ThankyoufordownloadingthisScribnereBook.

Signupforournewsletterandreceivespecialoffers,accesstobonuscontent,andinfoonthelatestnewreleasesandothergreateBooksfromScribnerandSimon&Schuster.

CLICKHERETOSIGNUP

orvisitusonlinetosignupateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

Formygrandchildren,sotheywillknow

Inthebeginner’smindtherearemanypossibilities,butintheexpert’smindtherearefew.

—ShunryuSuzuki,ZenMind,Beginner’sMind

DAWN

Iwasupbeforetheothers,beforethebirds,beforethesun.Idrankacupof

coffee,wolfeddownapieceof toast,putonmyshortsandsweatshirt, andlacedupmygreenrunningshoes.Thenslippedquietlyoutthebackdoor.

Istretchedmylegs,myhamstrings,mylowerback,andgroanedasItookthefirstfewbalkystepsdownthecoolroad,intothefog.Whyisitalwayssohardtogetstarted?

Therewerenocars,nopeople,nosignsoflife.Iwasallalone,theworldtomyself—thoughthetreesseemedoddlyawareofme.Thenagain,thiswasOregon.Thetreesalwaysseemedtoknow.Thetreesalwayshadyourback.

Whatabeautifulplacetobefrom,Ithought,gazingaround.Calm,green,tranquil—IwasproudtocallOregonmyhome,proudtocalllittlePortlandmyplaceofbirth.ButIfeltastabofregret,too.Thoughbeautiful,Oregonstruck some people as the kind of place where nothing big had everhappened,orwaseverlikelyto.IfweOregonianswerefamousforanything,itwasanold,oldtrailwe’dhadtoblazetogethere.Sincethen,thingshadbeenprettytame.

ThebestteacherIeverhad,oneofthefinestmenIeverknew,spokeofthattrailoften.It’sourbirthright,he’dgrowl.Ourcharacter,ourfate—ourDNA.“Thecowardsneverstarted,”he’dtellme,“andtheweakdiedalongtheway—thatleavesus.”

Us.Somerarestrainofpioneerspiritwasdiscoveredalongthattrail,myteacherbelieved,someoutsizedsenseofpossibilitymixedwithadiminished

capacityforpessimism—anditwasourjobasOregonianstokeepthatstrainalive.

I’dnod,showinghimallduerespect.I lovedtheguy.ButwalkingawayI’dsometimesthink:Jeez,it’sjustadirtroad.

That foggy morning, that momentous morning in 1962, I’d recentlyblazedmyowntrail—backhome,aftersevenlongyearsaway.Itwasstrangebeing home again, strange being lashed again by the daily rains. Strangerstill was living again with my parents and twin sisters, sleeping in mychildhood bed. Late at night I’d lie on my back, staring at my collegetextbooks,myhighschooltrophiesandblueribbons,thinking:Thisisme?Still?

Imovedquickerdowntheroad.Mybreathformedrounded,frostypuffs,swirling into the fog. I savored that first physical awakening, that brilliantmomentbeforethemindisfullyclear,whenthelimbsandjointsfirstbegintoloosenandthematerialbodystartstomeltaway.Solidtoliquid.

Faster,Itoldmyself.Faster.On paper, I thought, I’m an adult. Graduated from a good college—‐

University of Oregon. Earned a master’s from a top business school—Stanford.SurvivedayearlonghitchintheU.S.Army—FortLewisandFortEustis.MyrésumésaidIwasalearned,accomplishedsoldier,atwenty-four-year-oldmaninfull...Sowhy,Iwondered,whydoIstillfeellikeakid?

Worse,likethesameshy,pale,rail-thinkidI’dalwaysbeen.MaybebecauseIstillhadn’texperiencedanythingof life.Leastofall its

manytemptationsandexcitements.Ihadn’tsmokedacigarette,hadn’ttriedadrug. Ihadn’tbrokena rule, let alonea law.The1960swere justunderway,theageofrebellion,andIwastheonlypersoninAmericawhohadn’tyetrebelled.Icouldn’tthinkofonetimeI’dcutloose,donetheunexpected.

I’dneverevenbeenwithagirl.If I tended to dwell on all the things I wasn’t, the reason was simple.

ThosewerethethingsIknewbest.I’dhavefounditdifficulttosaywhatorwho exactly I was, or might become. Like all my friends I wanted to besuccessful. Unlike my friends I didn’t know what that meant. Money?

Maybe.Wife?Kids?House?Sure,ifIwaslucky.ThesewerethegoalsIwastaughttoaspireto,andpartofmedidaspiretothem,instinctively.ButdeepdownIwassearchingforsomethingelse,somethingmore.Ihadanachingsensethatourtimeisshort,shorterthanweeverknow,shortasamorningrun,andIwantedminetobemeaningful.Andpurposeful.Andcreative.Andimportant.Aboveall...different.

Iwantedtoleaveamarkontheworld.Iwantedtowin.No,that’snotright.Isimplydidn’twanttolose.And then it happened.Asmyyoungheart began to thump, asmypink

lungsexpandedlikethewingsofabird,asthetreesturnedtogreenishblurs,Isawitallbeforeme,exactlywhatIwantedmylifetobe.Play.

Yes, I thought, that’s it. That’s the word. The secret of happiness, I’dalwayssuspected,theessenceofbeautyortruth,orallweeverneedtoknowofeither, lay somewhere in thatmomentwhen theball is inmidair,whenbothboxerssensetheapproachofthebell,whentherunnersnearthefinishlineand thecrowdrisesasone.There’sakindofexuberantclarity in thatpulsing half second beforewinning and losing are decided. I wanted that,whateverthatwas,tobemylife,mydailylife.

AtdifferenttimesI’dfantasizedaboutbecomingagreatnovelist,agreatjournalist,agreatstatesman.Buttheultimatedreamwasalwaystobeagreatathlete.Sadly,fatehadmademegood,notgreat.Attwenty-fourIwasfinallyresignedtothatfact.I’druntrackatOregon,andI’ddistinguishedmyself,letteringthreeoffouryears.Butthatwasthat,theend.Now,asIbegantoclipoffonebrisksix-minutemileafteranother,astherisingsunsetfiretothe lowestneedlesof thepines, I askedmyself:What if therewere away,without being an athlete, to feel what athletes feel? To play all the time,instead of working? Or else to enjoy work so much that it becomesessentiallythesamething.

Theworldwassooverrunwithwarandpainandmisery,thedailygrindwassoexhaustingandoftenunjust—maybetheonlyanswer,Ithought,wastofindsomeprodigious,improbabledreamthatseemedworthy,thatseemed

fun, that seemed a good fit, and chase it with an athlete’s single-mindeddedicationandpurpose.Likeitornot, life isagame.Whoeverdeniesthattruth,whoeversimplyrefusestoplay,getsleftonthesidelines,andIdidn’twantthat.Morethananything,thatwasthethingIdidnotwant.

Whichled,asalways,tomyCrazyIdea.Maybe,Ithought,justmaybe,Ineed to take onemore look atmyCrazy Idea.MaybemyCrazy Idea justmight...work?

Maybe.No, no, I thought, running faster, faster, running as if I were chasing

someoneandbeingchasedallatthesametime.Itwillwork.ByGodI’llmakeitwork.Nomaybesaboutit.

Iwas suddenly smiling.Almost laughing.Drenched in sweat,movingasgracefully and effortlessly as I ever had, I sawmy Crazy Idea shining upahead, and it didn’t look all that crazy. It didn’t even look like an idea. Itlooked like a place. It looked like a person, or some life force that existedlongbeforeIdid,separatefromme,butalsopartofme.Waitingforme,butalsohidingfromme.Thatmightsoundalittlehigh-flown,alittlecrazy.Butthat’showIfeltbackthen.

OrmaybeIdidn’t.Maybemymemoryisenlargingthiseurekamoment,orcondensingmanyeurekamomentsintoone.Ormaybe,iftherewassuchamoment,itwasnothingmorethanrunner’shigh.Idon’tknow.Ican’tsay.Somuchaboutthosedays,andthemonthsandyearsintowhichtheyslowlysorted themselves,has vanished, like those rounded, frostypuffsofbreath.Faces,numbers,decisionsthatonceseemedpressingandirrevocable,they’reallgone.

What remains, however, is this one comforting certainty, this oneanchoringtruththatwillnevergoaway.Attwenty-fourIdidhaveaCrazyIdea, and somehow, despite being dizzy with existential angst, and fearsaboutthefuture,anddoubtsaboutmyself,asallyoungmenandwomenintheirmidtwentiesare,Ididdecidethattheworldismadeupofcrazyideas.History isone longprocessionalofcrazy ideas.The things I lovedmost—books,sports,democracy,freeenterprise—startedascrazyideas.

Forthatmatter,fewideasareascrazyasmyfavoritething,running.It’shard. It’spainful. It’s risky.The rewards are fewand far fromguaranteed.Whenyourunaroundanoval track,ordownanemptyroad,youhavenorealdestination.Atleast,nonethatcanfullyjustifytheeffort.Theactitselfbecomesthedestination.It’snotjustthatthere’snofinishline;it’sthatyoudefinethefinishline.Whateverpleasuresorgainsyouderivefromtheactofrunning,youmust find themwithin. It’s all inhowyou frame it,howyousellittoyourself.

Everyrunnerknowsthis.Yourunandrun,mileaftermile,andyouneverquite knowwhy. You tell yourself that you’re running toward some goal,chasing some rush, but really you run because the alternative, stopping,scaresyoutodeath.

So thatmorning in1962 I toldmyself:Let everyoneelse call your ideacrazy...justkeepgoing.Don’tstop.Don’teventhinkaboutstoppinguntilyouget there,anddon’tgivemuchthoughttowhere“there” is.Whatevercomes,justdon’tstop.

That’stheprecocious,prescient,urgentadviceImanagedtogivemyself,out of the blue, and somehow managed to take. Half a century later, Ibelieve it’s thebest advice—maybe theonly advice—anyofus shouldevergive.

PA RT O N E

Now,here,yousee,ittakesalltherunningyoucando,tokeepinthesameplace.Ifyouwanttogetsomewhereelse,youmustrunatleasttwiceasfastasthat.

—LewisCarroll,ThroughtheLooking-Glass

1962

WhenIbroachedthesubjectwithmyfather,whenIworkedupthenerve

tospeaktohimaboutmyCrazyIdea,Imadesureitwasintheearlyevening.That was always the best time with Dad. He was relaxed then, well fed,stretchedout in his vinyl recliner in theTVnook. I can still tilt backmyhead and closemy eyes and hear the sound of the audience laughing, thetinnythemesongsofhisfavoriteshows,WagonTrainandRawhide.

His all-time favorite was Red Buttons. Every episode began with Redsinging:Hoho,heehee...strangethingsarehappening.

