There are trophies. big, heavy, metal ones. And there are checks. Those are big, too, with lots of zeroes.

The image of videogaming as a solitary pursuit of adolescents is becoming a relic, partly because of technology that has turned gaming into a shared experience with huge audiences and partly because of — what else? — money, and the opportunity to make plenty of it.

Alexander Garfield ’07 is a key figure in the burgeoning world know as eSports, but not because he is a player. The slender, erudite 28-year-old with tattoos written in Latin and Greek is the pioneering owner of Evil Geniuses, best described as a group of professional sports teams, a media company and a marketing venture rolled all into one.

It is as if Garfield runs both the New York Yankees and Manchester United of the video gaming world.

His Evil Geniuses teams are the most famous, but in August, a Swedish team playing for him under the new name Alliance competed in The International 3, a tournament held in Seattle for DOTA 2, a multi-player online battle game. The competition was waged in the elegant Benaroya Hall, home to the Seattle Symphony Orchestra, and it was a sellout.

Garfield’s team, led by 25-year-old Jonathan “Loda” Berg, finished first and took home a stunning $1.4 million in prize money, a record for a video-game competition.

“Is it weird?” Garfield asks, sitting in the company’s loft-style offices in San Francisco’s SoMa neighborhood, surrounded by video monitors, keyboards, samples of sponsors’ products and a small studio where gamers and commentators create video content for the web. Well, yes, it is weird to many, this unfamiliar world of professionalized video gaming. But it is a scene that is growing rapidly, a fact noted by both

The New York Times and Forbes.com, which last year named Garfield to its “30 under 30” list for games and apps.

The grandest coming-of-age moment for eSports yet came in October, when the 2013 world championship of the game League of Legends sold out Staples Center, home to the Los Angeles Lakers. Fans paid $45 to $100 to watch teams compete for the $1 million prize, won by a South Korean team in a setting that looked like a mix of a concert, a sporting event and a light show. More than 10,000 watched the competition on huge video screens. More than a million more viewed it online.

To anyone who thinks it is impossible to earn a living playing a kid’s game, consider the early days of baseball, when players took jobs in the off season to make ends meet. Last year, the average Major League Baseball salary was north of $3.2 million. Some pro video gamers already earn six figures, and Berg, who took a share of the $1.4 million prize, will surpass $300,000 this year.

The logo for the largest U.S. eSports organization, Major League Gaming—with the letters MLG and a game controller in white against a blue-and-red background—looks suspiciously like the MLB logo. Could video gaming possibly have the potential of traditional pro sports?

“I always say, I’m a sociologist, not a futurologist,” says T.L. Taylor, an associate professor of comparative media studies at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and expert on eSports. “One thing we can see really clearly right now is the exponential growth of the audience, and the growth of this as a spectator event.

“Alex is an interesting guy because he has been in the scene quite a while. He’s been around a long time and there have been ups and downs and bubbles and bursts, but Evil Geniuses has handled it all.”

GARFIELD IS AN ACCIDENTAL ENTREPRENEUR. Growing up in suburban Philadelphia, he trained as a classical violinist and was a huge fan of traditional professional sports. Garfield’s slight build limited him to racquet sports, but a video game called Counter-Strike became his competitive outlet. He fell into the role of impresario as a student at Pomona College, when a team of five Canadian friends wanted to go to Dallas for a tournament in 2005 but didn’t have the money. Garfield borrowed $1,000 from his mother to front them, the team finished second and he was on his way. Soon, he was courting sponsors and traveling to tournaments in Italy and Singapore.

If anyone finds the idea of watching someone else play video games odd, or the concept that a keyboard and a mouse could be the tools of a pro sport, Garfield simply shrugs.

“It varies culture by culture, right? In Eastern Europe, people pack stadiums to watch chess,” he says. “I’m not really concerned about whether this is a sport or a competitive activity, personally.”

With no training in business, Garfield nonetheless built a company with annual revenues he describes as being in the range of several million. (Because it is a privately held company with Garfield the majority owner, Evil Geniuses is not required to make financial data public.)

“My business training is I read The Lean Startup. That’s it,” he says, adding that he only read it recently.

“There were moments I really wished I’d taken some sort of economics course. Because I was like the kid at Pomona who, I think when my friends would say they were going to take econ, I would say, ‘How intact is your soul?’ Which in retrospect is such a ridiculous thing to say. I could really have benefited from micro or macro econ or business management.”

Evil Geniuses now has 15 fulltime employees and about 45 players under contract, with the gamers’ base salaries ranging from about $15,000 to $150,000 year and prize money shared with the company depending on the player’s contract, Garfield says. Under the Evil Geniuses banner, his teams compete in games ranging from StarCraft 2 to World of Warcraft. Sponsors and advertising are the driving forces, and Garfield emerged as a leader in the young industry partly because he was not only able to choose and manage top players, but also able to court sponsors with a sophisticated media presence and the analytics to prove the value of investing in what to some companies was still an unfamiliar world. The Evil Geniuses offices are stocked with cans of their top sponsor’s Monster Energy drinks, their own Evil Geniuses logo merchandise and computer gear from such sponsors as Intel, one of their first. If some of this seems reminiscent of the X Games, that’s not far off base.

“If you look at some of the industries that have gone from underground to mainstream in recent years, you think of action sports, you think of the DJ culture, you think of poker,” Garfield says. “Major media companies and major consumer brands have played a huge role. For the most part, it’s very similar.”

