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The matter didn't end there. Gophers assistant coach Milton Barnes, now the coach at Eastern Michigan, apparently believed that Berube, who is white, had referred Latts to the General College instead of to the basketball office. In an angry memo to Berube, Barnes wrote, "I have lost total respect for you as a man and as a person who has the best interest of young people at heart, especially those of color." On the same matter Haskins wrote to Donahue, "It upsets me that after being here ten years I sense you continue to struggle with basketball players having any academic credibility, especially the black student-athlete."
Similarly, Hopkins says that when Haskins confronted him about Lenard's performance, the coach expressed concern that Hopkins was "isolating" the player and "singling him out." Says Hopkins, "It was pretty clear what the underlying implication was." Adds a source close to the men's athletic program, "It's ironic that Clem is so anti-Prop 48 and quick to throw around terms like racism and racist. It seems clear that he didn't respect his players enough to tell them to do their own work. Instead he relied on [Gangelhoff] and on making the faculty feel guilty."
Despite Haskins's denial, Gangelhoff says that he was fully aware of her ghostwriting—"Remember, Jan, those papers can't be too good," she says he told her on two occasions—and appreciated her efforts. She says that in 1998 Haskins approved a $3,000 payment to her, and that Alonzo Newby, the team's academic counselor, hand-delivered 30 $100 bills in a white envelope. On a stress-related leave of absence since just after the scandal broke, Newby declined to speak to SI, though his lawyer told the Minneapolis Star Tribune three weeks ago that anyone who thinks that Gangelhoff was a lone assassin "must also believe in the tooth fairy."
As Minnesota grapples with the scandal, other schools would be wise to start looking for the same sort of corruption—athletes having their work done for them, friendly faculty looking the other way—on their campuses. Lashbrook, in fact, likens Minnesota to the beleaguered Olympic bid committee from Salt Lake City. "They got caught doing something that's just part of the business they're in," he says.
Gangelhoff, who left the university in 1998, says the hypocrisy of the intercollegiate sports business compelled her not only to write the papers but also to ultimately go public with her story. "My first words to the [NCAA] investigators were, 'I know what I did was wrong,' " she says. "But it was so obvious that these kids were at risk academically, and once they got to Minnesota, they were there to play basketball, not to graduate. I figured if I could help them get through their classes and become college educated, at least the players weren't being totally used." As it turned out, of the 20 players Gangelhoff says she helped, only one—reserve guard Ryan Wolf—earned his degree, though Gangelhoff believes that several others are on track to graduate.
Now persona non grata in Minnesota, the 50-year-old Gangelhoff has returned to her no-stoplight hometown of Danbury, Wis., where she's a finance manager at the aptly named Hole in the Wall Casino. She supplements her income working weekends at a gas station-convenience mart. Danbury is only a two-hour drive from the Twin Cities, but it's a million miles from the world of big-time college athletics.
As she attempts to build a new life, Gangelhoff finds a sliver of comic relief when she recalls one paper she wrote for a player. As part of her research for the paper, which was titled Gopher Glory, she attended a banquet celebrating 100 years of Minnesota basketball. There she picked up this bit of trivia. "Do you know why Minnesota decided to join the Big Ten?" she asks, stifling a giggle. "Because the conference stood for academic integrity."