Isetastraight-backedchairbesidehimandgaveawansmileandwaitedforthenextcommercial.I’drehearsedmyspiel,inmyhead,overandover,especially the opening. Sooo, Dad, you remember that Crazy Idea I had atStanford...?

Itwasoneofmyfinalclasses,aseminaronentrepreneurship.I’dwrittenaresearchpaper about shoes, and thepaperhad evolved froma run-of-the-mill assignment toanall-outobsession.Beinga runner, Iknewsomethingabout running shoes. Being a business buff, I knew that Japanese camerashadmadedeepcutsintothecameramarket,whichhadoncebeendominatedbyGermans.Thus,IarguedinmypaperthatJapaneserunningshoesmightdothesamething.Theideainterestedme,theninspiredme,thencaptivatedme.Itseemedsoobvious,sosimple,sopotentiallyhuge.

I’d spent weeks and weeks on that paper. I’d moved into the library,devoured everything I could find about importing and exporting, aboutstartingacompany.Finally, as required, I’dgivena formalpresentationofthe paper to my classmates, who reacted with formal boredom. Not one

askedasinglequestion.Theygreetedmypassionandintensitywithlaboredsighsandvacantstares.

TheprofessorthoughtmyCrazyIdeahadmerit:HegavemeanA.Butthatwasthat.Atleast,thatwassupposedtobethat.I’dneverreallystoppedthinkingaboutthatpaper.ThroughtherestofmytimeatStanford,throughevery morning run and right up to that moment in the TV nook, I’dponderedgoingtoJapan,findingashoecompany,pitchingthemmyCrazyIdea, in the hopes that they’d have a more enthusiastic reaction than myclassmates, that they’dwant to partnerwith a shy, pale, rail-thin kid fromsleepyOregon.

I’dalsotoyedwiththenotionofmakinganexoticdetouronmywaytoandfromJapan.HowcanIleavemymarkontheworld,Ithought,unlessIgetouttherefirstandseeit?Beforerunningabigrace,youalwayswanttowalkthetrack.Abackpackingtriparoundtheglobemightbejustthething,I reasoned.No one talked about bucket lists in those days, but I supposethat’s close to what I had in mind. Before I died, became too old orconsumed with everyday minutiae, I wanted to visit the planet’s mostbeautifulandwondrousplaces.

Anditsmostsacred.OfcourseIwantedtotasteotherfoods,hearotherlanguages,diveintoothercultures,butwhatIreallycravedwasconnectionwith a capital C. I wanted to experience what the Chinese call Tao, theGreekscallLogos,theHinduscallJñāna,theBuddhistscallDharma.WhattheChristianscallSpirit.Beforesettingoutonmyownpersonallifevoyage,Ithought,letmefirstunderstandthegreatervoyageofhumankind.Letmeexplorethegrandesttemplesandchurchesandshrines,theholiestriversandmountaintops.Letmefeelthepresenceof...God?

Yes,Itoldmyself,yes.Forwantofabetterword,God.Butfirst,I’dneedmyfather’sapproval.More,I’dneedhiscash.I’dalreadymentionedmakingabigtrip,thepreviousyear,andmyfather

seemedopen to it.But surelyhe’d forgotten.And surely Iwaspushing it,

addingtotheoriginalproposalthisCrazyIdea,thisoutrageoussidetrip—toJapan?Tolaunchacompany?Talkaboutboondoggles.

Surelyhe’dseethisasabridgetoofar.Andabridge toodarnedexpensive. Ihad some savings from theArmy,

and from various part-time jobs over the last several summers.On top ofwhich, Iplanned to sellmycar, a cherryblack1960MGwith racing tiresand a twin cam. (The same car Elvis drove inBlueHawaii.) All of whichamounted to fifteenhundreddollars, leavingmeagrand short, Inow toldmyfather.Henodded,uh-huh,mm-hmm,andflickedhiseyesfromtheTVtome,andbackagain,whileIlaiditallout.

Rememberhowwetalked,Dad?HowIsaidIwanttoseetheWorld?TheHimalayas?Thepyramids?TheDeadSea,Dad?TheDeadSea?Well,haha, I’malso thinkingof stoppingoff in Japan,Dad.Remember

my Crazy Idea? Japanese running shoes? Right? It could be huge, Dad.Huge.

Iwas laying it on thick, putting on the hard sell, extra hard, because Ialways hated selling, and because this particular sell had zero chance.MyfatherhadjustforkedouthundredsofdollarstotheUniversityofOregon,thousandsmoretoStanford.HewasthepublisheroftheOregonJournal,asolid job that paid for all thebasic comforts, includingour spaciouswhitehouse onClaybourne Street, in Portland’s quietest suburb, Eastmoreland.Butthemanwasn’tmadeofmoney.

Also, this was 1962.The earth was bigger then.Though humans werebeginningtoorbittheplanetincapsules,90percentofAmericansstillhadneverbeenonanairplane.Theaveragemanorwomanhadneverventuredfartherthanonehundredmilesfromhisorherownfrontdoor,sothemerementionofglobaltravelbyairplanewouldunnerveanyfather,andespeciallymine,whosepredecessoratthepaperhaddiedinanaircrash.

Setting asidemoney, setting aside safety concerns, thewhole thingwasjust so impractical. I was aware that twenty-six of twenty-seven newcompanies failed, andmy fatherwas aware, too, and the ideaof takingon

suchacolossalriskwentagainsteverythinghestoodfor.InmanywaysmyfatherwasaconventionalEpiscopalian,abelieverinJesusChrist.Buthealsoworshipped another secret deity—respectability. Colonial house, beautifulwife, obedient kids, my father enjoyed having these things, but what hereally cherished was his friends and neighbors knowing he had them. Helikedbeingadmired.He likeddoingavigorousbackstrokeeachday in themainstream. Going around the world on a lark, therefore, would simplymakenosensetohim.Itwasn’tdone.Certainlynotbytherespectablesonsof respectable men. It was something other people’s kids did. Somethingbeatniksandhipstersdid.

Possibly,themainreasonformyfather’srespectabilityfixationwasafearof his inner chaos. I felt this, viscerally, because every now and then thatchaoswouldburst forth.Withoutwarning, late atnight, thephone in thefront hall would jingle, and when I answered there would be that samegravellyvoiceontheline.“Comegetcheroldman.”

I’dpullonmyraincoat—italwaysseemed,onthosenights,thatamistingrain was falling—and drive downtown tomy father’s club. As clearly as Iremember my own bedroom, I remember that club. A century old, withfloor-to-ceiling oak bookcases and wing-backed chairs, it looked like thedrawing room of an English country house. In other words, eminentlyrespectable.

I’dalwaysfindmyfatheratthesametable,inthesamechair.I’dalwayshelphimgentlytohisfeet.“Youokay,Dad?”“CourseI’mokay.”I’dalwaysguidehimoutsidetothecar,andthewholewayhomewe’dpretendnothingwas wrong. He’d sit perfectly erect, almost regal, and we’d talk sports,becausetalkingsportswashowIdistractedmyself,soothedmyself,intimesofstress.

Myfatherlikedsports,too.Sportswerealwaysrespectable.For these and a dozen other reasons I expectedmy father to greetmy

pitchintheTVnookwithafurrowedbrowandaquickput-down.“Haha,Crazy Idea.Fat chance,Buck.” (MygivennamewasPhilip, butmy fatheralwayscalledmeBuck.Infacthe’dbeencallingmeBucksincebeforeIwas

born.Mymothertoldmehe’dbeeninthehabitofpattingherstomachandasking, “How’s little Buck today?”) As I stopped talking, however, as Istoppedpitching,myfatherrockedforwardinhisvinylreclinerandshotmeafunnylook.Hesaidthathealwaysregrettednottravelingmorewhenhewasyoung.Hesaidatripmightbejustthefinishingtouchtomyeducation.Hesaidalotofthings,allofthemfocusedmoreonthetripthantheCrazyIdea,butIwasn’tabouttocorrecthim.Iwasn’tabouttocomplain,becauseinsumhewasgivinghisblessing.Andhiscash.

“Okay,”hesaid.“Okay,Buck.Okay.”Ithankedmyfatherandfledthenookbeforehehadachancetochange

hismind.OnlylaterdidIrealizewithaspasmofguiltthatmyfather’slackof travelwasanulterior reason,perhaps themainreason, that Iwanted togo.Thistrip,thisCrazyIdea,wouldbeonesurewayofbecomingsomeoneotherthanhim.Someonelessrespectable.

Or maybe not less respectable. Maybe just less obsessed withrespectability.

Therestofthefamilywasn’tquitesosupportive.Whenmygrandmothergotwindofmy itinerary,one item inparticular appalledher. “Japan!” shecried.“Why,Buck,itwasonlyafewyearsagotheJapswereouttokillus!Don’t you remember? PearlHarbor!The Japs tried to conquer theworld!Someofthemstilldon’tknowtheylost!They’reinhiding!Theymighttakeyouprisoner,Buck.Gougeoutyoureyeballs.They’reknownforthat—youreyeballs.”

I lovedmymother’smother,whomwe all calledMomHatfield.And Iunderstoodherfear.JapanwasaboutasfarasyoucouldgetfromRoseburg,Oregon,thefarmtownwhereshewasbornandwhereshe’dlivedallherlife.I’d spent many summers down there with her and Pop Hatfield. Almostevery night we’d sat out on the porch, listening to the croaking bullfrogscompetewiththeconsoleradio,whichintheearly1940swasalwaystunedtonewsofthewar.

Whichwasalwaysbad.

The Japanese, we were told repeatedly, hadn’t lost a war in twenty-sixhundred years, and it sure didn’t seem they were going to lose this one,either.Inbattleafterbattle,wesuffereddefeatafterdefeat.Finally,in1942,MutualBroadcasting’sGabrielHeatteropenedhisnightlyradioreportwitha shrill cry. “Good evening, everyone—there’s good news tonight!” TheAmericanshadwonadecisivebattleatlast.CriticsskeweredHeatterforhisshameless cheerleading, for abandoning all pretense of journalisticobjectivity,butthepublichatredofJapanwassointense,mostpeoplehailedHeatter as a folkhero.Thereafterheopened all broadcasts the sameway.“Goodnewstonight!”

It’s oneofmyearliestmemories.MomandPopHatfieldbesidemeonthatporch,PoppeelingaGravensteinapplewithhispocketknife,handingmeaslice,theneatingaslice,thenhandingmeaslice,andsoon,untilhisapple-paringpace sloweddramatically.Heatterwas comingon.Sssh!Hushup!Icanstillseeusallchewingapplesandgazingatthenightsky,soJapan-obsessedthatwehalfexpectedtoseeJapaneseZeroscrisscrossingtheDogStar.Nowondermyfirsttimeonanairplane,rightaroundfiveyearsold,Iasked:“Dad,aretheJapsgoingtoshootusdown?”