Garfield and Taylor, the MIT professor, note that the other development that has fueled the growth of eSports is streaming video, which not only allows people to watch live tournaments online or a favorite player’s practice sessions, but it also provides the marketing data.

Take a look at the web site Twitch.TV, a Bay Area startup drawing 45 million unique visitors a month that recently received $20 million in venture capital, and you might see more than 100,000 people viewing League of Legends content, another 90,000 watching DOTA 2, and more than 15,000 each looking at World of Warcraft and StarCraft II, all on a weekday afternoon. Garfield points to a practice session being streamed by Conan Liu, an Evil Geniuses player and pre-med student at UC Berkeley who goes by the alias “Suppy.” Liu plans to take a year off from his studies to pursue gaming, and the screen shows 500 people watching him practice.

“My job would be much more difficult today if there weren’t technology platforms that allow my players to create content and have very trackable analytics, like, ‘This is my fan base and I can prove it,’” Garfield says.

Players also prove their marketability on such sites as Facebook and Twitter. Stephen Ellis, a 22-year-old Scottish League of Legends player for Evil Geniuses who is also known as “Snoopeh,” has more than 147,000 “Likes” on Facebook and more than 119,000 followers on Twitter. On a recent U.S. trip to provide commentary on the League of Legends championships and record content at the Evil Geniuses studio, he had a “fan meet” at USC, and some 100 students appeared to greet him.

To support some of his players in the Bay Area, Garfield established a “team house” in Alameda, across the San Francisco Bay from the company offices. There, a group of young men live and practice together, with housekeeping help. “The notion that some players live an unhealthy lifestyle is still there, that guys don’t take care of themselves or drop out of high school,” Garfield says. “But there is generally, with our players, a very balanced approach. They play games eight to 10 hours a day, but they go to the gym together, they go to bars together, they hang out with girls together.” Garfield is willing to crack down when he has to. When one of his players used a racial epithet online last year, Garfield dismissed him, and wrote a lengthy blog post explaining the move.

“Alex is one of the team owners who has taken a pretty firm stand on trying to regulate bad player behavior,” says Taylor, the MIT professor and author of the book Raising the Stakes: E-sports and the Professionalization of Computer Gaming.

Crude language and sexism also are sometimes issues in an arena populated largely by 18-to-30-year-old males.

“Evil Geniuses has released people from contracts for bad behavior, and that’s a brave thing to do,” Taylor says.

FOR ALL THIS, THE COMPANY VISIONARY is a bit removed. “I haven’t played games for a very long time, actually,” Garfield says. “There are tons of people, including me, who haven’t played StarCraft in, like, two years, but still really enjoy watching it.”

Garfield watches his own players, certainly. But for him, gaming became a business venture, and one that the former sociology major with minors in Africana studies and classics says he feels conflicted about at times. He is interested in music, writing songs and creating a few tracks in a genre he describes as “electroacoustic to strictly acoustic.” And concerns about the issues of race and privilege he learned about in college still tug at him. Garfield enjoys a few accoutrements of his success, but notes “I’m not a zillionaire.”

“My apartment is cool. My job is cool,” he says, dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt and high-top sneakers, his usual work attire. “Don’t get me wrong, getting a cut of the prize money for winning a tournament for $1.4 million is nice. But I think eventually I will be involved in this less, just because for me, even though this is a really interesting experience, as recently as two years ago, I was very frustrated.”

Instead of working to promote causes he cared about or making music, he was becoming well-known in a world he never meant to join. Then he had an epiphany.

“It was only at a certain point that I realized the skill set that I was developing by basically running a startup with no money in an industry that has no boundaries, no foundation and no rulebook,” Garfield says. “Then I was like, OK, this makes sense now, because I have all these skills I can use in my music career, that I could use for private projects in social justice later in life.”

In the meantime, he wrestles with how to portray himself. Gamer dude? Tech entrepreneur? Musician? Aspiring activist?

“I’ve just come to lying to people about what I do on airplanes,” he says. “I say, ‘Well, I do x, y and z.’ So the next question is, ‘Oh, you make the games?’ I say no. ‘So, OK, you test the games?’ I just end up saying ‘yeah.’ But actually it’s really simple. It’s a sports team.”

Severine von Tscharner Fleming ’04 is in the middle of another one of her jam-packed days, and this time it’s literal: stooped over the kitchen sink in Essex, N.Y., she grins and holds out two big buckets of rose hips that she’s about to clean, cube and slow-cook into a marmalade-like jam.

“I love the little pricklies,” she gushes, as she cradles the harsh fuzz of the fruit with her fingertips. She recalls how as a kid she spent summers at her grandmother’s farm in Switzerland, where she climbed trees, milked cows and first fell in love with farm life. Now planted in the rural northern reaches of New York State, she still seems to be in the honeymoon phase when it comes to agriculture, although she has farmed for eight seasons now.

Fleming is drawn to farming’s “alluring mix of sensuality and politics,” which is partly why she’s so concerned about its future. In the last century, the proportion of farmers in the U.S. workforce shrunk from nearly half to less than 2 percent, and the rise of Big Agriculture has come at a cost. “Industrialization, specialization and concentration,” says Fleming, “have created a system which is brittle, highly energy-addicted and whose practices erode the future carrying capacity of the soil.”

