From the archives: Calculated gambles pay off for power-wielding player Joel Ferguson

This story originally published on Feb. 13, 2000. Joel Ferguson died Saturday, Oct. 19, 2024 .

Seven. Again.

Joel Ferguson winces and slaps his hand against the craps table.

"Jesus," he cries. "These guys are cold."

For the fifth time in 15 minutes, the dice have wiped Ferguson's bets off the table at the Motor City Casino in Detroit. He started with $4,500. Now, he clenches fewer than a dozen $100 chips in his left hand.

A wispy-haired man with thick bifocals grabs the dice, and Ferguson's luck turns.

Again and again, the dice land on one of five numbers the Michigan State University trustee has bet. They barely stop spinning and Ferguson slides chips around the table, raking in winnings, covering new numbers and dictating odds to the dealer, who can't keep up.

Ferguson refuses to quit, and by the end of the day, he's $500 ahead.

"The key is having enough ammunition to stay in the game," he says and grins. "Eventually it will turn."

Ferguson always stays in the game. It's how he rose from gritty beginnings in a west Lansing neighborhood to life as one of mid-Michigan's most influential political players.

When the Lansing City Council wouldn't listen to him, he became the first Black to win a seat and went on to play national politics with Jesse Jackson and Bill Clinton.

When life didn't hand him privilege, he created it, earning millions as a real estate developer.

When coaches kept him on the bench as a fledgling MSU basketball player, he made his way into university politics, giving him power over all Spartan sports.

At 61 and fighting prostate cancer, Ferguson retains his instinct for the odds and, when they favor him, the guts to act. He's battled fiercely for friends, ruthlessly against enemies — and racked up plenty of both.

He helped make leaders such as MSU President Peter McPherson and more recently football coach Bobby Williams and Athletic Director Clarence Underwood.

He's unmade others.

"If you get power and don't use it," Ferguson asks, "Why have it?"

Small beginnings

Black teenagers surround Ferguson.

They want his help.

About 150 Black students have just listened to him tell his story at a Feb. 3 youth workshop at Riverview Place banquet hall aimed at providing role models for young black men.

He hastily scribbles his home and office phone numbers on scraps of paper.

"I didn't start on third base," Ferguson tells them. "I didn't even start off up to bat."

Ferguson grew up on Chelsea Avenue, part of a lower-middle class neighborhood on Lansing's west side.

It was 1945 when his parents divorced and his father, Rollin, moved to Chicago. Ferguson was 7. After that, he saw his father about once a year. His mother, Josephine Wharton, was left to raise Joel and his brothers, Chris and Brian.

"Being the oldest, Joel sort of masterminded the group," said Wharton, the first female president of the NAACP in Lansing. "He never wanted to worry me about anything."

Ferguson doesn't talk much about his parents' divorce. He simply calls his father's absence "inconvenient."

"I told him once, 'We really missed you coming up,'" Ferguson says matter-of-factly. "But now that we made it without you, we're better off.' You learn to do for yourself."

Wharton and her boys were among the first Black families to move into the neighborhood. In elementary school, Ferguson was one of only three Black children in his class.

The family bought Christmas trees on Christmas Eve to save cash and sometimes dined on Miracle Whip-and-sugar sandwiches. His mother didn't buy a car until Ferguson was 21.

"We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken to lick other people's fingers," Brian Ferguson jokes. "We didn't have a lot. But we had enough."

As a teen, Joel Ferguson got a job as a caddy at the prestigious Country Club of Lansing. He earned $4.25 to tote two golf bags for 18 holes. Blacks were not allowed to join, but they were allowed to work there. A young Ferguson never thought to question that.

"It was a plantation," he says. "But that's just the way it was."

The Ferguson boys spent their time playing football, baseball and basketball at the school playground.

Many of Joel Ferguson's friends, including Delta Township supervisor Joe Drolett, were white and came from wealthier homes in the neighborhood.

"Growing up with those guys allowed me to be comfortable with white people," Ferguson says. "I saw how their parents were living. I didn't know how I would get there. But I knew I'd go to college and give myself a chance."

Ferguson and his brothers were standout athletes at Sexton High, each becoming captain the school's basketball team.

