You don't typically find the blueprint for a small-college athletic dynasty in a box score from a professional basketball game halfway across the world. But as I was scrolling through international hoops updates the other day, a line about a former University of the Philippines standout, Juan Gomez de Liano, caught my eye for Seoul SK Knights. It wasn't his modest stat line of eight points, three boards, and two assists that resonated; it was the context. Here was a player, developed in a system far from the traditional American pipelines, now contributing to a 22-6 powerhouse in a top Asian league. It made me think, not for the first time, about the unconventional, almost serendipitous path that has defined the rise of Taylor University athletics. In an era where the gap between NCAA Division I and the rest seems to widen by the year, how does a tiny NAIA school in Upland, Indiana, not just compete but consistently dominate across multiple sports? The answer, I've come to believe after years of observing small-college landscapes, lies in a philosophy that is less about building a program and more about cultivating an ecosystem—one that values fit over star ratings, culture over transient talent, and a kind of strategic patience that modern athletics often lacks.
Let's be clear, Taylor isn't winning by accident. They've racked up an impressive number of national championships and conference titles, particularly in sports like men's basketball and cross country. But if you're looking for a massive athletic endowment or a fleet of private jets for recruiting, you won't find it here. What you will find, and what I've seen firsthand when visiting campus, is a deliberate focus on a specific type of student-athlete. They're not chasing the five-star recruit who sees Taylor as a backup plan. Instead, they're identifying the three-star talent with a particular drive, the kid who might be a bit undersized or overlooked by larger schools but possesses an engine that won't quit and a desire for an education that aligns with the university's core mission. This is where the "Taylor model" diverges sharply from even its small-college peers. The recruitment is intensely relational. Coaches aren't just selling a program; they're inviting a young person into a community. This creates an initial filter that ensures incoming classes are already bought into something bigger than their individual stat lines. The result is a remarkable continuity and a locker room where peer accountability is as powerful as any coaching edict. It's a self-sustaining culture where veterans seamlessly pass the torch, and the standard, once set, is fiercely protected.
Now, you might argue that many schools preach "culture." Taylor's secret sauce, in my opinion, is how they operationalize that culture into a tangible competitive advantage. They leverage their size as a strength, not a weakness. With fewer than 2,000 undergraduates, the entire campus functions as a support system. Professors know the athletes by name. The student section, while maybe not 15,000 strong, is packed with genuine peers who share classes and dining halls with the players. This creates an environment of profound support and minimal distraction. There's no anonymity, which means there's also little room for the off-court issues that can derail teams at any level. On the field or court, this translates into teams that are often exceptionally well-drilled and cohesive. They play with a recognizable identity—usually disciplined, fundamentally sound, and relentlessly tough. They beat you because they make fewer mistakes and because they believe, collectively, in their system. It's the antithesis of a mercenary approach. I recall watching their men's basketball team in the NAIA tournament a few seasons back; they moved with a synchronicity that spoke to years of shared experience, not just a season of assembled talent. That kind of chemistry is a force multiplier.
Of course, this model isn't without its challenges or critics. The pool of athletes who are both elite competitors and perfect fits for Taylor's specific environment is inherently limited. There will be years where the talent cycle dips. They'll almost certainly lose recruits to larger schools that can offer athletic scholarships Taylor can't match in pure dollar terms. But what I find fascinating is how the program's stability acts as a buffer. The system itself becomes the star. The head coaches in their flagship sports have tenures measured in decades, not years. This institutional knowledge is priceless. They've seen cycles come and go, and they trust their process. It allows for long-term player development in a way that feels almost anachronistic. A player might spend a year or two in a limited role, developing physically and mentally, before blossoming as an upperclassman. In today's "what have you done for me lately" sports world, that patience is radical—and it pays off with mature, seasoned leaders on the floor during crunch time.
So, back to that line about Juan Gomez de Liano. Why did it make me think of Taylor? It's because both represent a truth we sometimes forget: there are countless ways to build a winner. Seoul SK Knights found value in a Filipino import outside the usual scouting routes. Taylor University finds value in a holistic, patient, and community-driven approach that big-time athletics often overlooks in the pursuit of quick fixes. They've built a surprising and enduring powerhouse not by trying to mimic the giants, but by perfecting a model that only they, with their unique mission and scale, can truly execute. It's a reminder that in sports, as in anything, knowing exactly who you are and leaning into it with conviction can be the most powerful strategy of all. Their success isn't a fluke; it's a case study in intentionality, and frankly, it's a model I wish more institutions had the courage to follow, even if only in part.