Discomforting trends like these have inspired Fleming and others to try to spark a revolution in a farming industry that’s fraying and graying. Through her leadership in groups such as Farm Hack, Agrarian Trust and the National Young Farmers’ Coalition, she has become in many ways the face of a movement of young people who are ready to get their hands dirty. The idea, simply put, is to create a national patchwork of upstart farmers who will grow food to be sold close to market and serve as stewards of the dwindling supply of irrigable farmland.

“We have to catalyze, crystallize and publicize to get folks involved,” Fleming says. “The odds are stacked against us, but at the same time, there’s progress,” says Fleming. “People are stepping up and showing up.”

It’s not just a smattering of urban gardeners and hippies who are concerned. U.S. Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack set a goal of creating 100,000 new farmers in the next few years. Congress launched the National Institute of Food and Agriculture to speed up the pace of scientific discovery in the field. And authors like Michael Pollan have advocated expanding training programs for U.S. farmers—“not as a matter of nostalgia for the agrarian past,” as he wrote in a 2008 New York Times op-ed, “but as a matter of national security.”

Hope may lie with Fleming’s fellow Millennials—though your typical farmer these days skews more AARP than Generation Y. According to the USDA’s 2007 agricultural census, since 1978 the average age in the profession has increased seven years, from 50 to 57. Farmers who are 65 and older outnumber those 35 and younger by a factor of six to one.

The aging in agriculture wasn’t entirely unexpected. A whole generation essentially opted out of the industry as a result of the ’80s farm crisis, when the U.S. lost approximately 300,000 farms due to high interest rates and an unfavorable economic climate. “Those kids [growing up then] looked at their parents’ lives and the stress of expensive land and mountains of debt,” Fleming says, “and they simply weren’t inspired to jump in … for good reason.”

She is cautiously optimistic that the tide may be turning, expecting that the number of young farmers will be on the rise when new figures are released next year. Fleming says that her generation is unlike any before them—an army of entrepreneurial-minded, educated, first-time farmers with a passion for local food and an eagerness to employ sustainable methods.

Rather than cultivating large acreage of a single crop in a monoculture and selling it to middlemen in the commodity market, this niche of farmers sells a wide variety of goods, often directly to the public through markets and community-supported agriculture programs. Capturing the retail price is a critical element for their success, Fleming says. In the last 15 years, revenue from this farm-to-table model has more than doubled in the U.S., and it’s what helps folks like Fleming stand out and survive in a David-and-Goliath marketplace.

“Out of both preference and necessity, we aren’t doing things like they’ve been done,” Fleming says. “We don’t buy into the idea that we have to be part of this larger machine.”

EVEN AS SHE LEADS the movement, Fleming is not really a “farmer” in the traditional sense. She is actively engaged in the production of food, running a pickle company in the Grange Hall of her town, and making a small line of dried herbs, jellies and wildcrafted teas. But mostly she sits at the computer and talks on the phone, coordinating her grassroots media network.

She hosts a weekly podcast, manages several blogs, and lives in a house bordering Lake Champlain with a vegetable garden and lightning-fast Wi-Fi.

In the last six years, the self-described “punky grassroots farming ninja” has visited 44 states, organizing film screenings, moderating panels and speaking at conferences.

“My mix of farming and activism has been an ever-shifting vinaigrette, and right now I think the best use of my time is being an advocate for the larger cause,” she says. “I don’t mean to shoot holes in your American Gothic storyline, but I don’t live on a farm with pigs and a pitchfork.”

Although, she adds, “last year’s pigs are here, on the porch in the freezer.”

A lanky, frizzy-haired ball of energy who laughs easily, smiles widely and favors flannel, Fleming is constantly in motion and talking effusively about her latest projects, whether that’s a Kickstarter-funded sail freight project that ships pickled goods to yuppies in New York City or an agrarian-themed singles’ mixer dubbed “Weed Dating.”

These days, most of her attention is devoted to the Greenhorns, a 13,000-strong organization she founded that’s aimed at recruiting, promoting and supporting young farmers. The mixers, bonfires and festivals Fleming helps coordinate bring together what she calls the “young farmer tribe.” Add to that almost 30 events for Farm Hack, an initiative that connects engineers and farmers to design open-source farm technologies.

Among her latest Greenhorns activities, she recently finished editing The New Farmers’ Almanac, a sprawling compendium of essays, illustrations and advice from more than 120 contributors. And in January she launched Agrarian Trust, an advocacy project hosted by the Schumacher Center for New Economics, focused on the issue of land access, providing farmers with legal templates and case models.

“She has an infectious enthusiasm and an uncompromising vision where she’ll just move forward on all these projects and expect you to keep up,” says Dorn Cox, board president of Farm Hack. “As long as I’ve known her, she’s always juggled many things at once and done whatever it takes—delegates, cajoles, prods —to make them happen.”

FLEMING AND I ARE standing in a field in Keeseville, N.Y, surrounded by more than 600 revelers that span farmgirls in overalls, hippies with tie-dyed shirts and hipsters without any shirts at all. We are at the fourth-annual Crowfest, a celebration of local agriculture that this year also marks the unofficial debut of her other other venture, Grange Copackers Co-Op, which produces non-perishables ranging from hot sauce to sauerkraut.

