Money flowed freely into universities during the early 1990s as equity markets sizzled and the economy boomed. With cash in hand and land procured, projects came face-to-face with hurdle No. 3: approval from a steering committee or board of regents. That could take years, especially when opponents are vocal and well-organized.

Washington State proponents had plenty of opposition to their first four efforts to establish an 18-hole layout. “A lot of academics view golf as an elitist sport, especially at a university that is agriculturally oriented,” says Washington State’s Taylor. “We turned it into an opportunity for agricultural field work, to study water usage and conduct turf research.”

The opportunities went far beyond the Cougar student body. Pullman typifies a college town that draws empty-nesters looking to relocate: small residential population (about 10,000), artistic and cultural activities at the university and the hum of 20,000 students at work and play. The fact that the nearest 18-hole course was more than 30 minutes away was one of the few drawbacks to Pullman-bound retirees.

As Taylor recalls it, an economic-development plan prepared to support the proposal measured certain supply-demand factors both within and beyond Pullman’s boundaries. Any new resident drawn to the community in part by the presence of the course would strengthen the local tax base, already overwhelmingly dependent on the university. And in a nod to existing residents, the course’s master plan satisfied “open space” proponents by establishing buffers and dealing with sensitive areas.

“We talked about this course and its value far beyond what it meant to the university—as being something to benefit the region,” Taylor says. Consequently the university’s regents approved the project to great fanfare.

While this latest cycle ofcollege course development has featured several notable new courses, it has seen its fair number of reworked courses, too. Duke, Florida, Michigan, Michigan State and North Carolina, to name a few, transformed layouts that were groaning under the weight of steady play or required enhancements to keep up with an ever-developing sport.

When UNC’s Finley Golf Course made its debut in 1949, the George Cobb design was one of few courses to be found between Raleigh and Greensboro, explains Johnny Cake, the director of golf. “Now there are 60 to 70. It’s a far more competitive situation.”

Tom Fazio’s 1999 reworking was far-reaching, leaving no green or fairway unturned and beefing up the top yardage from about 6,600 yards to nearly 7,100. The $9.5 million project was completely funded by private donations, Cake says, noting one little-mentioned reason for needing up-front money: “We don’t have a membership out here to whom we could turn and say the ‘A’ word: Assessment.”

From an operating standpoint, college courses follow a business plan that might prove suicidal for the daily-fee down the street. The core clientele of students is given the lowest price on the board, which diminishes revenue. Of course, low is a subjective term. The fee at Stanford, one of the most prized collegiate layouts? “A student pays $20 a round,” deadpans director of golf Don Chelemedos, “plus $40,000 a year in tuition.”

Each semester more than 1,000 students take golf to help fulfill their physical education requirements, Chelemedos says. Student play accounts for 22 percent of the 65,000 annual rounds, while faculty and staff add 15 percent. But it is the play by a roster of 350 individual members and their guests who account for 50 percent of revenue, he says. That activity throws off dollars.

“Our golf course is the second-largest revenue producer for the athletic department, right behind the football program,” Chelemedos says. “We receive no funding and in fact we provide a great deal of money.” He declines to cite a specific amount, but describes it as “substantial.”

That is the most compelling reason so many university people worked so hard during the last 15 years to make their golf-course plans a reality. College-related golf construction practically disappeared between each of the first three cycles, meaning the business model had to be reinvented and resold, reflective of the altered economic environment each time. The institutions that made it happen were long on patience, to be certain.

“I’m sure it would have come up again,” Taylor says of Washington State’s proposal. “But it would have been years, long after everyone here was gone.”