 |
Michael Klein |
i'm inside george bush,
and as you might expect, it’s all a little hazy.
My mind has fogged up worse than a postprom limo, burdened
with the feeling I’m forgetting something. I’m
running through the laundry list in my head, that garagedoorisclosed-
backdoorislocked- toasterisunplugged psychosis that
shouldn’t be bothering a Stanford student on this
kind of adventure. Yet as I walk further and further
inside Bush, in what feels like a truly Malkovichian
moment, I can’t help but think that something
is very off.
And then it hits me.
Left in an overhead bin on Continental Airlines’
service from San Jose (Costa Rica,
not California), docked at Gate D3 at George Bush (the
Houston airport, not the former president) is a red
Nike bag. My red Nike bag. With a swoosh on the front
and my name on the back, this bag holds any varsity
soccer player’s most prized possessions, his Nike
cleats, and I’m not about to let them miss my
connection.
I book it back to the gate, ditching my teammates as
they walk to our connecting flight, all 24 players in
matching white Nike polo shirts and red Nike sweatpants,
strolling out of sync in brand-new white Nike Pegasus
cross trainers. I, of course, am dressed the same, with
the added advertisement of a red Nike jacket tied around
my waist, a swoosh flapping in my wake.
But I keep running, darting on and off moving walkways,
past newsstands and coffee shops, past American-flag
T-shirts and carry-on baggage that redefines the meaning
of “22 inches long.” I slide by sweaty seats,
swivel around wobbly toddlers, and hurdle over huddled
masses. Yearning to break free, I pivot past Pumas,
rush by Reeboks, and accelerate aside Adidas.
And all the while, I am being used.
I am an advertisement, a telegenic clip of a young athlete
racing a plane to retrieve a logo. Pure speed and kinetic
editing. I am Lance. I am Tiger. I am Ronaldo. All of
us racing through life wearing a swoosh and a smile.
You’ve seen the commercials. You’ve seen
Lance race against everyone—geese, Hell’s
Angels, cancer and little farm boys as he cuts across
countryside. You’ve heard the melodic acoustic
guitar in the background, a rhythm for life and nothing
more. You’ve heard the silence—no dialogue,
no text, no story. Just the image—the austerity
of what dominates in sport. In the last second of the
commercial, as Lance looks back on all that he’s
accomplished in the minute-long spot, the simple yellow
swoosh appears. He smiles.
Isn’t that what the swoosh is? A smile. Look at
the logo and tell me it isn’t grinning right back,
smirking, full of mirth, joy and maybe just a hint of
trickery. That logo is my Stanford brand, the sizzling
imprint of a big-time University and its prime stock
of scholar-athletes.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
When I walked on to the varsity soccer team at the
end of my sophomore year, the culmination of six long
quarters of individual lifting sessions, solo sprints
in winter and endless self-doubt, I knew what riches
awaited my arrival. There were the obvious treasures:
the team, the camaraderie, the friends, the game, the
respect. There was the cosmetic gain: the gear, the
cleats, the fields, the jerseys and the jersey chasers.
But never beyond my thoughts, there was the pride.
I opened my locker, the only locker ever to have had
my name engraved on the front. It was the very first
day of preseason, and I was shaking like a 7-year-old
on his first solo in a public restroom. But when the
Cardinal door swung toward me, admitting me to the world
of the Stanford student-athlete, I was proud to see
a thousand dollars of free Nike gear stacked before
me. Cross trainers, shorts, shirts, jerseys, polos,
cleats, gloves, guards, socks, pants, jackets and sleeves,
all waiting before me, proclaiming that I was worthy
to wear the swoosh.
From then on, every time I have pulled on my Dri-FIT
top, every time I’ve zipped up my varsity jacket,
and every time I’ve pulled up my swooshed-out
socks, I’ve been filled with an overwhelming sense
of pride. That swoosh may be corporate. It may be money-drenched.
It may be a symbol of global-economy evil. But the swoosh
represents all that’s powerful in sport, and I’m
not about to let it miss my connection. |