Brian Ferguson remembers his oldest brother as his most loyal fan and a fierce protector — a man who wept when Brian wasn't listed first-string on a high school all-state team and later had a tooth knocked out sticking up for Brian in a pick-up basketball game.

"He sued the guy for the cost of his tooth and won," Brian says, laughing. "That says it all about Joel. He was always practical."

But academics were never Ferguson's strength. After failing to turn in an advanced composition paper, he needed summer school classes to earn his diploma and was barred from graduation ceremonies.

"He just wasn't inclined that way," said Brian, a 56-year-old stand-up comedian.

Chris, 58, coaches basketball at East Lansing High School and works with Joel in his development business.

After stints in the U.S. Marines and in classrooms at Lansing Community College, Ferguson reached MSU. For six years, he studied during the day and worked nights in an Oldsmobile factory.

He earned a degree in elementary education in 1965 and took a job at the Michigan Catholic Job Training Center, teaching basic job skills to adults.

An awakening

Ferguson's education really started in 1967, in the wake of a race riot on Lansing's west side.

Needing a voice to air their concerns, blacks tapped Ferguson. He was well-known from the neighborhood and basketball. The white city council was willing to listen to an articulate college graduate.

Those discussions taught Ferguson his first lesson about power: It helps to have it.

"They talked us to death and nothing was happening," Ferguson said. "I knew the only way to be there was with some authority."

He went after that authority. But not before crafting a careful strategy to succeed where other black council candidates had failed.

Ferguson entered the race for two at-large seats, meaning a second-place finish was good enough to win. His logic: The mostly white electorate could choose their favorite candidate and still pick him second.

"I looked over the field and decided which candidate I had to beat for second," Ferguson said at the time. "Then I tried to make ... an inroad in his support areas, gambling he couldn't move into the areas where people were for me."

The bet paid off. At 28, Ferguson stood where no Lansing black had been. On the inside.

"I didn't know anything," he said.

But he learned quickly, said Lucile Belen, who served on the city council from 1957 to 1992.

"He was able to get most everything he wanted," Belen says.

"He was astute. He studied people so he knew where their weak side was. Then he'd really go after them and get their support."

Ferguson also discovered the financial potential of real estate — a field that would make him rich. He learned by studying projects before the council.

"I thought the person who built a $4 million building put up $4 million," he says. "I didn't realize you could borrow 80 to 90 percent."

Before long, Ferguson was swinging his own real estate deals. In 1972 he opened a housing project in Port Huron and made $300,000.

Brian Ferguson marvels at how far his brother has come. "I still don't understand it," he says. "I guess his talents were there. But they were dormant. He found something that turned him on.''

Wealthy man

His 6-foot, 2-inch frame relaxed in a black leather chair, Ferguson spoons vanilla pudding into his mouth and sips fruit juice. He is in stocking feet.

Welcome to work.

Ferguson Development is located in a renovated furniture warehouse on Turner Street in the city's historic Old Town district.

To the north along the Grand River sit 20 freshly built condominiums developed by Ferguson's son David. To the south is the future site of son Barry's restaurant.

Ferguson bought the warehouse for $300,000 and spent $1.5 million renovating it. Everything in the building — from $100,000 in African artwork to a bathroom complete with shower and phone off Ferguson's corner office — is meant to impress.

"I want people to believe they're at the right place,'' he said.

Ferguson will not reveal his net worth.

"I'm worth something, aren't I?'' he says and smiles.

His business empire includes part or full ownership in at least 20 companies and 14 housing developments around the state.

In Lansing alone, Ferguson and his companies own property assessed at nearly $15 million. That doesn't include the House Office Building that the state will rent from Ferguson and partner Gary Granger for more than $100 million over the next 25 years.

Ferguson directs it all from a simple round table in his office. Round, he insists, to remove barriers for visitors.

He takes calls at a furious pace. His daughter Jennifer, a White House staffer, wants to give away Dad's ticket to a White House party.

Ferguson, a member of the Democratic National Committee, is a friend of President Clinton, who appointed him in 1995 to the Federal Home Loan Mortgage Corp. The group finances one-sixth of American homes.