ThoughMomHatfieldgot thehaironmyneckstandingup, I toldhernottoworry,I’dbefine.I’devenbringherbackakimono.

My twin sisters, Jeanne and Joanne, four years younger thanme, didn’tseemtocareonewayoranotherwhereIwentorwhatIdid.

Andmymother, as I recall, saidnothing.She rarelydid.But therewassomething different about her silence this time. It equaled consent. Evenpride.

I SPENTWEEKSreading,planning,preparingformytrip.Iwentforlongruns, musing on every detail while racing the wild geese as they flewoverhead.Their tightV formations—I’dreadsomewhere that thegeese inthe rear of the formation, cruising in the backdraft, only have towork 80

percentashardastheleaders.Everyrunnerunderstandsthis.Frontrunnersalwaysworkthehardest,andriskthemost.

Longbeforeapproachingmyfather,I’ddecideditwouldbegoodtohavea companion on my trip, and that companion should be my StanfordclassmateCarter.Thoughhe’dbeenahoopsstaratWilliamJewellCollege,Carterwasn’tyourtypicaljock.Heworethickglassesandreadbooks.Goodbooks.Hewas easy to talk to, and easy not to talk to—equally importantqualitiesinafriend.Essentialinatravelcompanion.

ButCarterlaughedinmyface.WhenIlaidoutthelistofplacesIwantedto see—Hawaii,Tokyo,HongKong,Rangoon,Calcutta,Bombay,Saigon,Kathmandu, Cairo, Istanbul, Athens, Jordan, Jerusalem, Nairobi, Rome,Paris,Vienna,WestBerlin,EastBerlin,Munich,London—herockedbackon his heels and guffawed.Mortified, I looked down and began to makeapologies.ThenCarter,stilllaughing,said:“Whataswellidea,Buck!”

I lookedup.Hewasn’t laughingatme.Hewas laughingwith joy,withglee.Hewasimpressed.Ittookballstoputtogetheranitinerarylikethat,hesaid.Balls.Hewantedin.

Dayslaterhegottheokayfromhisparents,plusa loanfromhisfather.Carterneverdidmessaround.Seeanopenshot,takeit—thatwasCarter.ItoldmyselftherewasmuchIcouldlearnfromaguylikethataswecircledtheearth.

Weeachpackedonesuitcaseandonebackpack.Onlythebarenecessities,wepromisedeachother.Afewpairsofjeans,afewT-shirts.Runningshoes,desert boots, sunglasses, plus one pair of suntans—the 1960s word forkhakis.

Ialsopackedonegoodsuit.AgreenBrooksBrotherstwo-button.JustincasemyCrazyIdeacametofruition.

SEPTEMBER 7 , 1962 .Carter and Ipiled intohisbatteredoldChevyanddrove at warp speed down I-5, through the Willamette Valley, out thewoodedbottomofOregon,whichfelt likeplungingthroughtherootsofa

tree. We sped into the piney tip of California, up and over tall greenmountainpasses,thendown,down,untillongaftermidnightwesweptintofog-cloaked San Francisco. For several days we stayed with some friends,sleepingontheirfloor,andthenweswungbyStanfordandfetchedafewofCarter’s things out of storage. Finally we stopped at a liquor store andboughttwodiscountedticketsonStandardAirlinestoHonolulu.One-way,eightybucks.

It felt like onlyminutes later thatCarter and Iwere stepping onto thesandy tarmac of Oahu Airport. We wheeled and looked at the sky andthought:Thatisnottheskybackhome.

A line of beautiful girls came toward us. Soft-eyed, olive-skinned,barefoot, they had double-jointed hips, with which they twitched andswishedtheirgrassskirtsinourfaces.CarterandIlookedateachotherandslowlygrinned.

WetookacabtoWaikikiBeachandcheckedintoamoteldirectlyacrossthestreet fromthesea.Inonemotionwedroppedourbagsandpulledonourswimtrunks.Raceyoutothewater!

As my feet hit the sand I whooped and laughed and kicked off mysneakers,thensprinteddirectlyintothewaves.Ididn’tstopuntilIwasuptomyneckinthefoam.Idovetothebottom,allthewaytothebottom,andthencameupgasping,laughing,androlledontomyback.AtlastIstumbledonto the shore and plopped onto the sand, smiling at the birds and theclouds. I must have looked like an escapedmental patient. Carter, sittingbesidemenow,worethesamedaffyexpression.

“Weshouldstayhere,”Isaid.“Whybeinahurrytoleave?”“WhataboutThePlan?”Cartersaid.“Goingaroundtheworld?”“Planschange.”Cartergrinned.“Swellidea,Buck.”Sowegotjobs.Sellingencyclopediasdoortodoor.Notglamorous,tobe

sure,butheck.Wedidn’tstartworkuntil7:00p.m.,whichgaveusplentyoftime for surfing. Suddenly nothing was more important than learning to

surf.AfteronlyafewtriesIwasabletostayuprightonaboard,andafterafewweeksIwasgood.Reallygood.

Gainfullyemployed,weditchedourmotelroomandsignedaleaseonanapartment, a furnished studiowith twobeds, one real, one fake—a sort ofironing board that folded out from the wall. Carter, being longer andheavier,gottherealbed,andIgottheironingboard.Ididn’tcare.Afteradayofsurfingandsellingencyclopedias,followedbyalatenightatthelocalbars,Icouldhavesleptinaluaufirepit.Therentwasonehundredbucksamonth,whichwesplitdownthemiddle.

Lifewassweet.Lifewasheaven.Exceptforonesmallthing.Icouldn’tsellencyclopedias.

Icouldn’t sellencyclopedias tosavemy life.TheolderIgot, it seemed,theshierIgot,andthesightofmyextremediscomfortoftenmadestrangersuncomfortable. Thus, selling anythingwould have been challenging, butselling encyclopedias, whichwere about as popular inHawaii asmosquitoesand mainlanders, was an ordeal. No matter how deftly or forcefully Imanagedtodeliverthekeyphrasesdrilledintousduringourbrieftrainingsession(“Boys,tellthefolksyouain’tsellingencyclopedias—you’resellingaVast Compendium of Human Knowledge . . . the Answers to Life’sQuestions!”),Ialwaysgotthesameresponse.

Beatit,kid.Ifmyshynessmademebadatsellingencyclopedias,mynaturemademe

despise it. Iwasn’tbuilt forheavydosesof rejection. I’dknown this aboutmyself sincehigh school, freshmanyear,when I got cut from thebaseballteam.Asmallsetback,inthegrandscheme,butitknockedmesideways.Itwasmy first real awareness thatnot everyone in thisworldwill likeus,oracceptus,thatwe’reoftencastasideattheverymomentwemostneedtobeincluded.

I will never forget that day. Dragging my bat along the sidewalk, Istaggeredhomeandholedupinmyroom,whereIgrieved,andmoped,forabouttwoweeks,untilmymotherappearedontheedgeofmybedandsaid,“Enough.”

She urged me to try something else. “Like what?” I groaned into mypillow. “How about track?” she said. “Track?” I said. “You can run fast,Buck.”“Ican?”Isaid,sittingup.

SoIwentoutfortrack.AndIfoundthatI could run.Andnoonecouldtakethataway.

NowIgaveupsellingencyclopedias,andalltheoldfamiliarrejectionthatwentwith it,andI turnedtothewantads.InnotimeIspottedasmalladinsideathickblackborder.Wanted:SecuritiesSalesmen.Icertainlyfiguredtohave better luck selling securities. After all, I had an MBA. And beforeleavinghomeI’dhadaprettysuccessfulinterviewwithDeanWitter.

Ididsomeresearchandfoundthat this jobhadtwothingsgoingfor it.First,itwaswithInvestorsOverseasServices,whichwasheadedbyBernardCornfeld,oneofthemostfamousbusinessmenofthe1960s.Second,itwaslocatedinthetopfloorofabeautifulbeachsidetower.Twenty-footwindowsoverlooking that turquoise sea. Both of these things appealed to me, andmademepresshardintheinterview.Somehow,afterweeksofbeingunableto talk anyone into buying an encyclopedia, I talkedTeamCornfeld intotakingaflyeronme.

CORNFELD’S EXTRAORDINARY SUCCESS,plusthatbreathtakingview,madeitpossiblemostdaystoforgetthatthefirmwasnothingmorethanaboilerroom.Cornfeldwasnotoriousforaskinghisemployeesiftheysincerelywantedtoberich,andeverydayadozenwolfishyoungmendemonstratedthat theydid, they sincerelydid.With ferocity,with abandon, they crashedthephones, cold-callingprospects, scramblingdesperately to arrange face-to-facemeetings.

I wasn’t a smooth talker. I wasn’t any kind of talker. Still, I knewnumbers, and I knew the product: Dreyfus Funds.More, I knew how tospeakthetruth.Peopleseemedtolikethat.Iwasquicklyabletoscheduleafewmeetings,and toclosea fewsales. InsideaweekI’dearnedenough in

commissionstopaymyhalfoftherentforthenextsixmonths,withplentyleftoverforsurfboardwax.

Mostofmydiscretionary incomewenttothedivebarsalongthewater.Tourists tended to hang out in the luxe resorts, the oneswith names likeincantations—theMoana, theHalekulani—but Carter and I preferred thedives.Welikedtositwithourfellowbeachniksandsurfbums,seekersandvagabonds, feeling smug about the one thing we had in our favor.Geography. Those poor suckers back home, we’d say. Those poor sapssleepwalking through their humdrum lives, bundled against the cold andrain.Whycan’ttheybemorelikeus?Whycan’ttheyseizetheday?

Our senseofcarpediemwasheightenedby the fact that theworldwascomingtoanend.AnuclearstandoffwiththeSovietshadbeenbuildingforweeks. The Soviets had three dozen missiles in Cuba, the United Stateswanted them out, and both sides hadmade their final offer.NegotiationswereoverandWorldWarIIIwassettobeginanyminute.Accordingtothenewspapers,missileswould fall from the sky later today.Tomorrowat thelatest.TheworldwasPompeii,andthevolcanowasalreadyspittingash.Ahwell,everyoneinthedivebarsagreed,whenhumanityends, thiswillbeasgoodaplaceasanytowatchtherisingmushroomclouds.Aloha,civilization.

And then, surprise, the world was spared. The crisis passed. The skyseemed to sigh with relief as the air turned suddenly crisper, calmer. Aperfect Hawaiian autumn followed. Days of contentment and somethingclosetobliss.

Followedbyasharprestlessness.OnenightIsetmybeeronthebarandturnedtoCarter.“IthinkmaybethetimehascometoleaveShangri-La,”Isaid.