Stationed at her stand with a blue sign hand-painted by her brother, Reynolds “Charlie” Fleming PI ’13, Severine is passing out samples of pickled veggies, making small talk and refusing payment: thanks to the tightly-regulated bureaucracy of New York agricultural law, her new business is currently prohibited from accepting money for goods. “Today’s just about meeting strangers and getting our name out,” she says.

Nearby Lucas Christenson, owner of the Fledging Crow Farm that hosts this festival, soaks in the scene and marvels at the fact that only five years ago he was living here in a tent without power or running water.

“There’s definitely a tight-knit community of us,” he says, before motioning over to a group of young farmers congregated around a fire-pit cooking a portly grass-fed pig. “We’re all friends, and we want to do more to cooperate and collaborate.”

Given their busy schedules, that’s not always an easy task, but Fleming views these events as essential for establishing a support system for young farmers.

“The first few years can be so challenging. Many of us feel socially isolated and are struggling to make ends meet,” she says. “It’s important to provide a space where people can go and see that there are others ‘like me’ and support one another.”

FLEMING EMBARKED on one of her earliest community-building initiatives her first year at Pomona, when she led a team of guerrilla gardeners to start the Organic Farm—a project initially marked by wrangling with college officials, but which is now formally included in Pomona’s curriculum. A third-generation Sagehen, Severine is the daughter of noted urban planner and preservation advocate Ronald Lee Fleming ’63.

After two years in Claremont, she took a leave of absence and bought a round-the-world plane ticket to apprentice on farms across the globe, from Australia to South Africa to Scotland. Those experiences made her increasingly aware of—and outraged by—the practices of Big Agriculture, inspiring her to transfer to UC Berkeley, where she graduated with a B.S. in conservation and agro-ecology.

Her real education, however, came from organizing outside the classroom: lectures, workshops and film festivals, which left her struck by “all the dismal horror movies about hunger and soil erosion.” That’s when she decided to focus on solutions.

After graduation, she spent nearly three years traveling the States interviewing young farmers for a more “glass half-full” documentary that became Greenhorns, which has been screened at more than 1,300 schools, conferences and colleges worldwide.

The film was the catalyst that spurred Fleming’s earliest forays in activism, including stints working with the National Sustainable Agriculture Coalition to lobby for young farmerfriendly legislation in Washington, D.C. She soon realized through Greenhorns —and the organization of the same name that it spawned—that she could create change by telling stories and connecting people, rather than by having to “put on nice clothes and fly down to the Capitol all the time.”

FAR FROM D.C., as we speed through the winding country roads of rural New York on the way to Crowfest, Fleming points out several abandoned properties along the route, including a dramatically dilapidated barn with a roof that’s completely caved in. “This is what happens when people give up on farming,” she says.

She got her first reality check of this sort right after Berkeley, when she would cruise around Hudson Valley searching for affordable farmland and see unused spaces like these in every town.

“There are very few policy structures to support these places being properly farmed,” she says, “and that needs to change.”A report Fleming co-led through the National Young Farmers Coalition found that the biggest obstacles for aspiring farmers are a lack of access to land, capital and credit. One reason for this is corporate consolidation, spurred by 20th-century technology that has allowed farm operators to harvest more crops on larger amounts of land using fewer people. The growth of these “McFarms” has made it harder than ever for younger farmers to purchase land.

At the same time, farm values have doubled since 2000—good news for existing landowners who need to cash out their land in order to retire, but not for those just starting out. It’s telling that Fleming, a major land access advocate who has farmed for nearly a decade, doesn’t even own her own property in Essex.

“Farmland is becoming an investment asset, where it’s more expensive than is justified by what it can produce,” she says, her voice rising. “It’s no longer about managing a diverse set of crops to support your family.”

Fleming’s anger is understandable, and she notes that her critique is shared by many. Partisan bickering in Congress has repeatedly resulted in watered-down farm bills, and it can be easy to lose hope when so many other issues seem to be capturing the country’s attention (and tax dollars).

But ultimately, she’s hopeful. Initiatives like the USDA’s Beginning Farmer and Rancher Development Program have established government loans to help new farmers buy land. And, in a larger sense, these organizations’ success with community-building has affirmed Fleming’s belief in the importance of cultivating the “culture” part of “agriculture.”

“In the next 20 years, the amount of land predicted to change hands is 400 million acres, which is roughly the size of the Louisiana Purchase,” she says. “We have an exciting opportunity to change how that land will be managed, but we don’t have much time to do it. We’ve got to get people on board.”

For the young and entrepreneurial, launching a startup with your college friends is a natural thing to do. You’ve spent countless hours studying, hanging out and crafting ideas together in an environment that is ready-made for inspiration.

Pomona College is in the midst of a mini-surge of Sagehen startups, part of an entrepreneurial scene that reaches from the Bay Area to New York and beyond. Lately, Southern California, too, has seen a wave of new ventures in areas such as tech, with dozens of incubators and accelerator programs launching, and venture capitalists taking notice and investing in promising young companies.

Right here on campus, business-minded students are working to make entrepreneurship more than a niche. “There are very few professions in the world that are more liberal-artsy than being a young entrepreneur,” says ASPC President Darrell Jones III ’14, who is already on his second entrepreneurial effort. He is part of a campus group called Pomona Ventures that encourages entrepreneurship and, with support from alumni, helps students line up seed money to get started.

