dreams
• 3. In Search of a New Dream
• 4. Exploring Life in Politics
• 5. Running for Office and Running a Business
• 6. Business in the Bluegrass and Beyond
• 7. Working in an Ever-Changing Environment
• 8. The NCAA and Corporate Sponsorships
• 9. Back to Kentucky and Bundled Rights
• 10. The Solid South: Expanding in the SEC
• 11. Surviving an Era of Crisis
• 12. My Last Great Pitch for the NCAA
• 13. A Time of Transition
• 14. The KFC Yum! Center
• Epilogue: Examining the Past and Looking to the Future
• Notes
• Index