Ididn’tmakeahardpitch.Ididn’tthinkIhadto.ItwasclearlytimetogetbacktoThePlan.ButCarterfrownedandstrokedhischin.“Gee,Buck,Idon’tknow.”

He’dmetagirl.AbeautifulHawaiianteenagerwithlongbrownlegsandjet-black eyes, the kind of girl who’d greeted our airplane, the kind I

dreamedof having andneverwould.Hewanted to stick around, andhowcouldIargue?

ItoldhimIunderstood.ButIwascastlow.Ileftthebarandwentforalongwalkonthebeach.Gameover,Itoldmyself.

The last thing I wanted was to pack up and return to Oregon. But Icouldn’tseetravelingaroundtheworldalone,either.Gohome,afaintinnervoicetoldme.Getanormaljob.Beanormalperson.

ThenIheardanotherfaintvoice,equallyemphatic.No,don’tgohome.Keepgoing.Don’tstop.

ThenextdayIgavemytwoweeks’noticeattheboilerroom.“Toobad,Buck,”oneof thebosses said,“youhada real futureasa salesman.”“Godforbid,”Imuttered.

Thatafternoon,ata travelagencydowntheblock,Ipurchasedanopenplane ticket, good for one year on any airline going anywhere. A sort ofEurailPassinthesky.OnThanksgivingDay,1962,IhoistedmybackpackandshookCarter’shand.“Buck,”hesaid,“don’ttakeanywoodennickels.”

THE CAPTAIN ADDRESSEDthe passengers in rapid-fire Japanese, and Istarted to sweat. I lookedout thewindow at the blazing red circle on thewing.MomHatfieldwas right, I thought.Wewere justatwarwith thesepeople. Corregidor, the BataanDeathMarch, the Rape ofNanking—andnowIwasgoingthereonsomesortofbusinessventure?

CrazyIdea?MaybeIwas,infact,crazy.Ifso, itwastoolatetoseekprofessionalhelp.Theplanewasscreeching

downtherunway,roaringaboveHawaii’scornstarchbeaches.Ilookeddownatthemassivevolcanoesgrowingsmallerandsmaller.Noturningback.

Since it was Thanksgiving, the in-flight meal was turkey, stuffing, andcranberry sauce. Sincewewere bound for Japan, therewas also raw tuna,misosoup,andhotsake.Iateitall,whilereadingthepaperbacksI’dstuffedintomybackpack.TheCatcherintheRyeandNakedLunch.IidentifiedwithHoldenCaulfield, theteenage introvertseekinghisplace intheworld,but

Burroughswentrightovermyhead.Thejunkmerchantdoesn’tsellhisproducttotheconsumer,hesellstheconsumertohisproduct.

Toorich formyblood. Ipassedout.When Iwokewewere ina steep,rapid descent. Below us lay a startlingly bright Tokyo. The Ginza inparticularwaslikeaChristmastree.

Driving tomyhotel,however, I sawonlydarkness.Vast sectionsof thecityweretotal liquidblack.“War,”thecabdriversaid.“Manybuildingstillbomb.”

American B-29s. Superfortresses. Over a span of several nights in thesummer of 1944,waves of themdropped 750,000 pounds of bombs,mostfilled with gasoline and flammable jelly. One of the world’s oldest cities,Tokyowasmade largelyofwood, so thebombssetoffahurricaneof fire.Some three hundred thousand people were burned alive, instantly, fourtimes the number who died in Hiroshima. More than a million weregruesomelyinjured.Andnearly80percentofthebuildingswerevaporized.For long, solemn stretches the cabdriver and I said nothing. There wasnothingtosay.

Finallythedriverstoppedattheaddresswritteninmynotebook.Adingyhostel.Beyonddingy. I’dmade the reservation throughAmericanExpress,sight unseen, amistake, I now realized. I crossed the pitted sidewalk andenteredabuildingthatseemedabouttoimplode.

AnoldJapanesewomanbehindthefrontdeskbowedtome.Irealizedshewasn’t bowing, she was bent by age, like a tree that’s weathered manystorms.Slowlysheledmetomyroom,whichwasmoreabox.Tatamimat,lopsided table, nothing else. I didn’t care. I barely noticed that the tatamimatwaswaferthin.Ibowedtothebentoldwoman,biddinghergoodnight.Oyasuminasai.Icurleduponthematandpassedout.

HOURS LATER I woke in a room flooded with light. I crawled to thewindow. Apparently I was in some kind of industrial district on the city’sfringe.Filledwithdocksandfactories,thisdistrictmusthavebeenaprimary

targetoftheB-29s.EverywhereI lookedwasdesolation.Buildingscrackedandbroken.Blockafterblocksimplyleveled.Gone.

LuckilymyfatherknewpeopleinTokyo,includingagroupofAmericanguysworkingatUnitedPressInternational.Itookacabthereandtheguysgreetedmelikefamily.TheygavemecoffeeandabreakfastringandwhenItold themwhereI’d spent thenight they laughed.Theybookedme intoaclean,decenthotel.Thentheywrotedownthenamesofseveralgoodplacestoeat.

What in God’s name are you doing in Tokyo? I explained that I wasgoing around the world. Then I mentioned my Crazy Idea. “Huh,” theysaid,givingalittleeyeroll.Theymentionedtwoex-GIswhoranamonthlymagazinecalledImporter.“TalktothefellasatImporter,”theysaid,“beforeyoudoanythingrash.”

IpromisedIwould.ButfirstIwantedtoseethecity.Guidebook and Minolta box camera in hand, I sought out the few

landmarksthathadsurvivedthewar,theoldesttemplesandshrines.Ispenthourssittingonbenchesinwalledgardens,readingaboutJapan’sdominantreligions, Buddhism and Shinto. I marveled at the concept of kensho, orsatori—enlightenmentthatcomesinaflash,ablindingpop.SortoflikethebulbonmyMinolta.Ilikedthat.Iwantedthat.

But first I’dneed to changemywhole approach. Iwas a linear thinker,andaccording toZen linear thinking isnothingbutadelusion,oneof themany that keep us unhappy.Reality is nonlinear,Zen says.No future, nopast.Allisnow.

Ineveryreligion,itseemed,selfistheobstacle,theenemy.AndyetZendeclaresplainlythattheselfdoesn’texist.Selfisamirage,afeverdream,andourstubbornbeliefinitsrealitynotonlywasteslife,butshortensit.Selfisthe bald-faced lie we tell ourselves daily, and happiness requires seeingthrough the lie, debunking it.To study the self, said the thirteenth-centuryZenmasterDogen, is to forget the self.Innervoice,outervoices, it’s all thesame.Nodividinglines.

Especially incompetition.Victory,Zen says, comeswhenwe forget theselfandtheopponent,whoarebuttwohalvesofonewhole.InZenandtheArt of Archery, it’s all laid out with crystal clarity. Perfection in the art ofswordsmanship isreached . . .whentheheart is troubledbynomore thoughtof IandYou,oftheopponentandhissword,ofone’sownswordandhowtowieldit....Allisemptiness:yourownself,theflashingsword,andthearmsthatwieldit.Eventhethoughtofemptinessisnolongerthere.

My head swimming, I decided to take a break, to visit a very un-Zenlandmark, in fact themost anti-Zenplace in Japan, an enclavewheremenfocusedonselfandnothingbutself—theTokyoStockExchange.Housedinamarble Romanesque buildingwith great bigGreek columns, theTosholookedfromacrossthestreet likeastodgybankinaquiettowninKansas.Inside, however, all was bedlam. Hundreds of men waving their arms,pullingtheirhair,screaming.AmoredepravedversionofCornfeld’sboilerroom.

Icouldn’tlookaway.Iwatchedandwatched,askingmyself,Isthiswhatit’s all about?Really? I appreciatedmoney asmuch as thenext guy.But Iwantedmylifetobeaboutsomuchmore.

AftertheToshoIneededpeace.Iwentdeepintothesilentheartofthecity,tothegardenofthenineteenth-centuryemperorMeijiandhisempress,a space thought to possess immense spiritual power. I sat, contemplative,reverent,beneathswayingginkgotrees,besideabeautifultoriigate.Ireadinmyguidebookthata toriigate isusuallyaportal tosacredplaces,andsoIbaskedinthesacredness,theserenity,tryingtosoakitallin.

ThenextmorningIlacedupmyrunningshoesandjoggedtoTsukiji,theworld’s largest fish market. It was the Tosho all over again, with shrimpinstead of stocks. I watched ancient fishermen spread their catches ontowoodencartsandhagglewithleather-facedmerchants.ThatnightItookabusuptothelakesregion,inthenorthernHakoneMountains,anareathatinspiredmanyofthegreatZenpoets.Youcannottravelthepathuntilyouhavebecomethepathyourself,saidtheBuddha,andIstoodinawebeforeapaththattwisted from the glassy lakes to cloud-ringedMountFuji, a perfect snow-

clad triangle that looked tome exactly likeMountHoodbackhome.TheJapanese believe climbing Fuji is a mystical experience, a ritual act ofcelebration, and I was overcome with a desire to climb it, right then. Iwantedtoascendintotheclouds.Idecidedtowait,however.IwouldreturnwhenIhadsomethingtocelebrate.

I WENT BACKtoTokyoandpresentedmyselfatImporter.Thetwoex-GIsincharge,thick-necked,brawny,verybusy,lookedasiftheymightchewmeout for intruding and wasting their time. But within minutes their gruffexterior dissolved and theywerewarm, friendly, pleased tomeet someonefrom back home. We talked mostly about sports. Can you believe theYankeeswonitallagain?HowaboutthatWillieMays?Nonebetter.Yessir,nonebetter.

Thentheytoldmetheirstory.They were the first Americans I ever met who loved Japan. Stationed

there during theOccupation, they fell under the spell of the culture, thefood, thewomen, andwhen theirhitchwasup they simply couldn’t bringthemselves to leave.So they’d launchedan importmagazine,whennooneanywhere was interested in importing anything Japanese, and somehowthey’dmanagedtokeepitafloatforseventeenyears.

I told themmyCrazy Idea and they listenedwith some interest.Theymadeapotofcoffeeandinvitedmetositdown.WasthereaparticularlineofJapaneseshoesI’dconsideredimporting?theyasked.

I told themI likedTiger, aniftybrandmanufacturedbyOnitsukaCo.,downinKobe,thelargestcityinsouthernJapan.

“Yes,yes,we’veseenit,”theysaid.ItoldthemIwasthinkingofheadingdownthere,meetingtheOnitsuka

peoplefacetoface.Inthatcase,theex-GIssaid,you’dbetterlearnafewthingsaboutdoing

businesswiththeJapanese.