But whether a startup is taking off in Claremont, the Big Apple or on a windswept Alaskan island, the shift from dorm-room dreams to a successful enterprise requires stamina, passion—and capital. Beginning entrepreneurs need to sort out their roles within their new organization, find ways to handle disagreements and figure out ways to support each other, all while bringing in the funds to keep the lights on.

Finding their Way

Jesse Pollak, Mark Hudnall and Brennen Byrne.

“The habit we keep having to break ourselves from is assuming that there are rules or guidelines or some path to follow. In school, there’s a path that’s laid out for you from matriculation to graduation. Starting a company isn’t nearly as straightforward,” says Brennen Byrne ’12, CEO of Clef.

Now based in the Bay Area, Byrne began working with Mark Hudnall ’13 and Jesse Pollak ’15 while they were at Pomona. They started off interested in how websites share information with each other, and ways to improve that process. Within weeks, though, they focused in on the issue of identifiers and concluded that “passwords were the problem.” That led to Clef, a mobile app that replaces online usernames and passwords. The app identifies users by their phones, so they never need to remember or type anything when they log into a site.

One area where the startup has tried many avenues is in marketing. They first followed typical routes, trying to get the market, consumers and press to pay attention through social media. But the Clef crew got real traction when they tried something different. This July, they recruited 15 other similar identity companies, a handful of consumer rights groups and a few celebrities to launch a “Petition Against Passwords.” Their move on the petition landed them attention from The Economist, the BBC, Los Angeles Times and others. “We were suddenly a dominant voice in a conversation that we hadn’t had access to before, and we started getting emails from our dream customers asking for more information about Clef and how they could start using it. By stepping outside of the expected checklist, we were able to have a much bigger impact,” says Byrne.

Next step: Byrne and Co. are looking to apply their work in the realm of e-commerce checkout, which holds more competition, Byrne says, but also more lucrative opportunities. “Every day there are a million different opportunities for us to be pursuing or directions for us to be going in, and we have to navigate that in a completely different way. College throws hard problems at you, but in a startup you have to find the right problems to solve,” says Byrne, an English and computer science major.

Partners on the Roller-Coaster Ride

Tom Vladeck, Ben Cooper and Geoff Lewis.

Geoffrey Lewis ’08 launched Building Hero last year with Ben Cooper ’07 and Tom Vladeck ’08. They had become great friends at Pomona, largely, Lewis says, “because of our shared passion for energy-efficiency.”

The company started in San Francisco pursuing the niche of installing LED lighting in businesses such as boutiques, art galleries and hotels. Their pitch: energy-efficient lighting saves customers’ money and benefits the environment without sacrificing aesthetics, and at the start, they were greatly aided by a local utility offering generous rebates for businesses that switched to energy-efficient lighting.

However, the rebate program was so generous that it ran out of money on several occasions

“As a small startup, it was hard for us to deal with this type of uncertainty,” says Lewis. So they made a “strategic decision” to expand into New York City, which, like San Francisco, has high population density, lots of small retail shops and high electricity prices, which make LED more appealing.

That wasn’t the only shift. With the end of the rebates, the Building Hero crew realized that many small retailers weren’t willing or able to pony up the up-front costs to switch over to LED. So Building Hero switched over to a different model, in which businesses got their lights right now but repaid the cost over time through a monthly service fee, which included maintenance.

Lewis, however, points out that constant change is just part of the ride for a startup: “That uncertainty: Is this company going to exist years from now? That’s what makes it exciting to come to work.”

“Startups are a crucible; it’s very hard to create something new in the marketplace, and that creates a lot of stress on the founders of any new venture. I think coping with that stress together has had a huge effect on bringing us closer together.”

Arye Barnehama ’13 and Laura Berman ’13 met while studying cognitive science at Pomona. Sharing that interest led them to become fast friends. And it eventually led them to launch Melon, which consists of a lightweight headband and a mobile app that employs EEG technology to get a read on all those neurons firing in your pre-frontal cortex, use the data to measure focus and “give you personalized feedback to help you improve.” As they work, Berman and Barnehama have had to learn how to support each other. “As entrepreneurs you’ll face a lot of ups and downs,” says Berman, CEO of the firm based in Santa Monica, Calif. “During the good times, it’s great to share those experiences with a close friend. When you find yourself in harder times, it’s great to have somebody whom you know how to support and who, in return, knows how to support you best.”

Work-Life Balance

Laura Berman and Arye Barnehama

With no school calendar full of classes, activities and built-in breaks, startup entrepreneurs must adjust to setting their own schedules. It’s their own willpower that must see a team through product launches, long hours and thorny problems. On the other hand, there’s a temptation to skip sleep and ignore all other parts of life.

“When we started our own company, we felt a lot of pressure to work constantly— as close to 24/7 as humanly possible,” recalls Berman. “It’s easy to get into a mindset where you think, ‘Every moment that I’m not working on this, nobody else is either,’ and you become scared to take a break.”

Many entrepreneurs have this type of mentality at first, believing that a round-the-clock schedule will lead to faster success. But the accompanying stress can lead to greater tension and mistakes.

The Melon team found greater work-life balance after working as a startup in residence at a top design firm IDEO (most famous for designing the first Apple mouse). There, they learned that innovation comes easiest in a creative space where people are working on a variety of projects. One of their mentors at IDEO advised them to favor curiosity over expertise when hiring, and to designate time every week for creative activities unrelated to Melon.

