The Bottom 10

By CALVIN TRILLIN

As letters from college admissions offices were sent out last week, I couldn't help recalling the late R. Hugh ("Pat") Uhlmann, a Dartmouth man of antic temperament, who used to tout a daring idea for taking the pressure off any college that is regularly forced to turn away the progeny of many prosperous and influential citizens: Auction off the last 10 places in the class.

I should acknowledge that Pat, a friend of mine from Kansas City who was in the flour business, regularly had ideas that some people, particularly his wife, did not take completely seriously. For instance, the deterioration of his boyhood neighborhood gave him the idea that, for a modest sum, he could buy the house he was born in and turn it into a national shrine.

He insisted, though, that his auction plan made perfect sense. No admissions office, after all, claims a precise scientific justification for choosing the applicants just above the cutoff line over those below it. If 10 places were sold to the highest bidders, the incoming class would be virtually indistinguishable from a non-auction class, 10 sets of parents (some of them, presumably, loyal alumni) would be grateful to the college rather than deeply offended, and the college would have a bundle of cash that it could use to provide scholarships for worthy applicants who'd got in under their own steam.

I used to remind Pat that under his plan an applicant whose family had serious bidding potential might have difficulty getting in on the original round of uncompensated acceptances. I can imagine the sort of conversation some Ivy League admissions director might have one day with, say, Bill Gates: "Well, yes, Mr. Gates, it's true that a boy with 1600 SAT scores who was first in his class and the star of the football team--particularly a boy with that sort of talent on the cello, not to speak of the courage and presence of mind to save six nuns from drowning during a hurricane--makes a strong candidate, but before you go away disappointed about your son, let me tell you about this little auction option we happen to have..."

The more I think about it, the more I realize that not including the children of high rollers among the original acceptances could add to the scheme's appeal. Rich people tend to be thrilled by the opportunity to get into places that are supposedly full. It makes them feel important. That's what those silly locker-room discussions about which big shot really has power come down to: Knicks tickets and tables at hot restaurants.

I suppose Pat would argue that, as things stand, a lot of the money parents spend on getting kids into college is diverted to businesses--SAT cram courses, for instance, and expensive prep schools--that are clustered around the admissions process, like motels and fast-food joints bellying up to the edge of Disney World. Why not have the money go directly to the college?

Because of the 10 applicants who'd be unfairly denied admission, I'd have to say. I would, of course, feel square saying it. Pat would groan, and just to let him know that I was not completely lacking in the imagination to appreciate an inspired idea, I'd tell him how much I had always admired that scheme for turning his boyhood home into a national shrine.