“Thekey,”theysaid,“isdon’tbepushy.Don’tcomeonlikethetypicalassholeAmerican, the typical gaijin—rude, loud, aggressive, not taking noforananswer.TheJapanesedonotreactwelltothehardsell.Negotiationshere tend to be soft, sinewy. Look how long it took the Americans andRussians to coax Hirohito into surrendering. And even when he didsurrender,whenhiscountrywasreducedtoaheapofashes,whatdidhetellhispeople?‘Thewarsituationhasn’tdevelopedtoJapan’sadvantage.’It’sacultureof indirection.Nooneeverturnsyoudownflat.Nooneeversays,straight out, no. But they don’t say yes, either. They speak in circles,sentenceswithnoclearsubjectorobject.Don’tbediscouraged,butdon’tbecocky.Youmightleaveaman’sofficethinkingyou’veblownit,wheninfacthe’sreadytodoadeal.Youmightleavethinkingyou’veclosedadeal,wheninfactyou’vejustbeenrejected.Youneverknow.”

Ifrowned.UnderthebestofcircumstancesIwasnotagreatnegotiator.NowIwasgoingtohavetonegotiate insomekindof funhousewithtrickmirrors?Wherenormalrulesdidn’tapply?

Afteranhourofthisbafflingtutorial,Ishookhandswiththeex-GIsandsaidmygood-byes.Feeling suddenly that I couldn’twait, that Ineeded tostrikequickly,whiletheirwordswerefreshinmymind,Iracedbacktomyhotel, threw everything into my little suitcase and backpack, and phonedOnitsukatomakeanappointment.

LaterthatafternoonIboardedatrainsouth.

JAPANWAS RENOWNED foritsimpeccableorderandextremecleanliness.Japaneseliterature,philosophy,clothing,domesticlife,allweremarvelouslypure and spare.Minimalist.Expect nothing, seek nothing, grasp nothing—theimmortalJapanesepoetswrotelinesthatseemedpolishedandpolisheduntiltheygleamedlikethebladeofasamurai’ssword,orthestonesofamountainbrook.Spotless.

Sowhy,Iwondered,isthistraintoKobesofilthy?

The floors were strewnwith newspapers and cigarette butts. The seatswerecoveredwithorangerindsanddiscardednewspapers.Worse,everycarwaspacked.Therewasbarelyroomtostand.

Ifoundastrapbyawindowandhungthereforsevenhoursasthetrainrocked and inched past remote villages, past farms no bigger than theaveragePortlandbackyard.The tripwas long,butneithermy legsnormypatiencegaveout.Iwastoobusygoingoverandovermytutorialwiththeex-GIs.

WhenIarrivedItookasmallroominacheapryokan.MyappointmentatOnitsuka was early the next morning, so I lay down immediately on thetatamimat.ButIwastooexcitedtosleep.Irolledaroundonthematmostofthe night, and at dawn I rose wearily and stared at my gaunt, blearyreflection inthemirror.Aftershaving, IputonmygreenBrooksBrotherssuitandgavemyselfapeptalk.

Youarecapable.Youareconfident.Youcandothis.YoucanDOthis.ThenIwenttothewrongplace.IpresentedmyselfattheOnitsukashowroom,wheninfactIwasexpected

attheOnitsukafactory—acrosstown.Ihailedataxiandracedthere,frantic,arrivinghalfanhourlate.Unfazed,agroupoffourexecutivesmetmeinthelobby.Theybowed. Ibowed.One stepped forward.He saidhisnamewasKenMiyazaki,andhewishedtogivemeatour.

The first shoe factory I’d ever seen. I found everything about itinteresting. Even musical. Each time a shoe was molded, the metal lastwouldfalltothefloorwithasilverytinkle,amelodicCLING-clong.Everyfew seconds, CLING-clong, CLING-clong, a cobbler’s concerto. Theexecutivesseemedtoenjoyit,too.Theysmiledatmeandeachother.

We passed through the accounting department. Everyone in the room,menandwomen,leapedfromtheirchairs,andinunisonbowed,agestureofkei, respect for the American tycoon. I’d read that “tycoon” came fromtaikun,Japanesefor“warlord.”Ididn’tknowhowtoacknowledgetheirkei.

Tobowornotbow,thatisalwaysthequestioninJapan.Igaveaweaksmileandahalfbow,andkeptmoving.

The executives toldme that they churned out fifteen thousand pairs ofshoes eachmonth. “Impressive,” I said, not knowing if thatwas a lot or alittle.They ledme intoaconferenceroomandpointedme to thechairattheheadofalongroundtable.“Mr.Knight,”someonesaid,“here.”

Seatofhonor.Morekei.Theyarrangedthemselvesaroundthetableandstraightenedtheirtiesandgazedatme.Themomentoftruthhadarrived.

I’drehearsedthissceneinmyheadsomanytimes,asI’drehearsedeveryraceI’deverrun,longbeforethestartingpistol.ButnowIrealizedthiswasno race. There is a primal urge to compare everything—life, business,adventuresofall sorts—toarace.But themetaphor isoften inadequate. Itcantakeyouonlysofar.

Unable to rememberwhat I’dwanted to say,orevenwhy Iwashere, Itook several quick breaths. Everything depended on my rising to thisoccasion.Everything.IfIdidn’t,ifImuffedthis,I’dbedoomedtospendtherestofmydayssellingencyclopedias,ormutualfunds,orsomeotherjunkIdidn’treallycareabout.I’dbeadisappointmenttomyparents,myschool,myhometown.Myself.

Ilookedatthefacesaroundthetable.WheneverI’dimaginedthisscene,I’d omitted one crucial element. I’d failed to foresee how presentWorldWarIIwouldbeinthatroom.Thewarwasrightthere,besideus,betweenus, attaching a subtext to every word we spoke. Good evening, everyone—there’sgoodnewstonight!

Andyetitalsowasn’tthere.Throughtheirresilience,throughtheirstoicacceptance of total defeat, and their heroic reconstruction of their nation,theJapanesehadputthewarcleanlybehindthem.Also,theseexecutivesintheconferenceroomwereyoung, likeme,andyoucouldseethattheyfeltthewarhadnothingtodowiththem.

Ontheotherhand,theirfathersanduncleshadtriedtokillmine.Ontheotherhand,thepastwaspast.

Ontheotherhand, thatwholequestionofWinningandLosing,whichcloudsandcomplicatessomanydeals,getsevenmorecomplicatedwhenthepotentialwinners and losershave recentlybeen involved, albeit viaproxiesandancestors,inaglobalconflagration.

Allof this interior static, this seesawingconfusionaboutwarandpeace,created a low-volume hum in my head, an awkwardness for which I wasunprepared.Therealist inmewantedtoacknowledgeit, theidealist inmepusheditaside.Icoughedintomyfist.“Gentlemen,”Ibegan.

Mr.Miyazaki interrupted. “Mr.Knight—what company are youwith?”heasked.

“Ah,yes,goodquestion.”Adrenaline surging through my blood, I felt the flight response, the

longing to run and hide, whichmademe think of the safest place in theworld. My parents’ house. The house had been built decades before, bypeopleofmeans,peoplewithmuchmoremoneythanmyparents,andthusthe architecthad included servants’ quarters at thebackof thehouse, andthesequartersweremybedroom,whichI’dfilledwithbaseballcards,recordalbums,posters, books—all thingsholy. I’d also coveredonewallwithmyblueribbonsfromtrack,theonethinginmylifeofwhichIwasunabashedlyproud. And so? “Blue Ribbon,” I blurted. “Gentlemen, I represent BlueRibbonSportsofPortland,Oregon.”

Mr. Miyazaki smiled. The other executives smiled. A murmur wentaround the table. Blueribbon, blueribbon, blueribbon. The executives foldedtheirhandsandfellsilentagainandresumedstaringatme.“Well,”Ibeganagain, “gentlemen, the American shoe market is enormous. And largelyuntapped. If Onitsuka can penetrate that market, if Onitsuka can get itsTigersintoAmericanstores,andpricethemtoundercutAdidas,whichmostAmericanathletesnowwear,itcouldbeahugelyprofitableventure.”

I was simply quoting my presentation at Stanford, verbatim, speakinglinesandnumbersI’dspentweeksandweeksresearchingandmemorizing,and this helped to create an illusion of eloquence. I could see that theexecutiveswere impressed. Butwhen I reached the end ofmy pitch there

wasapricklingsilence.Thenonemanbrokethesilence,andthenanother,andnowtheywereallspeakingoveroneanotherinloud,excitedvoices.Nottome,buttoeachother.

Then,abruptly,theyallstoodandleft.WasthisthecustomaryJapanesewayofrejectingaCrazyIdea?Tostand

in unison and leave? Had I squandered my kei—just like that? Was Idismissed?WhatshouldIdo?ShouldIjust...leave?

Afterafewminutestheyreturned.Theywerecarryingsketches,samples,which Mr. Miyazaki helped to spread before me. “Mr. Knight,” he said,“we’vebeenthinkinglongtimeaboutAmericanmarket.”

“Youhave?”“WealreadysellwrestlingshoeinUnitedStates.In,eh,Northeast?But

wediscussmanytimebringingotherlinestootherplacesinAmerica.”TheyshowedmethreedifferentmodelsofTigers.Atrainingshoe,which

theycalledaLimberUp.“Nice,”Isaid.Ahigh-jumpshoe,whichtheycalledaSpringUp.“Lovely,”Isaid.Andadiscusshoe,whichtheycalledaThrowUp.

Donotlaugh,Itoldmyself.Donot...laugh.They barraged me with questions about the United States, about

American culture and consumer trends, about different kinds of athleticshoesavailableinAmericansportinggoodsstores.TheyaskedmehowbigIthoughttheAmericanshoemarketwas,howbigitcouldbe,andItoldthemthatultimately it couldbe$1billion.To thisday I’mnot surewhere thatnumber came from. They leaned back, gazed at each other, astonished.Now,tomyastonishment,theybeganpitchingme.“WouldBlueRibbon...beinterested...inrepresentingTigershoes?IntheUnitedStates?”“Yes,”Isaid.“Yes,itwould.”

IheldforththeLimberUp.“Thisisagoodshoe,”Isaid.“Thisshoe—Icansellthisshoe.”Iaskedthemtoshipmesamplesrightaway.Igavethemmyaddressandpromisedtosendthemamoneyorderforfiftydollars.

They stood. They bowed deeply. I bowed deeply.We shook hands. Ibowed again. They bowed again. We all smiled. The war had never

happened.Wewere partners.Wewere brothers. Themeeting, which I’dexpectedtolastfifteenminutes,hadgonetwohours.

FromOnitsukaIwentstraighttothenearestAmericanExpressofficeandsentalettertomyfather.DearDad:Urgent.PleasewirefiftydollarsrightawaytoOnitsukaCorpofKobe.