“This is different from college, where you have a pretty set schedule of assignments and deadlines. Learning to create a schedule where we worked efficiently and didn’t overload all the time definitely took a while,” Berman says. It seems to be paying off: Melon has raised nearly $300,000 through Kickstarter, and venture capitalists and angel investors have provided additional funding. The pair, previously based in Massachusetts, was recently honored among 25 top entrepreneurs under 25 by the Boston Globe.

Communication and Differences

Zach Brown ’07 grew up in the Southeast Alaska town of Gustavus (pop. 350), too small to even have a McDonald’s or a movie theatre, and so remote you can only get there by plane or boat. Perhaps it was the very small town feel that made Brown value kinship and trustworthiness in others. It also made him want to build something in his home state.

Brown and three fellow graduate students from Stanford University are founding the Inian Islands Institute, devoted to research and experiential education on a breathtaking five-acre parcel, set on a pristine island and known locally as the Hobbit Hole. The opportunity arose when Brown family friends, who have owned the isolated spot for decades, decided to put it up for sale.

As Brown and his partners envision it, the school will bring students from various universities to Alaska for field courses focused on ecology. Participating students will have an opportunity to catch their own salmon, drink rainwater and harvest their own food in a breathtaking setting of glaciers, fjords and temperate rain forest. The institute is nonprofit, but many of the challenges, trials and triumphs of a new business startup may apply to their organization as well. To figure out their roles, Brown says his team fell into categories of expertise pretty naturally: “We had one person most interested in marine issues (myself), one most interested in terrestrial issues, one for management/governance and one for conservation.

Zach Brown

These pretty well covered the themes we want to address in our school.” Still, making the institute a reality will be a huge undertaking for the foursome. “At first, we were just kicking around ideas over evening beers, and there was nothing at stake. Nothing to lose. It was a lot of fun. But as the vision has grown, we all realize the sheer scale of what we’ve embarked on, and as we begin to internalize what it could mean for our careers, some tensions have flared at times.”

I think that’s natural, and we’ve always gotten past them. It’s really important to have regular check-ins, face to face, and to be very open and honest with each other. It’s better to voice your concerns to the group right away, before they have a chance to fester. I think that’s true of any relationship: Communication is key.”

Even though constant harmony might seem appealing, Clef founder Byrne points out that it’s actually a good thing to not always agree.

“Young companies are full of really bad ideas and bad decisions, and it’s easier to make more of them, if everyone agrees on everything,” he says. “One of the things I’ve been really surprised by is how important it is for us to disagree. You have to disagree to tackle problems from different perspectives.”

Knowing When to Say When

Inevitably, many entrepreneurial ventures won’t make it in the first try. Lewis and Vladeck, decade-long friends who had even trained for a triathlon together, had to have a difficult talk about Building Hero this September. (Cooper had already moved on.)

“Energy-efficiency nerds,” as Lewis puts it, loved their LED financing model and its similarity to the way many consumers buy solar power. Potential customers weren’t as thrilled, though, as the pair struggled to build trust and convince strangers to buy into their innovative, energy-saving plan. “What’s hard for us is we got some positive feedback, but not enough to invest the next five years of our lives,” says Lewis. So it was time for the talk. “It was pretty much just a joint decision,” says Lewis. “We spent a long time kind of debating it with each other, having conversations about how we felt.”

Even though they decided to end that business, neither Lewis nor Vladeck expects this will be their last startup. They want to learn from their mistakes and press ahead. “This wasn’t our last chance to change the world,” says Lewis. “This was just our first chance.” — Mark Kendall contributed to this story.

On December 2, a group of large, athletic men will walk onto the court of AT&T Center in San Antonio. Five of them will wear the red-and-blue uniform of the Hawks, a mostly-middling NBA franchise from Atlanta. The other five will wear the black-and-silver of the San Antonio Spurs, perhaps the most successful franchise in modern pro sports. In most respects, it will be just another early-season, midweek game on the NBA schedule. But for the two not-so-large, suit-wearing men standing in front of each team’s bench, it will be a historic, and no doubt emotional, moment. After 19 years on the same sideline, Mike Budenholzer and Gregg Popovich will coach against each other for the first time.

Six hundred-odd miles to the northeast, Jason Levien will be watching. Levien is the general manager of the Memphis Grizzlies—an NBA team which, he prefers you don’t remind him, was swept by the Spurs in the Western Conference Finals during last season’s playoffs. The Grizzlies won’t be playing on that Monday, so Levien might be at home or, perhaps, on the treadmill, where he often ends up on game nights, too nervous to sit and watch. He logged eight miles in the second half of a single Grizzlies playoff game last spring.

Since this is an alumni magazine, you’ve probably guessed what connects these three men, but that doesn’t make it any less remarkable. The chances that two NBA head coaches and one NBA GM—the ultimate decision-maker for a franchise and one of the hardest jobs to attain in sports—would all come from one Division III, liberal arts college are infinitesimal. But there they are: Popovich, the Pomona-Pitzer head coach for eight years, ending in 1988; Budenholzer, a Pomona-Pitzer shooting guard, class of ’92; and Levien, Pomona-Pitzer reserve guard, class of ’93.

Just as expected, the Sagehens have overtaken the NBA.

