On Sean Miller's Exodus, and a Toast to Saturday Workers and a Former Boss

"Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody..." -Sam Cooke

Apr 13, 2025

A decent share of local folks are (still) vilifying Sean Miller.

For those who might not follow, Miller left Xavier University to take over the helm of the Texas Longhorns’ basketball program. Conspiracy theorists coughed, as Miller’s Musketeers eliminated the Longhorns only days prior. Rumors and guessing-games have gained traction in the Queen City.

Was he already talking with Texas while preparing his Xavier squad to play them? I don’t know. None of us do. We know this, though: Texas opened up oil field spigots to nab Miller. Reports say he’ll earn about five million a year.

Sean Miller (credit, Dallas Morning News)

Before we get self-righteous and scream about loyalty, and XU giving Miller a second shot when nobody else would, that XU was a schemed-out stepping stone for Miller, et al., perhaps we ask ourselves this:

If another company came calling and offered us double (or more) what we’re earning for our current employer - to do the same job - can we honestly say we’d say no?

It’s easy to throw stones. Casting judgement and rocks always is. But, it shouldn’t be difficult admitting any electrician, teacher, doctor, welder, salesman, engineer, etc - in a phrase, the rest of us - wouldn’t pause considerably if someone asked if we’d be interested in doing the same thing for them, but at twice the salary.

He was already making great money compared to most working schleps, Nick! How much does he need?

Fair enough. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe.

Relativity reigns when talking money. 100K is “great money” to some, not close to enough to others. Someone making 100K will listen closely when a different company offers 200K. Someone making 60K will do the same with a 120K offer on the table.

You only make 700 grand? They’re abusing you. We’ll give you a salary of 1.4 mil a year.

Don’t care who you are. Each scenario would invite pause and attention by the desired worker.

We admire those who stay when courted by tempting offers. We applaud the silver-headed coach who stays for decades. We should. Staying often and only offers intangible perks, but the only intangible perks part keeps certain types put. Whatever their reasons, we love them for putting our town, our home first.

It’s a selfish love. We get to keep the beloved with us.

Let’s pump the brakes on the Sean Miller hate. Most would have done the same thing.

***

Lucky ones have a respite from work on Saturdays, where snooze buttons aren’t a thing because alarms aren’t set.

I’m one of the lucky ones. Tapping laptop keys doesn’t qualify as “work.” Not really, at least.

It hasn’t always been this way, of course. If you’re older than 16, you’ve worked Saturdays. You’ve worked every day of the week. First jobs demand it. Other jobs demand it, too. It’s Saturday night right now, a few minutes before 10. My car-selling pals worked today. So did firefighters, cops, retail/small-store workers, restaurateurs, nurses and maintenance peeps. While the rest of us softies soaked up today’s local weather splendor, a few of our pals were jamming to Huey Lewis’ Working for a Living in their heads.

In college, I worked Saturdays at Duebber’s Automotive carryout selling beer, sodas, candy and chips. Since my boss, Al Duebber, was smart, he had me in the carryout. One doesn’t become a successful businessman employing ~~malefactors~~ folks like me to work on the cars brought to Duebber’s to be fixed. Al was a successful businessman.

Years before my Duebber’s tenure, I worked Saturdays at Maury’s Tiny Cove after turning 16, bussing tables and smelling like cigarette smoke at the end of each shift. It was the late 1980s. Patrons smoking Winstons and Virginia Slims indoors during dinner was a thing.

I remember seeing a bill on a table at Maury’s totaling 149 bucks. I figured the meal came with diamond studded forks that the four diners - two couples - were allowed to keep.

“They must be rich,” I thought. “Bet their kids have their own stand-up Centipede or Galaga in their basements. Prolly have their own waterbeds, too.”

Maury’s is a steakhouse. It’s still open, except to change. The decor, old and dated when I was 16, remains. If you miss faux-wood paneled walls and have never been to Maury’s, you’ll be a kid on a first visit to Disneyland settling into your (burgundy-upholstered) booth.

The food - and Maury’s famous-on-Cincinnati’s-westside pickles - is still excellent. Occasionally I’ll visit to grab dinner for the family. Take-out isn’t the same as hunkering into a booth at Maury’s. It isn’t as good. Some places, one’s gotta sit, look around, take it all in.

But, during the minutes I’m waiting for my order, Memory Lane beckons. I look around and miss things, not just affiliated or having to do with Maury’s. Revisiting places from long ago does that. Waiting for an order at Maury’s finds me making promises I don’t keep, usually about appreciating people, moments and times more. Inevitably, I’ll remember Dennis, a popular career-server at Maury’s. For whatever reason, Dennis was always good to dishwashers, busboys and other behind-the-scene grunts. He was incredibly popular with patrons, but took time to get to know us while we worked. It wasn’t a creepy interest, just interest. It was small, but it wasn't.

Al Duebber retired, turning his garage and store over to his son, Marc. These days, you’ll find Al keeping vigil by his wife’s side. The end is near for Debbie. Like all diseases, Alzheimer’s takes good people, too. We know that.

Raise a glass for Saturday workers, bosses who hired us when we were young and stupid, and for places that remind us. Raise a glass for the words of GK Chesterton, who nailed reality when he wrote, “Thanks are the highest form of thought.”

And raise a glass and prayer for Al Duebber and his family, for the season they are currently enduring.

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