Hoho,heehee...strangethingsarehappening.

BACK IN MYhotel I walked in circles around my tatami mat, trying todecide.Partofmewanted toraceback toOregon,wait for thosesamples,getajumponmynewbusinessventure.

Also,Iwascrazedwithloneliness,cutofffromeverythingandeveryoneIknew.TheoccasionalsightofaNewYorkTimes,oraTimemagazine,gavemealumpinmythroat.Iwasacastaway,akindofmodernCrusoe.Iwantedtobehomeagain.Now.

Andyet.Iwasstillaflamewithcuriosityabouttheworld.Istillwantedtosee,toexplore.

Curiositywon.Iwent toHongKongandwalked themad, chaotic streets,horrifiedby

the sight of legless, armless beggars, old men kneeling in filth, alongsidepleadingorphans.Theoldmenweremute,butthechildrenhadacrytheyrepeated:Hey, richman, hey, richman, hey, richman.Then they’dweeporslaptheground.EvenafterIgavethemallthemoneyinmypockets,thecryneverstopped.

Iwenttotheedgeofthecity,climbedtothetopofVictoriaPeak,gazedoffintothedistanceatChina.IncollegeI’dreadtheanalectsofConfucius—Themanwhomovesamountainbeginsbycarryingawaysmallstones—andnowIfeltstronglythatI’dneverhaveachancetomovethisparticularmountain.I’dnevergetanyclosertothatwalled-offmysticalland,anditmademefeelunaccountablysad.Incomplete.

IwenttothePhilippines,whichhadallthemadnessandchaosofHongKong,andtwicethepoverty.Imovedslowly,asif inanightmare,through

Manila, through endless crowds and fathomless gridlock, toward the hotelwhereMacArthuronceoccupied thepenthouse. Iwas fascinatedbyall thegreatgenerals,fromAlexandertheGreattoGeorgePatton.Ihatedwar,butIlovedthewarriorspirit.Ihatedthesword,butlovedthesamurai.Andofallthegreat fightingmen inhistoryI foundMacArthur themostcompelling.Those Ray-Bans, that corncob pipe—the man didn’t lack for confidence.Brilliant tactician, master motivator, he also went on to head the U.S.OlympicCommittee.HowcouldInotlovehim?

Ofcourse,hewasdeeplyflawed.Butheknewthat.Youareremembered,hesaid,prophetically,fortherulesyoubreak.

Iwantedtobookanightinhisformersuite.ButIcouldn’taffordit.Oneday,Ivowed.OnedayIshallreturn.IwenttoBangkok,whereIrodealongpoleboatthroughmurkyswamps

toanopen-airmarketthatseemedaThaiversionofHieronymousBosch.Iatebirds,andfruits,andvegetablesI’dneverseenbefore,andneverwouldagain. I dodged rickshaws, scooters, tuk-tuks, and elephants to reachWatPhraKaew, and one of themost sacred statues in Asia, an enormous six-hundred-year-oldBuddhacarvedfromasinglehunkofjade.StandingbeforeitsplacidfaceIasked,WhyamIhere?Whatismypurpose?

Iwaited.Nothing.Orelsethesilencewasmyanswer.Iwent toVietnam,where streetswerebristlingwithAmerican soldiers,

andthrummingwithfear.Everyoneknewthatwarwascoming,andthatitwouldbeveryugly,verydifferent.ItwouldbeaLewisCarrollwar,thekindinwhichaU.S.officerwoulddeclare:Wehadtodestroythevillageinordertosave it.Days beforeChristmas, 1962, Iwent on toCalcutta, and rented aroomthesizeofacoffin.Nobed,nochair:therewasn’tenoughspace.Justahammocksuspendedaboveafizzinghole—thetoilet.WithinhoursIfellill.Anairbornevirus,probably,orfoodpoisoning.ForonewholedayIbelievedthatIwouldn’tmakeit.IknewthatIwasgoingtodie.

ButIrallied,somehow,forcedmyselfoutofthathammock,andthenextdayIwaswalkingunsteadilywiththousandsofpilgrimsanddozensofsacredmonkeysdownthesteepstaircaseofVaranasitemple.ThestepsleddirectlyintothehotseethingGanges.WhenthewaterwasatmywaistIlookedup—amirage? No, a funeral, taking place in the middle of the river. In fact,several funerals. I watchedmourners wade out into the current and placetheir loved ones atop tall wooden biers, then set them afire. Not twentyyardsaway,otherswerecalmlybathing.Stillotherswereslakingtheirthirstwiththesamewater.

TheUpanishads say,Lead me from the unreal to the real. So I fled theunreal.IflewtoKathmanduandhikedstraightupthecleanwhitewalloftheHimalayas.On the descent I stopped at a crowded chowk and devoured abowlofbuffalomeat,bloodrare.TheTibetansinthechowk,Inoted,worebootsofredwoolandgreenflannel,withupturnedwoodentoes,notunliketherunnersonsleds.SuddenlyIwasnoticingeveryone’sshoes.

I went back to India, spent New Year’s Eve wandering the streets ofBombay,weavinginandoutamongoxenandlong-hornedcows,feelingthestartofanepicmigraine—thenoiseandthesmells,thecolorsandtheglare.I went on to Kenya, and took a long bus ride deep into the bush. Giantostrichestriedtooutrunthebus,andstorksthesizeofpitbullsfloatedjustoutside the windows. Every time the driver stopped, in the middle ofnowhere, to pick up a fewMasai warriors, a baboon or twowould try toboard. The driver and warriors would then chase the baboons off withmachetes.Beforesteppingoffthebus,thebaboonswouldalwaysglanceovertheir shoulders and give me a look of wounded pride. Sorry, old man, Ithought.Ifitwereuptome.

IwenttoCairo,totheGizaplateau,andstoodbesidedesertnomadsandtheirsilk-drapedcamelsatthefootoftheGreatSphinx,allofussquintingup into itseternallyopeneyes.Thesunhammereddownonmyhead, thesame sun that hammered down on the thousands ofmenwho built thesepyramids,andthemillionsofvisitorswhocameafter.Notoneofthemwas

remembered,Ithought.Allisvanity,saystheBible.Allisnow,saysZen.Allisdust,saysthedesert.

IwenttoJerusalem,totherockwhereAbrahampreparedtokillhisson,whereMuhammadbeganhisheavenwardascent.TheKoran says the rockwantedtojoinMuhammad,andtriedtofollow,butMuhammadpressedhisfoottotherockandstoppedit.Hisfootprintissaidtobestillvisible.Washebarefootorwearingashoe?Iateaterriblemiddaymealinadarktavern,surrounded by soot-faced laborers. Each looked bone-tired. They chewedslowly, absently, like zombies. Why must we work so hard? I thought.Consider the lilies of the field . . . they neither toil nor spin.Andyet the first-centuryrabbiEleazarbenAzariahsaidourworkistheholiestpartofus.Allareproudoftheircraft.Godspeaksofhiswork;howmuchmoreshouldman.

IwentontoIstanbul,gotwiredonTurkishcoffee,gotlostonthetwistystreetsbesidetheBosphorus.Istoppedtosketchtheglowingminarets,andtoured the golden labyrinths of Topkapi Palace, home of the Ottomansultans,whereMuhammad’s sword is nowkept.Don’t go to sleep one night,wrote Rūmī, the thirteenth-century Persian poet.What youmost want willcometoyouthen.

Warmedbyasuninsideyou’llseewonders.IwenttoRome,spentdayshidinginsmalltrattorias,scarfingmountains

of pasta, gazingupon themost beautifulwomen, and shoes, I’d ever seen.(Romans in the ageof theCaesarsbelieved thatputtingon the right shoebeforetheleftbroughtprosperityandgoodluck.)IexploredthegrassyruinsofNero’sbedroom,thegorgeousrubbleoftheColiseum,thevasthallsandroomsoftheVatican.Expectingcrowds,Iwasalwaysoutthedooratdawn,determinedtobefirstinline.Buttherewasneveraline.Thecitywasmiredinahistoriccoldsnap.Ihaditalltomyself.

EventheSistineChapel.AloneunderMichelangelo’sceiling,Iwasabletowallow inmy disbelief. I read inmy guidebook thatMichelangelowasmiserablewhilepaintinghismasterpiece.Hisbackandneckached.Paintfellconstantly into his hair and eyes.He couldn’twait to be finished, he told

friends. If evenMichelangelodidn’t likehiswork, I thought,whathope istherefortherestofus?

IwenttoFlorence,spentdaysseekingDante,readingDante,theangry,exiledmisanthrope.Did themisanthropy come first—or after?Was it thecauseortheeffectofhisangerandexile?

IstoodbeforetheDavid,shockedattheangerinhiseyes.Goliathneverhadachance.

I went by train up toMilan, communedwithDaVinci, considered hisbeautifulnotebooks,andwonderedathispeculiarobsessions.Chiefamongthem,thehumanfoot.Masterpieceofengineering,hecalledit.Aworkofart.

WhowasItoargue?OnmylastnightinMilanIattendedtheoperaatLaScala.Iairedoutmy

Brooks Brothers suit and wore it proudly amid the uomini poured intocustom-tailoredtuxedosandthedonnemoldedintobejeweledgowns.Wealllistened inwonder toTurandot.AsCalaf sang “Nessundorma”—Set, stars!AtdawnIwillwin,Iwillwin,Iwillwin!—myeyeswelled,andwiththefallofthecurtainIleapedtomyfeet.Bravissimo!

IwenttoVenice,spentafewlanguorousdayswalkinginthefootstepsofMarcoPolo,andstoodIdon’tknowhowlongbeforethepalazzoofRobertBrowning.Ifyouget simplebeautyandnaughtelse,yougetabout thebest thingGodinvents.

My timewas running out.Homewas calling tome. I hurried toParis,descended far belowground to the Pantheon, put my hand lightly on thecryptsofRousseau—andVoltaire.Lovetruth,butpardonerror.Itookaroomin a seedy hotel, watched sheets of winter rain sluice the alley belowmywindow,prayedatNotreDame,gotlostintheLouvre.IboughtafewbooksatShakespeareandCompany,andIstoodinthespotwhereJoyceslept,andF.ScottFitzgerald.I thenwalkedslowlydowntheSeine,stoppingtosipacappuccino at the café where Hemingway and Dos Passos read the NewTestamentaloudtoeachother.OnmylastdayIsauntereduptheChamps-Élysées, tracingthe liberators’path, thinkingall thewhileofPatton.Don’t

tell people how to do things, tell themwhat to do and let them surprise youwiththeirresults.

Ofallthegreatgenerals,hewasthemostshoe-obsessed:Asoldierinshoesisonlyasoldier.Butinbootshebecomesawarrior.