FIRST, SOME BACKGROUND. As it turns out, I have an unusual perspective on all this. In the fall of 1992, I transferred into Pomona as a sophomore, hoping to play on the basketball team while preparing for a career in journalism. Mike was one of the first players I met. He made quite an impression. One memory stands out: an informal pickup hoops game at Rains Center, early that fall. Most of the team was there.

As one of a handful of point guards hoping to make the varsity squad, I was matched up against Mike, a senior and starter on the team. There was no coach. No audience. Just a bunch of young men getting in shape before the season.

Mike’s team scored first. I took the inbounds pass and turned to dribble up court. That’s when I saw Mike, 70-odd feet from the opposing basket, standing directly in front of me, hands in a defensive posture, eyes wide, face a contorted mask of intensity. And so it went, for the rest of the afternoon. In a pickup game, in the preseason, Budenholzer picked me up and defended me full-court on every possession, as if it were the NBA Finals.

At the time, it was shocking; playing full court defense in a pick-up game is akin to bringing your own backing band to karaoke night. Later, though, it would make perfect sense—once I learned that Mike’s father, Vince, was a longtime high school coach, so successful that in 2005 he was inducted into the Arizona Sports Hall of Fame. And that Mike was the seventh of seven children, and the fifth boy. And that, though born with neither exceptional athleticism or size— he stood 6’1” and was never a leaper—Mike had succeeded at every level of the game. He did so, I learned, by wanting it more than anyone else on the floor.

I met Jason next. Immediately, he stuck out. Amid the tall, gangly players trying out for the team, Jason was an anomaly: relatively short and neither quick nor springy. Instead, he was clever and efficient. He’d transferred in the season before, his sophomore year, from Georgetown. Though not a regular rotation player, he’d enjoyed a few big moments: playing important minutes against CMS, hitting four three-pointers against Caltech.

From the start, he struck me as a born politician, in the best sense of the word (if there is such a thing). He was intelligent, gregarious and possessed the rare and valuable trait of being genuinely curious about other people’s lives. As preseason wore on, the two of us were paired up as workout partners. We lifted weights, sweated through drills and, most memorably, shot an endless succession of free throws. Every player on the team was expected to make 1,500 before the first official practice. Our reward: a T-shirt that read The 1,500 Club. I believe mine is in the garage somewhere, in a box underneath the ping-pong table.

The team was talented that year. Mike was the heart and soul—the coach on the floor—but Bill Cover ’94 was the star. Six-foot-six and fundamentally sound, Cover was a deadly midrange shooter and the team’s go-to option on offense. He would end up graduating the following year as the Sagehens’ all-time leading scorer (a distinction he still holds). The team also featured Paul Hewitt, 6’6” and lanky; Brian Christiansen, a deadeye shooter whose range extended seemingly to the bleachers; Alden Romney ’96, a blonde, toned swingman who looked like he should be on Baywatch; and Phil Kelly ’95, a quicksilver, lefty point guard. The coach, then as now, was Charles Katsiaficas. A disciple of Popovich, he’d been an assistant for years before taking over the head job full-time in 1988. (None of the players on the 1992–93 team played for Pop, though Budenholzer, who was a fifth-year senior, had been recruited to Pomona by the coach in 1988).

The season came to an unsatisfactory end. The varsity finished 16–9 overall and 9–5 in SCIAC but missed the playoffs. Mike played well, averaging 5.4 points per game, 3.04 assists and leading the team with 44 steals in 25 games. Meanwhile, Jason and I spent the great majority of our time toiling on the junior varsity. There were highlights—overtime wins and postgame breakdowns and poker games and, for me, a lone collegiate dunk, which I have since treasured as one might a family heirloom. That it came against Caltech and that I traveled on the play are neither here nor there. We take what we can in life. As for Jason, he finished his Pomona varsity career with what has to be one of the highest three-point percentages in school history: 62.5 percent. He took eight shots from behind the arc and made five.

OF THE THREE, Popovich’s NBA ascent occurred first. His story is also the best-known. At Pomona, he turned around the Sagehen program, taking a team that was 2-22 in his first season and, within six years, leading it to a SCIAC title and a NCAA Division III Tournament berth. After spending a year as a volunteer assistant to Larry Brown at Kansas, he rejoined Brown with the Spurs, as an assistant. After a stint with the Golden State Warriors, he ended up back in San Antonio, and eventually became the general manager. In 1996, he named himself head coach. It’s a title he’s held ever since.

Mike first worked for Pop at Golden State when he asked to “observe” the team. Pop told him he could work in the video room. He wouldn’t be paid, and he shouldn’t talk to anybody. Just do the film and go home. Budenholzer jumped at the chance. A couple years later, after Mike spent a post-grad season playing and coaching for Vejle Basketball Klub in Denmark, where he averaged 27.5 points, Pop called with a real job offer: video coordinator in San Antonio. It was almost as unglamorous as his first position. In the pre-digital age, Mike’s job was to hand-splice together VHS tapes of upcoming opponents in a small, dark room. Still, when I came through town in the summer of 1996, it was clear Mike was happy. At the time, I was writing a book about playground basketball, and the reporting took me around the country (two other Pomona grads from the class of 1995, Eric Kneedler and Craig Harley, came along to help with the research). When we stopped in on Mike, he was living decidedly low on the hog. In particular, I remember that he’d somehow accumulated a treasure trove of free sandwich coupons from Subway. As far as we could tell, he was living off them while working in that dark cave. No matter: it was the life he wanted. And it paid off. That fall, Pop elevated Budenholzer from video coordinator to the team’s lowest- ranking assistant coach. He was on his way.

