Dance Marathon

Lessons in leadership, problem-solving, and brotherhood from a Rutgers fraternity house in 1971.

I was president of my fraternity, Zeta Beta Tau (ZBT), in my Junior year at Rutgers. I did it for a few reasons. Always conscious that I didn’t want to saddle my parents with all my college expenses, I knew that being president meant free room, board, and fraternity dues. But more than that, I had so enjoyed my sophomore year living in the house that I wanted to spread the word and encourage other Rutgers students to join ZBT.

A few months in, one of the brothers, Bob Schultz, came to me with an idea. He wanted ZBT to organize and hold a Dance Marathon to raise money for a yet-to-be-named charity. Although not an original idea—the ZBT chapter at the University of Maryland had done it the year before—it was going to be a first for both our chapter and Rutgers. I didn’t even question the request—I told Bob to go for it and asked what he would need from me. He didn’t know, and neither did I. It was the first in many, many “don’t knows” that we encountered and turned into “find outs.” It was, no doubt, youthful naivete, but we forged ahead with no roadmap—just a lot of enthusiasm.

The rules for the marathon were simple: any organization on campus could sponsor a couple and raise money for that couple. The winning couple was the one whose backing organization raised the most money. Both the winning organization and the winning couple would receive prizes, but the money they raised would go to a yet-to-be-named charity. The marathon itself made it very easy for the couples to participate; the point wasn’t to have them fall over, but rather to have their organizations go out and raise money on their behalf.

Everything for the event—the prizes for the couples, advertising, food, and entertainment—was donated, requiring many of the brothers to hit the streets of New Brunswick in search of freebies. We talked Rutgers into loaning us the gym for the weekend at no charge, but they insisted on a security deposit of $5,000—no small sum in 1971.

My most vivid recollection of the weekend is of the moments about 30 minutes before the marathon began. We had just finished preparing the 50 couples on what to expect and sent them to another room to rest. Like dutiful soldiers, the fraternity brothers scattered around the gym, busy with last-minute details, leaving me alone in the empty gym.

As I sat on the stage of the darkened room gazing at the reflection of the lights shining on a mirrored ball suspended from the ceiling, I sighed, smiled, and shook my head, knowing this event was either going to be a roaring success or a colossal flop. I knew that my fraternity brothers had done the best they could. I know that I had done the best I could. All we could do was sit back and wait. It was a scary, yet tremendously enervating moment.

From that scary, exhilarating moment forward, the weekend unfolded into a series of lessons in leadership and problem-solving.

Delegating Responsibility. The entire event was organized by a handful of people, and I was less than an integral part. Between my other duties as President and occasionally going to class, I had a lot on my plate. But I trusted the people in charge, honored their commitment, and made myself available for anything they needed. They worked hard, and they worked well—together. There was a common goal, and egos never got involved. They accomplished far more by working harmoniously than I could ever have hoped for. Our efforts became contagious, so much so that nearly every one of the 100-plus members of the fraternity was present and working the weekend of the event.

Leadership lesson one: Sometimes the smartest move is to get out of the way.

Problem solving. One of the first questions we needed to answer was what to do with the money we raised, which, of course, had to be decided well in advance. I had suggested Muscular Dystrophy, mostly because their annual Labor Day Telethon was still in my memory. I approached them and was basically told, “Send the check to the following address.” I was shocked by their attitude, but it only served to motivate me to find another recipient. Not only was the American Cancer Society open, but they also offered up a local person to help—the first adult in the room.

The security deposit that Rutgers required also became a sticking point. The American Cancer Society couldn’t put the deposit up; doing so was against its charter. ZBT couldn't, as doing so was against our charter. But, as President, I looked the other way and wrote out a check, with the assurance from Rutgers that it would be cashed only if there was damage done to the gym—and that, in any case, it wouldn’t be cashed before the weekend ended. My first experience in “asking forgiveness instead of permission.”

Leadership lesson two: Sometimes leadership looks like calculated mischief.

(And that was just the beginning. More hard-won lessons would follow in my life—see From the Brink of Bankruptcy to Boom.

My fear of failure caused me to blank out on the next two hours. The next recollection I have of that evening was being in a room adjacent to the gym that was set up as the central site for collecting the money. A knock on the door brought with it a demand from campus patrol wanting to know who was in charge. All eyes and heads turned to me. Sheepishly, I said, “I guess I am.”

“We have a problem.”

Dozens of potential problems raced through my mind, but not this one—crowd control. There were so many people in the gym watching the event that campus patrol had to start turning them away at the door. In fact, there were so many people flowing out of the gym that the street outside had to be closed to all but foot traffic.

Another “problem” that we hadn’t anticipated: the mountain of money. It poured in—most of it in cash, most of that, loose change. Several hours later, and long past midnight, four of us—with campus patrol in tow—rolled a footlocker stuffed with coins and crumpled bills down College Avenue to their office.

As we laughed and walked back to what was normally an empty house at 2 AM, we opened the door to discover all rooms on the first floor jammed with brothers, animatedly recounting the night. That’s when it hit us: the event had been a smashing success. We were all exhausted but exhilarated, having found a new appreciation for the word brotherhood.

We weren’t trying to build a legacy, but that’s what happened. We knew we had been part of something great. Looking back, I can see that it was also my first true lesson in what people now call servant leadership: when you set aside your ego and trust the people around you, the results can exceed anything you imagined. While not a “requirement” of servant leadership, leaving something behind is an extremely proud by-product.

By taking positive action in the face of myriad issues and no plan, we established the Dance Marathon as a fundraiser that ZBT has conducted for many years. Now, 50+ years later, it remains a Rutgers institution. Funny thing: back then, we didn’t even know the term “servant leadership,” but that’s exactly what we were doing. We just put our heads down, trusted each other, and pulled it off. The byproduct was a fundraiser that’s still going strong—and my first lesson in real-world synergy—something we stumbled into, not something we studied.

TL;DR: A fraternity dance marathon in 1971 became my crash course in trust, synergy, and legacy.

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