Columbus Monthly / April 2010 / On the go with Gee

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On the go with Gee

Yoga, snow sculptures, hot chocolate, strategic planning, recycled jokes, a bathroom ambush and a never-ending battle with bureaucracy. It's all in a day's work for Gordon Gee, Central Ohio's most in-demand celebrity.

Walk anywhere with Gordon Gee and watch people’s faces light up like the LeVeque Tower at night. He doesn’t hesitate to stop to shake hands and chat. And if he’s met you before, the Ohio State president most likely remembers your name, or the circumstances of the encounter (a photographic memory, he says). Combine that charisma with a comic’s timing for a punch line and no wonder he’s Mr. Popularity. Then add the heft. He’s the highest paid public university prez in the country (total compensation of about $1.6 million per year). And Time recently named Gee, who has headed four other colleges, the nation’s top university leader.

Certainly, almost none of this is big news since Gee won the city over as OSU’s top honcho in the 1990s, broke its heart when he left for Brown and caused it to celebrate when he returned in 2007. There were some folks who questioned whether it was wise for him to come home again—including this writer in a column in this magazine. He wasn’t so young anymore and second acts often aren’t as successful as the first go-round.

Yet, Gee 2.0 is riding as high as ever, despite diving into controversial changes: pushing to require sophomores to live on campus, advocating the idea of One University (versus, as he says, “18 colleges connected by a heating plant”), overseeing a $1 billion building project at the medical center, reorganizing the massive College of Arts and Sciences, launching a $2.5 billion fundraising effort, proposing an upheaval in tenure and switching from quarters to semesters. He has solid support from key constituencies, including the Statehouse crowd and business and civic leadership. People even laugh at the same Orville Redenbacher joke he told during his first stint.

His personality and accomplishments feed into Gee’s image as some kind of Energizer Bunny—not only always on the go for OSU, but also beyond the campus, from introducing Mayor Mike Coleman at his State of the City address this winter to campaigning for the Third Frontier ballot issue this May. So Columbus Monthly proposed a story about a day in the life of the president who seemingly never stops, from meeting him at his Bexley mansion in the morning after his extensive workout routine to sitting in on a late-evening dinner. With Gee’s people insisting the schedule wasn’t padded or arranged for our benefit, it certainly was full: two speeches, a surprise visit with students, a press conference with Coleman, a recruiting pitch to a high school athlete, a phone chat with another university president over an unlikely topic and a behind-the-scenes glimpse of Gee during an intense discussion with senior execs.

What follows is a description of the activities on Feb. 23 of a self-described workaholic who, after a failed second marriage a couple of years ago, says he’s wed to “Carmen Ohio.”

7:52 am: Actually, Gordon Gee’s day started almost three and a half hours earlier. He woke up at 4:30 am, as usual, in the Bexley mansion owned by the university and headed to the detached exercise room (which he had converted from a pool house). He spends 30 minutes stretching and an hour on cardiovascular exercises before finishing with yoga and 10 minutes of meditation. “It helps me clear my mind,” he says. He eats his usual breakfast—a smoothie made out of a protein mix, blackberries and raspberries—and reviews the print editions of the Dispatch, the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times.

He tries to fall asleep between 11 pm and midnight, but last night he stayed up later to watch the Olympic ice dancing competition. “Fascinating,” he says, before adding, “I don’t advocate what I do. I can’t figure out how to make the day longer.”

Normally, he drives himself, but today he’s met in the driveway by Tom Near in a red Chrysler minivan. When Near, whom Gee has known since his first stint at OSU, is not making deliveries for the board of trustees, he’s delivering the president to a gig. Before leaving, though, Gee fields a call from his daughter, Rebekah. As is well known, they share a close relationship, forged by two tragedies: the death of her mother and Gee’s first wife, Elizabeth, when Rebekah was just 16, and the loss of her husband in 2008 in a freak Vespa accident. She’s now in New Orleans at Tulane University working as an Institute of Medicine fellow on public health policy. The previous weekend, she was featured on the NPR program “This American Life,” regarding the fact her mother had written her a series of letters to be opened on special occasions. When Gee gets off his iPhone, he says she’s in negotiations with Simon & Schuster for a book contract on the subject and then notes the two talk each day at around 8 am and 6 pm.

