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"As they mature, they'll get better," Gregg says confidently. But there are no Kyle Rotes or Don Merediths in sight here yet. And there may never be, because, along with its punishment, S.M.U. is gulping down a strong dose of preventive medicine. The school has imposed tough standards for jocks, from SAT admission scores (about 900) to monitoring players' academic performance and mandatory disclosure of their finances. The aim is to create "student- athletes" -- talented players with the smarts to do well academically. The concept is hardly new, but it is rare in the conference, and its feasibility at a football palace like S.M.U. remains to be seen. The reformist president, A. Kenneth Pye, is enthusiastic. "We're not talking Rhodes scholars," he says. "But you don't see idiots playing for Joe Paterno. You don't see them at Notre Dame." Pye's new athletic director, Doug Single, is equally fervent, promising "there will be no more majoring in 'staying eligible.' Running a clean program and winning are not incompatible."
Ah, but this is Dallas, and S.M.U., after all, is the house that Doak Walker and Rote helped build. Now Single even wants to move games out of big Texas Stadium and back on campus. Why, the Mustangs haven't played at cramped, old Ownby since Doak's crew mopped up Texas Tech in '48.
Faculty members who led the cry for reform are concerned that, after a few dismal seasons, Dallas football nuts may once again slip payoffs to players. "The bottom-line question," asks law-school acting dean Paul Rogers, "is, Can we control the boosters?" Certainly everyone wants the reforms to work. The booster-club president, Bill Hill, insists that "alumni understand the situation now. We're going to be a model of integrity." Gregg adds, "A school can't live without the alumni." Old grads are after him, wanting to lend a hand. "Support us, come to our games," he shoots back. But on this balmy Parents' Weekend, only a few moms and dads are camped in the cracked concrete stands. Their faint applause is barely audible above the passing traffic.
"Another scandal? The chances are slim it could happen here again," declares dentist Warren Randall, eyes fixed on his son Drew, a tackle. "This is history in the making right now." Later, young Randall, between gulps of ice water, agrees: "The problems all went before. We're starting new." Running back Stephen Thomas, a presidential scholar, reflects the new determination. "We can come back. People respect what we're trying to do now," he says. "The legacy of Eric Dickerson and Craig James only has a crack in it. But that will be forgotten."
What's missing in brawn is not lacking in enthusiasm. Like most of the squad, Thomas is a walk-on who just showed up for practice last August, drawn by the rare opportunity to play big-time football. Many are footing S.M.U.'s $13,200-a-year expenses themselves. "This is one great chance I couldn't pass ; up," says quarterback Greg Ziegler. There are pragmatic reasons too for getting on with the reborn Mustangs. "It will look good on my resume," mused a running back. Ziegler figures that "all the pressure of the big competition will help me later in law school."