user: IN: David Saltzman’s Nonprofit Lessons
Manhattan in the 1970s could be a rough place, as David Saltzman discovered growing up. The first time he left his home alone, on a trip to the pet store at age 6, a group of teenagers mugged him, taking his cash. In the third grade, someone on the street hit his teacher in the face with a long chain as she took his class outside for recess, bloodying her face.

“I don’t want to pretend a lightbulb went off when I was 6 and I said, ‘Let’s start this thing called Robin Hood,’ ” says Mr. Saltzman, now 54 and executive director of the nonprofit Robin Hood Foundation. But “I always had it in my mind that it would be a wonderful thing to try to help make New York a better place to live.”

He co-founded the organization in 1988 along with hedge-fund executives Paul Tudor Jones, Glenn Dubin and Peter Borish and the late nonprofit executive Maurice Chessa. Their idea was to apply investment principles to the philanthropic world—pooling funds and then distributing grants to handpicked programs. The goal: to support the nonprofits that make the biggest impact in helping the impoverished in New York. Since then, Robin Hood has become one of the city’s largest anti-poverty charities. In total, it has raised over $2.5 billion from more than 360,000 donors.

This week, Mr. Saltzman announced that he is stepping down from his role as executive director. After 27 years at the helm, he wants to try the for-profit world. The younger of his two sons left for college this year, so he thought it would be a good time for a transition. “It’s time to take on new challenges, test myself in different ways, earn a little more money and continue to help others,” he says. “I wish I could tell you exactly where I will land,” he adds, before noting, “I’ve always wanted to play point guard for the Knicks. That’s no lie.”

Mr. Saltzman had a comfortable upbringing; his mother was a fashion director at Saks Fifth Avenue, and his father was an interior designer. He earned a graduate degree in public policy at Columbia University and, in the 1980s, started programs to educate adolescents about HIV and AIDS for New York’s health department. He spent his days working in schools and walked the streets at night, talking to teenage prostitutes about the risks of the disease. (Some sold themselves for $5 with a condom and $10 without, he recalls.) He thinks that most of the teens he met have probably died of AIDS. “That complete and total failure to save lives is one of the things that motivates me to try to get it right now,” he says.

Later, his friend Mr. Dubin introduced him to Mr. Jones, who saw that the stock-market crash of 1987 would be the beginning of a tough time for the city’s poor. Robin Hood’s five co-founders formed the idea for the nonprofit over Chinese takeout in Mr. Jones’s apartment. Mr. Jones remembers that Mr. Saltzman, a vegetarian, wore rubber shoes because he didn’t believe in hurting animals to make leather. “I knew anyone that sympathetic had to be perfect for understanding the plight of the needy and the poor, and he still wears rubber shoes to this day,” says Mr. Jones.

Now the foundation has nearly 100 employees, and the board of directors covers all administrative and fundraising expenses. Last year, expenses totaled $25 million, and Robin Hood gave $130 million in grants to 213 programs, including KIPP Public Charter Schools, the Harlem Children’s Zone and iMentor.

The organization continually evaluates the programs it gives to, using a range of formulas to calculate how well each of its grantees improves its beneficiaries’ future earnings and health. Robin Hood measures how much a school improves high-school graduation rates, for example, and then assigns dollar values to those outcomes. Robin Hood uses those formulas to come up with an estimate of the amount of good the grant does per dollar of cost. If a program is failing, Robin Hood will try to help, but if that doesn’t work, it will “reluctantly make a grant to another organization,” says Mr. Saltzman. He estimates the foundation drops 10% to 15% of its charities each year.

Some have noted the disconnect between Robin Hood’s mission of eradicating poverty and its lavish benefit dinners. Its 2015 event, which featured appearances by Jon Bon Jovi and comedian Jimmy Fallon, as well as a 32-song set by Paul McCartney, raised $101 million—a record amount for a single fundraiser in the U.S. One seat cost between $3,000 and $25,000.

In recent years, the organization has done away with more extravagant auction items, such as a private yoga class with Madonna. In the past, auctioning off such items “felt like it was a fun opportunity to raise lots of money,” says Mr. Saltzman. “But the world has changed, and it’s no longer appropriate to auction off those crazy, over-the-top things, so instead we give people just the opportunity to give generously.”

After stepping down, Mr. Saltzman will join the foundation’s board, run the education grant-making committee and continue to help its housing advisory board.

He hopes now to reverse the logic of his career so far by trying to figure out how nonprofit principles might apply to business. He says that philanthropies work at doing a lot with a little money, for one, and nonprofit leaders learn to “never, ever, ever, ever give up.”

“I’m excited to apply the leadership that I’ve developed over the past three decades to the for-profit world,” he says. “But I’ll always volunteer,” he adds. “That’s part of who I am.”
What is a short summary of the above article?

OUT: The executive director of the Robin Hood Foundation talks about moving on after 27 years and the business lessons he’s learned in the philanthropic world.


IN: The curious case of the Carolina Panthers' missing cheeky tweet
The NFL announced recently that it would fine teams for posting "unapproved video" on social media during games. The rule is set to go into effect on Wednesday, but the Carolina Panthers' social media team appeared to test the waters during Monday night's game against Tampa Bay.

In one tweet, as first noticed by For The Win, the Panthers cleverly — but subtly — took a shot at the NFL, whose rule bans everything from game highlights to GIFs, with the exception of re-posting NFL's footage.

In a moment ripe for posting video, the Panthers instead tweeted a GIF file name spelled out. They mocked the rules preventing them from posting the actual video of quarterback Derek Anderson connecting with Kelvin Benjamin for a 17-yard gain.

#KeepPounding— Carolina Panthers (@Panthers) October 10, 2016

Though For The Win first reported the tweet, it's no longer embedded within the story. Clicking on the timestamp link leads to a page that doesn't exist, which is standard procedure for deleted tweets. Mashable never saw the original tweet on the Panthers' timeline, making its very existence a bit murky.

The tweet is technically fair game, and the rules hadn't even gone into effect at the time it appeared to be sent, but the NFL likely didn't appreciate the Panthers' cheekiness. Many speculated that the team would be reprimanded somehow.

Damn the @Panthers had a great tweet poking fun and the dumb NFL twitter rules. And I’m going to assume the NFL made them delete it

— Felipe (@SugarFreeChurro) October 11, 2016

The Panthers and the NFL did not immediately respond when Mashable asked if the tweet had been deleted.

It wouldn't be surprising if the NFL had a hand in getting it removed, though. In 2016, the league is already getting called the "No Fun League" as it cracks down on some of the more expressive, entertaining parts of the game, like touchdown celebrations and creatively designed cleats.

So what happened to the tweet? The world may never know — which is probably exactly how the NFL likes it.
What is a short summary of the above article?

OUT:

assistant: The Panthers technically weren't breaking any rules -- but the tweet is gone.