Gee, in a gray suit and one of his trademark bow ties, slips on his winter coat and a scarlet ball cap bearing the letter “O.” He greets Near like a comfortable old friend and it’s time to go to the first appointment on his one-page agenda (in small type): a speech to the Entrepreneurship Institute at the Medallion Golf Club in southern Delaware County. He received a packet of the day’s events the previous night to review (two staffers work on his calendar).

On this gray, cold morning, Gee peers through the passenger window and remarks he’s unfamiliar with the area as the car heads north on Sunbury Road. “I would have gotten lost,” he says. Then he asks about the body of water to his right.

“That’s Hoover Reservoir,” says Near.

“That’s a big reservoir,” says Gee, adding, about Medallion, “I had no idea it existed.”

8:30 am: The van pulls close to the 17-year-old country club’s main building. Somewhat low-key during the drive, Gee perks up as soon as he steps inside, flashing a smile as he’s greeted by the enthusiastic host, Phil Sorentino, who owns a humor consulting business. Gee excuses himself to use the restroom, and Sorentino gets a bit puzzled when the president doesn’t return promptly. Then Gee pops out, cracking, “You never know who you are going to meet in the bathroom.” A guy named Mark had cornered him to talk about the construction business.

Gee, ignoring the podium, begins to work the crowd like a stand-up, weaving one witty remark after another while relaying information about the university (63,000 statewide students from 150 countries and a budget about the same as the state of Rhode Island’s). He makes a pitch for the importance of universities in the new economy (out-performing and out-thinking instead of out-producing). And then he talks about leadership, and lists his three main attributes: a thick skin, a sense of humor and “nerves like sewer pipes.” He wheels out a familiar anecdote about his first presidency, at age 36, at West Virginia University. Taking the advice of graying faculty members, who told him he was failing, he ditched his unconventional methods and tried to act like a traditional president. Miserable, he returned to his old ways and went on to much success. In the meantime, referring to his early critics, he notes, “Those guys are dead.” The laughs and stories keep rolling until he ends at 9:10 to a standing ovation.

About 9:15 am: Returning to Ohio State, Gee talks about how the university “feels bigger, more complex” now than during his first time in Columbus. The key to getting things done at OSU, he says, is the faculty. “If the faculty doesn’t want to do it, it won’t get done,” he says. “I am the Persuader in Chief. I have to be on the stump internally.”

The next big persuasion job is tenure. He wants to rethink the way it’s granted by recognizing more than research, such as great teachers and even extraordinary community service. “There are multiple ways to salvation,” he says. “We have to celebrate those who want to be productive while reinventing themselves. A physics professor doesn’t always have to be just a physics professor.”

Then he turns toward a problem he speaks about a lot and with considerable irritation. “We are terribly bureaucratic,” he says. “We don’t take a risk. Not trust people. We are an elephant and we need to become a ballerina. Not an elephant with a tutu.” It’s a phrase he will utter at least two more times during the day.

9:42 am: The van pulls in front of RPAC, the recreation facility that replaced the aging Larkins Hall. Well, that’s like calling the Mall of America a shopping center. RPAC is half a million square feet (the largest of its kind on an American campus) and also acts as a laboratory for the adjacent school of physical therapy. Gee says Chinese officials visited RPAC’s aquatic complex in preparation for the Summer Olympics in 2008.

As Gee walks the halls, students look his way (except for those who are too cool or too oblivious, perhaps) and he greets each with a smile and a hello. He’s here to do the kind of thing that fuels his legend: make a surprise visit. It’s quite a production. For instance, after his staff looks through Facebook to find OSU students celebrating their 21st birthdays, he shows up with escorts unexpectedly at the parties. (He tells one hard-to-believe story about a girl answering his knock at the door in a scanty outfit, slamming the door and yelling that Gee’s here, which caused kids to flee through windows and other exits.) Reportedly, he attended 15 birthday gatherings on one Saturday.

On this occasion, he’s surprising six freshmen and sophomores who formed a group to create OSU-themed snow sculptures, including one impressive piece of work that resembled Gee. Under a partial ruse orchestrated by the bubbly student life director, Tracy Stuck, the students are in a room at RPAC for a photo session (Gee’s running late, so a lot of photographs are taken).

