Out of Nowhere (eBook)

The Inside Story of How Nike Marketed the Culture of Running

Geoff Hollister (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2009 | 2. Auflage
328 Seiten
Meyer & Meyer (Verlag)
978-1-84126-742-5 (ISBN)

Infos

How does a boy from a small Oregon farm town get swept up in the politics of his chosen sport? Out of Nowhere takes the reader along on Geoff Hollister's 33 year journey at the center of Nike, the company that would change not only the world of athletic shoes and apparel but the business of sport itself. Nike began with a handshake and a few hundred dollars passed between Phil Knight and legendary track coach Bill Bowerman. Hollister was coached by him at the University of Oregon and was Bowerman's pick as Nike's third employee. Before he had even graduated Hollister began selling shoes out of the trunk of his car for Blue Ribbon Sports, the company that became Nike. Out of Nowhere provides an inside look for the entrepreneur, from someone who experienced the humble beginnings, lived and breathed the first 33 years of Nike, now the largest sports and fitness company in the world. Hollister takes you on the rollercoaster ride of success and failure.

Geoff Hollister was there at the beginning. He has written with great observation and insight about the early days at Nike, his relationships with Bill Bowerman and some of the greatest track and field athletes of the last 35 years. But more than that, he has touched on themes of friendship, loyalty and leadership.

Textauszug

CHAPTER 1: THE ROAD TO EUGENE

The last of the dew has melted off the grass on a late summer morning. I run out to my distant position after members of the Kiwanis Club lime the base lines. Center field is partially occupied by the large wood-sided roller rink. Perfectly placed broad leafed maple trees ring the entire field. In another month, the sap from the leaves will dot the waxed bodies of the Desotos, Packards and Studebakers parked beneath as the Canby faithful come to watch their team. Just like the Dodgers, I’m wearing a white uniform with blue cap and socks, but proudly have a blue “C” on my chest.

I turn and face the opposing batter at home plate. It seems so far away. I am Duke Snyder, just as I had seen him on the little black & white television set Mr. Miller brought into our classroom. “This is big stuff—the World Series, the Dodgers against the Yankees at Ebbets Field.”

I stand in center, waiting for something to happen. I wonder if Duke ever got this bored. Or Jackie Robinson or Maury Wills. It didn’t matter to me whether those guys were black or white, I just wanted to be like them. In my mind, Wills sprints to second, stealing another base to lead the big leagues.

Mike Masterson is our catcher. The biggest guy in our class, Mike can hit the long ball and damage a windshield beyond left field. He has hair in places I didn’t know I would. He also isn’t afraid of Mike Stone’s stinger fast ball. They are “the two Mikes.” With Mike Stone on the mound, we have a good chance of winning.

Harry Eilers plays first. Lanky and bespectacled early in life, Harry reminds me of Goofy in the cartoons. In our warm-up, he threw a mean sidearm, occasionally missing the intended target, sending the ball into left field. But the two Mikes, those guys were special, the guys who had the gift, that something extra to give at game time when it counted the most.

Dad is the head wrestling coach at Canby High School. Baseball along with wrestling are my first sports. This is a big thing to him. On a Saturday, Mom is busy making banana splits at the Parson’s Drug Store soda fountain two blocks away. My sisters will have to oblige me and stick with Dad through every inning.

Our coaches are parents who know something about the game. They are smart enough to put the two Mikes near the front of the batting order. “Hairy Mike” is positioned to get two or three runners batted in with a hit of Babe Ruth proportions. “Hit it a city block, Mike! Com’on, Babe!” Don’t know where the “com’on, Babe” came from, but we all say it anyway. I am well down the batters’ lineup. Often I don’t get my chance until another inning. Our side is retired and I run back out to center field, turn and wait. Crouched with mitt on the left knee, hand on the right, if a ball ever is hit anywhere close to center field, it is mine.

We retire the side from Lone Elder. I’m finally on deck. I run the neck of my Louisville Slugger through my hands with a little fine dust from the dugout. Harry Eilers bobs up and down in his batter’s stance. I know Harry is giggling within, thinking he’s confusing the pitcher with the height of the strike zone. I have never seen pitching like this before. I look back at the pitcher, then Harry, and then the catcher. “Whop!!” The ball is in the catcher’s mitt, Harry strikes out, and I am up.

I remove my cap and put on the plastic batter’s helmet. I stare out at the pitcher, and try to see the ball. I wonder how I could fear such a small object. With no one on base, he only has me to look at. Even without a distraction, the first ball hits the dust in front of the plate—“BEall!” the umpire screams, which I think is overkill for little Canby, Oregon. I follow with a wild swing at a pitch that doesn’t merit the effort. Then I just stand in my stance and let him come to me. Finally, “ball four,” and with a huge smile, I carry my bat halfway down the first baseline. I don’t exactly know what to do with it.