"If you get a chance, give (Clinton) a hug for me and tell him thanks for re-appointing me,'' Ferguson says. ``He'll like that.''

The next call is about investing in a Hawaiian mortgage company. A tenant issue. Then mom is on the line. She can't see. She needs different medication.

"I enjoy solving problems,'' he says.

And Ferguson is never shy about proposing solutions, no matter who it offends.

"He's not afraid to stand on an island,'' MSU basketball coach Tom Izzo says. "Joel always seems to be out in front. Sometimes he gets maligned. Sometimes he gets credit.''

Ferguson can discuss the subtleties of 2-3 zone defense with Izzo, yet toss history analogies at McPherson.

"Sometimes I'm a salesman,'' he says. "Any salesman understands his customer. I find a way to get in the door to relate to a person.''

Even MSU trustee Dee Cook, who has bitterly opposed Ferguson on some university issues, calls him "charming." "I really enjoy being around him'' she says, "But watch out. If he wants to get to you, he can.''

McPherson calls his relationship with Ferguson one of his most interesting.' "Joel is a very complex person who thinks about things from a lot of different angles,'' McPherson says. "We often disagree. But it's constructive. And frankly, the back and forth is fun.''

It was Ferguson in 1993 who pushed the board to hire McPherson, a nontraditional candidate from the corporate world. McPherson, who ran a bank and federal agency, didn't even have a doctorate — often considered a must for college presidents.

"Supporting someone other than McPherson was the safe place to be,'' Ferguson says. "But MSU is a megabucks institution. I knew we had to hire someone who understands how to manage that business.''

Miracle man

From a luxury box high above the Breslin Center floor in January, Ferguson watches the MSU basketball team tangle with Indiana. Seated next to him is Sen. Harry Gast, R-St. Joseph, one of the state's most respected legislators.

During a break, he laughs with Richard Whitmer, president and CEO of Blue Cross Blue Shield of Michigan. They take golf vacations together.

At halftime, U.S. Rep. Debbie Stabenow, D-Lansing, weaves through a crowded concourse to hug Ferguson. Stabenow is running for the U.S. Senate against Spencer Abraham in one of the nation's most-watched races. She once organized yard signs for Ferguson's city council campaigns.

The ultimate mover and shaker, Ferguson pays six lawyers, a lobbyist and a $600 per-month cell phone bill.

"He gets around," said former Gov. James Blanchard, a longtime ally. "He's a Lansing fixture." Blanchard introduced Ferguson to Clinton when he was governor of Arkansas.

At no time were Ferguson's connections more evident than in 1988, when he pulled off an upset while running the Rev. Jesse Jackson's presidential campaign in Michigan.

Michael Dukakis was cruising to the Democratic party's nomination, beating Jackson across the nation. But in Michigan, Jackson won the party caucus by a 2-1 margin, earning Ferguson the nickname "Michigan Miracle Man."

"Joel made it happen," says Bill Ballenger, editor of the newsletter Inside Michigan Politics. "He called up the African-American community and other true believers and said, 'Look, Goddammit, we have a chance to be heard.'"

Ferguson remains a close friend of Jackson's. The national civil-rights leader officiated the 1998 wedding of Ferguson's son David in Lansing.

Spartan at heart

The crowd roars as MSU basketball star Mateen Cleaves is introduced before the Indiana game. Ferguson claps along.

Later, he stomps his foot in frustration alter a Hoosier basket. When both teams struggle to score, he yells, "There are a lot of bricks in this building.”

Ferguson's passion for MSU sports burns white-hot, at times scorching those in its path.

It's his love, his only interest in the university,” trustee Cook says.

Ferguson once played basketball for the Spartans, making the freshman team in 1959. But he quit over a lack of playing time.

As a city councilman, he often lobbied to cut short meetings when the Spartans played on Monday nights — conceding he had no clue what remained on the agenda.

When he won an MSU board seat in 1900, Ferguson had control over the games he loved to watch. And he used it.

Ferguson was a force behind the 1990 hiring of football coach George Perles as athletic director — a decision made over the objections of then-President John DiBiaggio, who argued that no one should he his own boss.

Ferguson corralled the votes needed to ram Perles’ promotion through. Board members spent the next two years feuding with one another and with DiBiaggio, who eventually left for Tufts University in Massachusetts.