When he arrives, the six students stare back blankly, as if an apparition has appeared. Finally, it sinks in that it’s really Gee, who’s here to thank them for their sculpture. Not only that, but he sits with them at a table to eat cake and drink hot chocolate. While he casually asks about their backgrounds and OSU experiences, they each are opening a white box that holds a Gee bobblehead doll. “We’re making a big place small,” Gee says. “You made a snowman and now we’re here having a good time.” One student explains that two early versions of their Gee sculpture ended up with their heads missing. Guess not everyone on campus is a fan.

10:36 am: After a brief stop to chat up members of the RPAC maintenance crew, Gee walks a few blocks to Stillman Hall to catch the end of a talk on the Holocaust to a history class by Les Wexner, the CEO and founder of Limited Brands, chairman of the OSU board and a friend of Gee’s.

The president slips into a chair in the back near a coterie of Wexner folks, including Wexner’s wife, Abigail. After Les Wexner finishes, Gee, popping lozenges for a sore throat, talks with Abigail, the chair of the Nationwide Children’s Hospital board, about issues involving the expanding medical facility, which has a long-standing and sometimes touchy affiliation with the university.

11 am: In his office at Bricker Hall, Gee’s met by a high school tennis player, her parents and the OSU tennis coach. Gee brings them into the conversation area in his spacious office, where it seems every inch of wall space is covered by framed magazine covers, caricatures and posters (John Belushi in Animal House, a promo for Ferris Bueller’s Day Off ). Propped on an easel is a sizable white sign with the quote: “If you don’t like change, you’ll like irrelevance even less.”

He makes a pitch about the university and talks about improvements in the neighborhood just east of High Street across from campus, which, in the 1990s, he says was like Fallujah. He pauses before admitting he’d overreached in comparing the area to a war zone.

In mid conversation, his iPhone rings and, surprisingly, he takes the call. Off in less than a minute, he explains, “No matter what, the only call I take is from my daughter.” All seem to understand.

11:33 am: Running late for a meeting at the Physics Research Building a few blocks away, Gee asks no one in particular, “Where am I going?” as he leaves the office. The gathering is a chance for some of the most accomplished faculty members to listen to Gee’s assessment of OSU and ask questions over a boxed lunch.

At the session in the dramatic room, with its soaring floor-to-ceiling bank of windows, he pops open a Diet Coke, manages to eat a wrap and, in between bites, riffs about the need to trim the university’s bureaucracy. He breaks it into three groups: state mandates, the board of trustees (“wonderful people,” but they “impose corporate rules that get us caught in a bind”) and OSU itself (“auditor’s auditoring, lawyer’s lawyering”). He also talks about building a management team, finding the right matches to “fill his gaps.” He notes that a provost during his first presidency, Dick Sisson, was a good friend, but they were too much alike and the “trains didn’t run on time.” Before finishing, he mentions two critical upcoming hires: the dean of engineering and the director of the school of music.

12:45 pm: Gee is met in his office by Melinda Church, director of executive communications. Once again he says, “Where are we going?” She begins to prep him for his speech to the Economic-Education Summit held at the Hyatt Regency. Near is waiting in the red van. Church joins Gee, handing over a speech, which he reviews on the trip downtown.

The ballroom is packed as Gee gets behind the podium and brings the energy, drawing laughs with his self-deprecating remarks (cute comments he quotes from elementary school students about his lack of size) and pitches the importance of passing the Third Frontier levy.

Afterward, he’s swarmed. Two students want a photo with him, as does another young woman, bumping the two boys out of the way after they had their moment. Business cards are slipped to him. As he leaves the ballroom, a woman staffing a table calls out “O-H.” He responds appropriately.

2 pm: Waiting for Gee in his office are Shelly Hoffman, assistant VP of media relations, and a cameraman. She holds a long microphone near his mouth while the camera is mere inches away. Hoffman wants Gee to briefly summarize his speech, stopping to tell him which quote she wants him to repeat. They will post the video on YouTube and links to it on Facebook and Twitter.

Minutes later, Gee, sitting behind his desk for the first time this day, takes an arranged phone call with David Hopkins, president of Wright State University. After some pleasantries, Hopkins explains that Dayton “needs a boost in morale” and wants to pitch an idea. It’s not about academics, economic development or Statehouse matters, but . . . basketball. He’s proposing that Ohio State and Wright State play each other three times in the coming years, twice at OSU and once there. He touts the team (second place in the Horizon League, behind Butler, which he points out beat OSU this season).