I stomp my metal cleats on the first base bag. The caked white lime from the bottom of my Spalding black leather spikes covers the dirt. John Plant is up next. I take a few steps away from the bag, gauging the 50-60 feet to second. A “righty,” the pitcher turns on the mound. I am off in a mad sprint. The infielders yell and the ball is lost in the catcher’s glove. But I only see one thing—the bag. Two strides out, I pull my right leg back, point my left toe and go airborne. I slide in a dust cloud until my foot stops at the bag—just like Maury Wills. I stand up untouched and look down with pride at my dirty uniform. I am in the game.

John Plant strikes out and strands me, and I am back out in center field. At least now, I feel like a real player. Under the cotton candy cloud sky, I think of my heroes Robinson, Snyder, Hodges, Campanella, but mostly Wills. This must be what it’s like to be a baseball player.

It takes another inning, but I get another at bat. This time, I am leading off. Hurrying to get the helmet, and with only a few practice swings, I am into my stance. “Zing!” The first pitch comes right at me. I turn and duck. The ball must have hit the numbers on my back. There’s a hot sting in my back that makes me grimace and hop a little as I make my way to first base. I swing my left shoulder to loosen up, then take a couple steps off the bag. As soon as the first pitch is on its way, I pivot and dig in my cleats. I am running upright with the crunching sound of fresh dirt beneath my cleats and then I’m down in a swoop of dust. The ball flies over the second baseman, landing in center field. I know I can’t make the throw from center to third, and it’s a safe bet their fielder can’t either. I’m up and off to third, and this time I don’t even have to slide. The errant ball hits on the third base line and clanks loudly into the chain link fence in front of the bench. There isn’t an infielder near. I race to home plate standing up.

The whole summer, I never get a hit. With the opposing pitchers often missing the strike zone, I lead the team in stolen bases after being walked. Sometimes I am even lucky enough to get hit by the ball.

The stage is set. I know what I can do. I can run.

Fast forward a few years to high school, and I was starting to run more, which on weekends included a trip on the Canby ferry and a run around Pete’s Mountain. It seemed like it took all day, but I got my letter as a freshman, mostly in the sprints. I can remember running the quarter mile on a grass track at Gervais, pushing their star senior football player all the way to the tape. Then he came up to me afterward and said, “Kid, stick with it— you could be good at this.”

I kept wrestling and playing football to keep my options open. On the track, I decided to display my new talent and sprinted all out on the turn. I thought I’d breeze the hurdle in my lane but I crashed through it with my lead leg, sending me to the cinders with a forward somersault. The only thing that got damaged that day was my ego.

If I owe my parents anything during my childhood, it would be that they let me play. There was no immediacy to my future, and no great expectations. And play, I did. The old Cozy Corner house had a barn next door, perfect for Cowboys and Indians with cap guns blazing away and plenty of hay to soften the blows of the fallen. I don’t know how Mom tolerated the “whop-whop” on the south side of the house as I wound up my pitch with a tennis ball from across the driveway. I was Sandy Koufax, except I was right handed. When the ball returned I shifted to second for the stop, completing the double play with a midair sidearm play to first. The laurel hedge in the front yard became the opposing line as I’d run a slant or dive on a muddy day. Heisman Trophy winner Terry Baker was in charge of the Beaver offense now, and all 5-foot-8-inches of me duplicated his moves.

My dad was gone for the whole summer of ‘60, working on his doctorate at the University of Oregon, and he asked me to join him for a week. The Men’s U.S. Olympic Track and Field Team would be training there, at Hayward Field.

I had read about Hayward Field in the newspapers. It was home to the University of Oregon and the Emerald Empire Athletic Association, and in my mind, it had to be a very green place. When I walked on the northwest corner for the first time, I couldn’t believe it. It was just as I had imagined, with a manicured green infield, surrounded with green wooden grandstands built in 1918, and beyond that, a dark green ribbon of conifer trees.

For a track athlete, this was nirvana. It was enough just to see it, but once I could focus on the athletes using it, I scrambled to put film in my Brownie camera and readied the pages of my scrapbook. World record holder John Thomas was on the high jump apron and Ralph Boston was landing in the long jump pit. Dave Sime was putting his sweats back on. Then there was my favorite, Olympic gold medal hurdler, Glenn Davis. I bet he never hit a hurdle.

I’d take their picture, say hello, and ask for their autograph. I still have the scrapbook, and decades later I would recognize one particular picture I took. I knew the athletes congregating around a bench on the infield. They were Oregon distance runners—Dyrol Burleson and Bill Dellinger. There was a man sitting on...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.1.2009
• Verlagsort: Aachen
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Sport ► Allgemeines / Lexika
• Schlagworte: athletic • endurance sports • Laufen • Nike • Running • sports politics
• ISBN-10: 1-84126-742-2 / 1841267422
• ISBN-13: 978-1-84126-742-5 / 9781841267425