IflewtoMunich,drankanice-coldsteinofbeerattheBürgerbräukeller,whereHitler fired agun into the ceiling and started everything. I tried tovisitDachau,butwhenIaskedfordirectionspeoplelookedaway,professingnottoknow.IwenttoBerlinandpresentedmyselfatCheckpointCharlie.Flat-facedRussian guards in heavy topcoats examinedmy passport, pattedmedown, askedwhatbusiness I had in communistEastBerlin. “None,” Isaid.Iwasterrifiedthatthey’dsomehowfindoutI’dattendedStanford.JustbeforeIarrivedtwoStanfordstudentshadtriedtosmuggleateenageroutinaVolkswagen.Theywerestillinprison.

But theguardswavedmethrough.Iwalkeda littlewaysandstoppedatthe cornerofMarx-Engels-Platz. I lookedaround, alldirections.Nothing.No trees, no stores, no life. I thought of all the poverty I’d seen in everycornerofAsia.Thiswasadifferentkindofpoverty,morewillful,somehow,morepreventable.Isawthreechildrenplayinginthestreet.Iwalkedover,tooktheirpicture.Twoboysandagirl,eightyearsold.Thegirl—redwoolhat,pinkcoat—smileddirectlyatme.WillIeverforgether?Orhershoes?Theyweremadeofcardboard.

I went to Vienna, that momentous, coffee-scented crossroads, whereStalinandTrotskyandTitoandHitlerandJungandFreudalllived,atthesamehistoricalmoment,andall loitered inthesamesteamycafés,plottinghow to save (or end) theworld. Iwalked the cobblestonesMozartwalked,crossedhisgracefulDanubeonthemostbeautifulstonebridgeIeversaw,stopped before the towering spires of St. Stephen’s Church, whereBeethovendiscoveredhewasdeaf.Helookedup,sawbirdsflutteringfromthebelltower,andtohishorror...hedidnothearthebells.

AtlastIflewtoLondon.IwentquicklytoBuckinghamPalace,Speakers’Corner,Harrods. I grantedmyself a bit of extra time at Commons. Eyesclosed,IconjuredthegreatChurchill.Youask,Whatisouraim?Icananswer

inoneword.Itisvictory,victoryatallcosts,victoryinspiteofallterror,victory...without victory, there is no survival. I wanted desperately to hop a bus toStratford, to seeShakespeare’s house. (Elizabethanwomenwore a red silkroseonthetoeofeachshoe.)ButIwasoutoftime.

I spent my last night thinking back over my trip, making notes in myjournal.Iaskedmyself,Whatwasthehighlight?

Greece,Ithought.Noquestion.Greece.When I first left Oregon I was most excited about two things on my

itinerary.IwantedtopitchtheJapanesemyCrazyIdea.AndIwantedtostandbeforetheAcropolis.Hours before boarding my flight at Heathrow, I meditated on that

moment,lookingupatthoseastonishingcolumns,experiencingthatbracingshock,thekindyoureceivefromallgreatbeauty,butmixedwithapowerfulsenseof—recognition?

Wasitonlymyimagination?Afterall,IwasstandingatthebirthplaceofWesterncivilization.Maybe Imerelywanted it to be familiar.But I didn’tthinkso.Ihadtheclearestthought:I’vebeenherebefore.

Then,walkingupthosebleachedsteps,anotherthought:Thisiswhereitallbegins.

Onmy left was the Parthenon, which Plato had watched the teams ofarchitectsandworkmenbuild.OnmyrightwastheTempleofAthenaNike.Twenty-five centuries ago, per my guidebook, it had housed a beautifulfriezeofthegoddessAthena,thoughttobethebringerof“nike,”orvictory.

It was one of many blessings Athena bestowed. She also rewarded thedealmakers.IntheOresteiashesays:“Iadmire . . . theeyesofpersuasion.”Shewas,inasense,thepatronsaintofnegotiators.

Idon’tknowhowlongIstoodthere,absorbingtheenergyandpowerofthatepochalplace.Anhour?Three?Idon’tknowhowlongafterthatdayIdiscovered theAristophanesplay, set in theTempleofNike, inwhich thewarrior gives the king a gift—a pair of new shoes. I don’t know when Ifiguredout that theplaywas calledKnights. I do know that as I turned to

leaveInoticedthe temple’smarble façade.Greekartisanshaddecorated itwith several haunting carvings, including the most famous, in which thegoddessinexplicablyleansdown...toadjustthestrapofhershoe.

FEBRUARY 24 , 1963 .Mytwenty-fifthbirthday.IwalkedthroughthedooronClaybourne Street, hair tomy shoulders, beard three inches long.Mymother let out a cry.My sistersblinked as if theydidn’t recognizeme,orelse hadn’t realized I’d been gone. Hugs, shouts, bursts of laughter. Mymother made me sit, poured me a cup of coffee. She wanted to heareverything.ButIwasexhausted. I setmysuitcaseandbackpack in thehallandwenttomyroom.Istaredblearilyatmyblueribbons.Mr.Knight,whatisthenameofyourcompany?

IcurleduponthebedandsleepcamedownlikethecurtainatLaScala.AnhourlaterIwoketomymothercallingout,“Dinner!”Myfatherwashomefromwork,andheembracedmeasIcameintothe

diningroom.He,too,wantedtoheareverydetail.AndIwantedtotellhim.ButfirstIwantedtoknowonething.“Dad,”Isaid.“Didmyshoescome?”

1963

Myfatherinvitedalltheneighborsoverforcoffeeandcakeandaspecial

viewingof“Buck’sslides.”Dutifully,Istoodattheslideprojector,savoringthe darkness, listlessly clicking the advance button and describing thepyramids, theTempleofNike,butIwasn’t there.Iwasat thepyramids,IwasattheTempleofNike.Iwaswonderingaboutmyshoes.

FourmonthsafterthebigmeetingatOnitsuka,afterI’dconnectedwiththose executives, andwon themover, or so I thought—and still the shoeshadn’tarrived.Ifiredoffaletter.DearSirs,Reourmeetingoflastfall,haveyouhadachancetoshipthesamples...?ThenItookafewdaysoff,tosleep,washmyclothes,catchupwithfriends.

IgotaspeedyreplyfromOnitsuka.“Shoescoming,”the lettersaid.“Injustalittlemoredays.”

Ishowedthelettertomyfather.Hewinced.Alittlemoredays?“Buck,”hesaid,chuckling,“thatfiftybucksislonggone.”

MY NEW LOOK—castaway hair, caveman beard—was too much for mymother and sisters. I’d catch them staring, frowning. I could hear themthinking:bum.SoIshaved.AfterwardIstoodbeforethelittlemirroronmybureauintheservants’quartersandtoldmyself,“It’sofficial.You’reback.”

AndyetIwasn’t.Therewassomethingaboutmethatwouldneverreturn.Mymothernoticeditbeforeanyoneelse.Overdinneronenightshegave

mealong,searchinglook.“Youseemmore...worldly.”Worldly,Ithought.Gosh.

UNTIL THE SHOESarrived, whether or not the shoes ever arrived, I’dneed to find some way to earn cash money. Before my trip I’d had thatinterviewwithDeanWitter.Maybe I could goback there. I ran it bymyfather,intheTVnook.HestretchedoutinhisvinylreclinerandsuggestedIfirstgohaveachatwithhisoldfriendDonFrisbee,CEOofPacificPower&Light.

IknewMr.Frisbee. Incollege I’ddonea summer internship forhim. Iliked him, and I liked that he’d graduated fromHarvardBusiness School.When it came to schools, Iwasabitofa snob.Also, Imarveled thathe’dgone on, rather quickly, to becomeCEOof aNewYork StockExchangecompany.

Irecallthathewelcomedmewarmlythatspringdayin1963,thathegavemeoneofthosedouble-handedhandshakesandledmeintohisoffice,intoachairacrossfromhisdesk.Hesettledintohisbighigh-backedleatherthroneandraisedhiseyebrows.“So...what’sonyourmind?”

“Honestly,Mr.Frisbee,Idon’tknowwhattodo...about...orwith...ajob...orcareer...”

Weakly,Iadded:“Mylife.”IsaidIwasthinkingofgoingtoDeanWitter.Orelsemaybecomingback

totheelectriccompany.Orelsemaybeworkingforsomelargecorporation.The light fromMr. Frisbee’s officewindow glinted off his rimless glassesandintomyeyes.LikethesunofftheGanges.“Phil,”hesaid,“thoseareallbadideas.”

“Sir?”“Idon’tthinkyoushoulddoanyofthosethings.”“Oh.”“Everyone,buteveryone,changesjobsatleastthreetimes.Soifyougoto

work foran investment firmnow,you’lleventually leave,and thenatyournextjobyou’llhavetostartallover.Ifyougoworkforsomebigcompany,son, samedeal.No,what youwant todo,while you’re young, is get yourCPA.That,alongwithyourMBA,willputasolidfloorunderyourearnings.

Then, when you change jobs, which you will, trust me, at least you’llmaintainyoursalarylevel.Youwon’tgobackward.”

Thatsoundedpractical.Icertainlydidn’twanttogobackward.I hadn’tmajored in accounting, however. I needed ninemore hours to

even qualify to take the exam. So I quickly enrolled in three accountingclassesatPortlandState.“Moreschool?”myfathergrumbled.

Worse, the school in questionwasn’t Stanford orOregon. It was punylittlePortlandState.

Iwasn’ttheonlyschoolsnobinthefamily.

AFTERGETTINGMYninehoursIworkedatanaccountingfirm,Lybrand,RossBros.&Montgomery.ItwasoneoftheBigEightnationalfirms,butitsPortlandbranchofficewassmall.Onepartner,threejunioraccountants.Suitsme,Ithought.Smallnessmeantthefirmwouldbeintimate,conducivetolearning.

And it did start out that way. My first assignment was a Beavertoncompany,Reser’sFineFoods,andasthesolomanonthejobIgottospendquality timewith theCEO,AlReser,whowas just three years older thanme. I picked up some important lessons from him, and enjoyed my timeporing over his books. But I was too overworked to fully enjoy it. Thetrouble with a small satellite branch within a big accounting firm is theworkload.Wheneverextraworkcamerollingin,therewasnoonetotakeupthe slack. During the busy season, November through April, we foundourselvesup toourears, logging twelve-hourdays, six days aweek,whichdidn’tleavemuchtimetolearn.

Also, we were watched. Closely. Our minutes were counted, to thesecond.WhenPresidentKennedywaskilledthatNovemberIaskedforthedayoff. Iwanted to sit in frontof theTVwith the restof thenationandmourn. My boss, however, shook his head. Work first, mourn second.Considertheliliesofthefield...theyneithertoilnorspin.