Gee makes no promises, except to talk to athletic director Gene Smith about the possibility. After the call, he says Smith should consider the proposal, but he’s not in the business of making out sports schedules.

2:28 pm: A pressing matter has popped up, requiring Gee to hold what he calls a 911 meeting (“an immediate and quick response,” he says). Gee makes a deal with Columbus Monthly, offering to let the magazine sit in on the strategy session, but not report the details.

Joining Gee at a long rectangle table are OSU senior execs Curt Steiner, Herb Asher, Dick Stoddard and Jeff Kaplan, as well as Alex Fischer, president of the Columbus Partnership, the group of the city’s top business leaders. The tone is intense and frank. This is a side of Gee not seen in public. Gone are the jokes and ready smile. His comments are sharper, more forceful. He strikes the table with the palm of his right hand twice on one occasion. But there’s not a lot of heat. He lets the discussion flow, injecting his own views and making a remark once that eases the tension a bit, before summarizing the immediate plan of action while announcing the need for a follow-up gathering.

The group leaves and Gee asks for a few minutes to tend to affairs in his office alone.

4:05 pm: Near drops Gee off at the main entrance to University Hospital East on Broad Street in the heart of the long-struggling near east side. Tom Katzenmeyer, senior vice president of communications, is waiting by the front door. Gee’s here to participate in a press conference about a partnership between OSU and the city of Columbus to redevelop the neighborhood and initiate programs to improve the health of residents. Gee introduces Coleman and then stands near the podium as a parade of speakers address the crowd.

After the speeches, reporters and onlookers negotiate for Gee’s time, stepping into his path for an interview, a photo, a handshake, another photo. More embraces, more chatter, more smiles for the cameras.

Around 6:30 pm: After Near drops him off at the Bexley house, where he made phone calls for hour, Gee drives himself to German Village for dinner with his so-called cultural cabinet in a private room at Lindey’s.

He occasionally meets with the group, which consists, in part, of both OSU and non-university types: Sherri Geldin, head of the Wexner Center; Ann Pendleton-Jullian, director of the architecture school; Karen Bell, associate vice president of the Arts Initiative; Tom Lennox, executive director of Pelotonia; Nancy Kramer, founder and CEO of Resource Interactive, and two members of Sasaki Associates, a Boston-based firm working with the university on a master plan.

Gee, in between bites of his Caesar salad with chicken, takes notes and makes occasional comments. A lot of talk has to do with, surprise, bureaucracy. He also mentions the growing collaboration between Battelle and OSU, both of which, he says, were “arrogant and isolated” during his earlier time here.

And he talks about board relations and lessons learned. Early on, he says his philosophy was, essentially, bring them in for a football game, sing “Kumbaya” and send them on their way. Now, he says it’s about making them partners so they don’t micromanage—that is, if you make them part of the process, then they won’t try to run the university for you. He also notes that a college president has “two passes”—two times to make a big decision without informing the board.

At one point, discussion centers on the Midwest vs. the coasts and the need to do more promotion, with Gee talking about “kicking everyone’s ass.” He also brings up his unpleasant days at Brown, saying the Ivy League school “is not as good as it thinks it is” and its “insecurities are so palpable.” He tells a story about how his photo is not displayed on a wall of former presidents, with a student explaining to an inquisitive visitor, “We don’t talk about him.”

Geldin brings up placing art in a new medical facility as part of the $1 billion construction project. She says she can get the five-piece artwork from a major emerging artist for the bargain price of $900,000 and argues the idea fits perfectly into Gee’s One University concept since it melds the arts, science and medical research. She has two concerns: The architect is expressing reservations about redoing the plan to accommodate the art and the perception associated with the cost.

Gee’s response is simple: Get a donor to pony up the cash, and, he adds, “If we buy a piece, then they have to do it.”

8:45 pm: With the conversation still flowing, Gee announces he’s finished, much to the playful derision of some at the table in Lindey’s. He’s been up for 16 hours and it’s time to head to Bexley—but not before getting stopped by a young woman he’d recently met on an airplane.

His day is not done, though. As he says, “I’ve got to go home and work.”

Ray Paprocki is editor of Columbus Monthly.