Meanwhile, Levien followed a more unconventional path to the NBA. He attended law school at the University of Michigan, worked as a campaign consultant (writing Tennessee Congressman Harold Ford Jr.’s keynote speech at the 2000 Democratic Convention in Los Angeles) and, eventually, seguedt into the position of sports agent. After a number of high profile signings, including inking Miami Heat forward Udonis Haslem’s $33 million contract, he was featured in an article in this magazine titled “Show Me the Money.” He later brokered an $80 million deal for Chicago Bulls forward Luol Deng.

Meanwhile, I meandered on my own path toward, or at least near, the NBA. In 2000, after grad school, I took a job with Sports Illustrated. Two years later, I was assigned a feature story on the Spurs. When I showed up, Popovich referred to me as “the Pomona kid.” It would be the first, and only, time that my alma mater provided a reportorial advantage in the sports world. In the years that followed, Budenholzer steadily advanced within the Spurs organization as the team made trip after trip to the NBA Finals. Soon enough, he was promoted to lead assistant. Meanwhile, Levien left his job as an agent to become assistant GM of the Sacramento Kings in 2008. Three years later, when things didn’t work out in Sacramento, he joined an ownership group that purchased the Philadelphia 76ers. Last year, continuing his rapid ascent, he sold his stake in the 76ers to join the Grizzlies ownership group, along with an unlikely list of names that included Peyton Manning and Justin Timberlake. Majority owner Robert Pera, an old friend, named Levien the CEO and general manager.

So far, Jason says he’s enjoying the job. He keeps tabs on Budenholzer, whom he remembers as “the best competitor on the team” at Pomona, and still occasionally employs maxims he learned from Katsiaficas, including “be quick but don’t hurry.” “To me, Pop’s success made the NBA world seem more accessible and smaller,” he says of the Pomona connection. “And the time I spent on the team, I tried to learn as much as I could about the game. I really tried to suck it all in, because I knew Kat got much of his stuff from Pop.”

As for Pop, well, he just kept on winning. Four NBA titles. A better winning percentage than any team in pro sports over the last 16 years. Another trip to the Finals last season behind Tim Duncan and Tony Parker. As time passed, he softened. A year and a half ago, when I wrote a feature story on Duncan, Popovich teared up while describing his star player. He told me about swimming in the Virgin Islands with Duncan when the two first met. He referred to him as close to a “soulmate.” He got equally gooey talking about Budenholzer, who he referred to as his “co-head coach.”

Mike? For many years, people around the league assumed he would succeed Pop when he finally retired in San Antonio. Every offseason, Budenholzer received inquiries from teams in need of a head coach. Every season he said no. Then, finally, after 19 years with Popovich, he accepted the head coaching job with the Atlanta Hawks this past May. His new boss was an old Spurs player, and front office figure, Danny Ferry. The timing, only days before the Spurs played the Heat in the NBA Finals, was rough. San Antonio went on to lose the series 4-3, in heartbreaking fashion. Mike had to go straight to work at his new job. This year, Budenholzer enters the NBA season with a rebuilt roster and midsize expectations. In Memphis, Levien presides over a team with a new coach and loftier goals. After advancing to the Western Conference Finals last season, and buoyed by a stellar defense, Memphis is well-positioned to make a run at a finals appearance. And the Spurs, as always, remain title contenders. Year by year, against the odds, the Pomona influence grows.

TWENTY YEARS’ TIME can color one’s memories, but certain truths remain. Recently, under the auspices of reporting this article, I convened with my old teammates Cover and Romney for beers at a rooftop bar in San Francisco. Cover was close to Budenholzer, and remains so. He talked about Mike’s competitive fire, about all the pickup games the two played together up and down the California coast, about that one beautiful scoop layup Mike hit against Redlands his senior year. For two weeks one summer, Mike slept on the Cover family couch. Afterward, Budenholzer sent Mrs. Cover a thank-you note. “What kind of college kid does that?” Cover asks, incredulous. Cover had his own brief pro basketball odyssey. After Pomona, he played for two years in Australia, the lone American import on a team. He now lives in Petaluma, with his wife and three daughters, managing a real estate business. He says he doesn’t play hoops anymore; it brings out the competitive beast inside.

Other teammates tell similar stories: Christiansen, who now works in finance, operations and human resources at Nike, gave up recreational basketball at age 38, but found his Pomona hoops experience has helped as “a badge of honor” and to “open doors,” and that it is also invaluable in corporate team-building. Romney, who is now at One Medical Group in San Francisco, played for the corporate team at Oracle, where he worked for a while, but hasn’t laced them up in a year. And Kelly, the lefty point guard, is a film/television agent in Los Angeles who’s retired from hoops, though not by choice. He tore both his Achilles.

Basketball careers done, they have all moved on. Life beckons, with all its playdates and late nights at the office and Saturday morning youth soccer matches. The game falls into relief, a treasured memory, a glimpse of a former self. The perspective changes. Now, when it comes to hoops, they live vicariously through Levien, Pop and Budenholzer.

The successes of those three become, in some way, communal successes. And so the game lives on.