"That was a very divisive thing that hurt the institution and in some respects still does,” Cook says. "It undermined the president’s leadership.”

Ferguson continued to push for control when Merrily Dean Baker, a top executive from the NCAA, replaced Perles as athletic director. He criticized her performance frequently and publicly.

Eventually, Baker's powers were reduced and she resigned. Baker still feels the sting of Ferguson's influence.

“I don't have any respect for Joel" says Baker, who now lives in Fort Myers, Florida. "He has a personal agenda. That’s all he cares about and he uses people to achieve it.”

Cooks says Ferguson still bullies his way around the athletic department.

Athletic department officials "listen when he speaks because they know he has the power,” Cook says. "They have families to think about. They’re not stupid.”

Ferguson says he doesn’t intimidate anyone.

"I do it because I add value,” he says. “They’re not afraid of me. They call me for help.”

Izzo says Ferguson helps coaches. The two talk after nearly every game. They golf and often eat dinner together.

"He doesn't just call after a win," Izzo says. “He calls after a loss.”

Ferguson also supports Bobby Williams, who won the football coaching job after Nick Saban left for Louisiana State University in December.

Though many voices helped Williams — including those of players and assistant coaches - Ferguson's was one of the earliest and loudest.

Coaches with more experience were in the running, but Ferguson lobbied hard for Williams, a 10-year assistant MSU coach. Ferguson argued that Williams’ knowledge the program, talent as a recruiter and loyalty could take the Spartans to the next level.

"He aggressively presented his views, says MSU President McPherson, who hired Williams.

In the span of a week, Williams was in. On Jan. 1, he led the Spartans to a thrilling Citrus Bowl win against Florida — the school's first major bowl victory in 10 years.

"It was quite a rise, wasn't it?" Ferguson says.

Ferguson also played campaign manager for Underwood when MSU Athletic Director Merritt Norvell resigned in April.

Underwood, previously passed over twice for the job, won the position in December.

"He deserved it," Ferguson says. “He’s paid his dues. He was next in line.”

Odds in his favor

Driving home from the Motor City Casino, Ferguson pulls his 2000 Cadillac DTS into a rest stop along Interstate 96.

Frequent bathroom breaks are the price he pays after being diagnosed with prostate cancer last March. He found out during a physical. “I was shocked,” he says.  “I’ve never been a drinker or smoker. Maybe too much popcorn or salt, but that's all."

Ferguson never doubted the odds were in his favor, even while enduring nine weeks of radiation treatments. He went every morning on his way to work.

He doesn't need to return to the doctor for three more months and he gained weight over the holidays.

“I saw that as a good sign," he says. "Nothing in my life has changed."

Ferguson hasn't stopped gambling or golfing — two loves. About six times a year he travels to Las Vegas to shoot dice. Casinos pay his air fare, lodging and food — perks commonly extended to high rollers.

Though he routinely risks thousands of dollars, Ferguson says his fetish for craps doesn't constitute gambling.

The rest of his free time is spent on the golf course. He owns a home worth at least $660,000 on the eighth hole of the Country Club of Lansing. The same club where he once lugged bags.

It's on the links where Ferguson faces his biggest fear: a 40-foot wedge shot.

“He can’t chip," says Whitmer, of Blue Cross Blue Shield.

In true Ferguson fashion, he'll go straight to the top for help. He plans to attend the Las Vegas golf school of Claude "Butch" Harmon — the swing coach for Tiger Woods.

Ferguson has lost his share of battles, most notably a bid to buy the Detroit Tigers in 1992, a run for U.S. Senate in 1994 and an attempt to secure a license for one of Detroit's three casinos.

"The biggest mistake guys make in business and politics is thinking they have to win every one," Ferguson says. "I always have six or seven issues out there. Some I lose on purpose.

He plans another run for the MSU board when his term ends in 2005. Until then, Ferguson will continue to play life’s odds.

l don't take any chances," he said. "I know the odds and I don't bet more than I can afford to lose."

This article originally appeared on Lansing State Journal: From the archives: Calculated gambles pay off for power-wielding player Joel Ferguson