I had two consolations. One was money. I was earning five hundreddollars a month, which enabled me to buy a new car. I couldn’t justifyanother MG, so I bought a Plymouth Valiant. Reliable, but with somepizzazz. And a dash of color. The salesman called it sea-foam green.Myfriendscalleditvomitgreen.

Itwasactuallythegreenofnewlymintedmoney.My other consolation was lunch. Each day at noon I’d walk down the

street to the local travel agency and stand like Walter Mitty before theposters in the window. Switzerland. Tahiti. Moscow. Bali. I’d grab abrochureandleafthroughitwhileeatingapeanutbutterandjellysandwichonabench in thepark. I’d ask thepigeons:Canyoubelieve itwasonlyayearagothatIwassurfingWaikiki?EatingwaterbuffalostewafteranearlymorninghikeintheHimalayas?

Arethebestmomentsofmylifebehindme?Wasmytriparoundtheworld...mypeak?ThepigeonswerelessresponsivethanthestatueatWatPhraKaew.This is how I spent 1963. Quizzing pigeons. Polishing my Valiant.

Writingletters.Dear Carter, Did you ever leave Shangri-La? I’m an accountant now and

givingsomethoughttoblowingmybrainsout.

1964

ThenoticearrivedrightaroundChristmas,soImusthavedrivendownto

the waterfront warehouse the first week of 1964. I don’t recall exactly. Iknowitwasearlymorning.Icanseemyselfgettingtherebeforetheclerksunlockedthedoors.

IhandedthemthenoticeandtheywentintothebackandreturnedwithalargeboxcoveredinJapanesewriting.

I raced home, scurried down to the basement, ripped open the box.Twelvepairsofshoes,creamywhite,withbluestripesdownthesides.God,they were beautiful. They were more than beautiful. I’d seen nothing inFlorence or Paris that surpassed them. I wanted to put them on marblepedestals,oringilt-edgedframes.Iheldthemuptothelight,caressedthemassacredobjects,thewayawritermighttreatanewsetofnotebooks,orabaseballplayerarackofbats.

ThenIsenttwopairstomyoldtrackcoachatOregon,BillBowerman.I did so without a second thought, since it was Bowerman who’d first

mademethink,reallythink,aboutwhatpeopleputontheirfeet.Bowermanwasageniuscoach,amastermotivator,anaturalleaderofyoungmen,andtherewasonepieceofgearhedeemedcrucialtotheirdevelopment.Shoes.Hewasobsessedwithhowhumanbeingsareshod.

In the four years I’d run for him atOregon,Bowermanwas constantlysneakingintoourlockersandstealingourfootwear.He’dspenddaystearingthemapart,stitchingthembackup,thenhandthembackwithsomeminormodification,whichmadeuseitherrunlikedeerorbleed.Regardlessoftheresults,heneverstopped.Hewasdeterminedtofindnewwaysofbolstering

theinstep,cushioningthemidsole,buildingoutmoreroomfortheforefoot.He always had some new design, some new scheme to make our shoessleeker, softer, lighter. Especially lighter. One ounce sliced off a pair ofshoes,hesaid,isequivalentto55poundsoveronemile.Hewasn’tkidding.Hismathwassolid.Youtaketheaverageman’sstrideof six feet, spread itoutoveramile(5,280feet),youget880steps.Removeoneouncefromeachstep—that’s 55 pounds on the button. Lightness, Bowerman believed,directly translated to lessburden,whichmeantmore energy,whichmeantmorespeed.Andspeedequaledwinning.Bowermandidn’tliketolose.(Igotitfromhim.)Thuslightnesswashisconstantgoal.

Goal is putting it kindly. In quest of lightness he was willing to tryanything. Animal, vegetable,mineral, anymaterial was eligible if itmightimprove on the standard shoe leather of the day. That sometimes meantkangaroo skin.Other times, cod.You haven’t lived until you’ve competedagainstthefastestrunnersintheworldwearingshoesmadeofcod.

Therewere fouror fiveofuson the track teamwhowereBowerman’spodiatry guinea pigs, but I was his pet project. Something about my feetspoketohim.Somethingaboutmystride.Also,Iaffordedawidemarginoferror.Iwasn’tthebestontheteam,notbyalongshot,sohecouldaffordtomakemistakesonme.Withmymoretalentedteammateshedidn’tdaretakeunduechances.

Asafreshman,asasophomore,asajunior,IlostcountofhowmanyracesI ran in flats or spikesmodified byBowerman. Bymy senior year hewasmakingallmyshoesfromscratch.

NaturallyIbelievedthisnewTiger,thisfunnylittleshoefromJapanthathadtakenmorethanafullyeartoreachme,wouldintriguemyoldcoach.Of course, it wasn’t as light as his cod shoes. But it had potential: theJapanesewerepromisingtoimproveit.Betteryet,itwasinexpensive.IknewthiswouldappealtoBowerman’sinnatefrugality.

Eventheshoe’snamestruckmeassomethingBowermanmightflipfor.Heusuallycalledhis runners“MenofOregon,”buteveryonce inawhilehe’dexhortustobe“tigers.”Icanseehimpacingthelockerroom,tellingus

beforea race,“BeTIGERSout there!” (Ifyouweren’ta tiger,he’doftencall you a “hamburger.”) Now and then, when we complained about ourskimpypreracemeal,he’dgrowl:“Atigerhuntsbestwhenhe’shungry.”

Withanyluck,Ithought,CoachwillorderafewpairsofTigersforhistigers.

Butwhetherornotheplacedanorder, impressingBowermanwouldbeenough.Thatalonewouldconstitutesuccessformyfledglingcompany.

It’s possible that everything I did in those dayswasmotivated by somedeepyearningtoimpress,toplease,Bowerman.BesidesmyfathertherewasnomanwhoseapprovalIcravedmore,andbesidesmyfathertherewasnomanwhogaveitlessoften.Frugalitycarriedovertoeverypartofthecoach’smakeup.Heweighedandhoardedwordsofpraise,likeuncutdiamonds.

After you’dwon a race, if youwere lucky, Bowermanmight say: “Nicerace.” (In fact, that’s precisely what he said to one of hismilers after theyoungmanbecameoneof thevery first tocrackthemythical four-minutemarkintheUnitedStates.)MorelikelyBowermanwouldsaynothing.He’dstand before you in his tweed blazer and ratty sweater vest, his string tieblowinginthewind,hisbatteredballcappulledlow,andnodonce.Maybestare.Those ice-blue eyes,whichmissed nothing, gave nothing.EveryonetalkedaboutBowerman’sdashinggoodlooks,hisretrocrewcut,hisramrodposture andplaned jawline, butwhat always gotmewas that gaze of purevioletblue.

ItgotmeonDayOne.FromthemomentIarrivedattheUniversityofOregon,inAugust1955,IlovedBowerman.Andfearedhim.Andneitheroftheseinitial impulseseverwentaway,theywerealwaystherebetweenus.Ineverstoppedlovingtheman,andIneverfoundawaytoshedtheoldfear.Sometimesthefearwasless,sometimesmore,sometimesitwentrightdowntomyshoes,whichhe’dprobablycobbledwithhisbarehands.Loveandfear—the same binary emotions governed the dynamic between me and myfather.IwonderedsometimesifitwasmerecoincidencethatBowermanandmy father—both cryptic, both alpha, both inscrutable—were both namedBill.

Andyetthetwomenweredrivenbydifferentdemons.Myfather,thesonof a butcher,was always chasing respectability,whereasBowerman,whosefatherhadbeengovernorofOregon,didn’tgiveadarnforrespectability.Hewasalsothegrandsonoflegendarypioneers,menandwomenwho’dwalkedthe full length of the Oregon Trail. When they stopped walking theyfoundedatinytownineasternOregon,whichtheycalledFossil.Bowermanspenthisearlydaysthere,andcompulsivelyreturned.Partofhismindwasalways back in Fossil, which was funny, because there was somethingdistinctly fossilized about him. Hard, brown, ancient, he possessed aprehistoric strain of maleness, a blend of grit and integrity and calcifiedstubbornnessthatwasrareinLyndonJohnson’sAmerica.Todayit’sallbutextinct.

He was a war hero, too. Of course he was. As a major in the TenthMountainDivision,stationedhighintheItalianAlps,Bowermanhadshotatmen,andplentyhadshotback.(Hisaurawassointimidating,Idon’trecallanyoneeveraskingifhe’dactuallykilledaman.)IncaseyouweretemptedtooverlookthewarandtheTenthMountainDivisionandtheircentralroleinhis psyche, Bowerman always carried a battered leather briefcase with aRomannumeralXengravedingoldontheside.

Themost famous track coach in America, Bowerman never consideredhimself a track coach. He detested being called Coach. Given hisbackground,hismakeup,henaturallythoughtoftrackasameanstoanend.Hecalledhimselfa“ProfessorofCompetitiveResponses,”andhisjob,ashesaw it, and often described it, was to get you ready for the struggles andcompetitionsthatlayahead,farbeyondOregon.

Despite this lofty mission, or perhaps because of it, the facilities atOregonwereSpartan.Dankwoodenwalls,lockersthathadn’tbeenpaintedindecades.Thelockershadnodoor,justslatstoseparateyourstufffromthenext guy’s.We hung our clothes on nails.Rustynails.We sometimes ranwithoutsocks.Complainingnevercrossedourminds.Wesawourcoachasageneral,tobeobeyedquicklyandblindly.InmymindhewasPattonwithastopwatch.

Thatis,whenhewasn’tagod.Likealltheancientgods,Bowermanlivedonamountaintop.Hismajestic

ranch sat on a peak high above the campus. And when reposing on hisprivateOlympus,hecouldbevengefulasthegods.Onestory,toldtomebyateammate,broughtthisfactpointedlyhome.

Apparentlytherewasatruckdriverwhooftendaredtodisturbthepeaceon BowermanMountain. He took turns too fast, and frequently knockedover Bowerman’s mailbox. Bowerman scolded the trucker, threatened topunchhiminthenose,andsoforth,butthetruckerpaidnoheed.Hedroveas he pleased, day after day. So Bowerman rigged the mailbox withexplosives.Nexttimethetruckerknockeditover—boom.Whenthesmokecleared,thetruckerfoundhistruckinpieces,itstiresreducedtoribbons.HeneveragaintouchedBowerman’smailbox.

Amanlikethat—youdidn’twanttogetonhiswrongside.Especially ifyou were a gangly middle-distance runner from the Portland suburbs. IalwaystiptoedaroundBowerman.Evenso,he’doftenlosepatiencewithme,thoughIrememberonlyonetimewhenhegotreallysore.

Iwasasophomore,beingworndownbymyschedule.Classallmorning,practice all afternoon, homework all night. One day, fearing that I wascoming down with the flu, I stopped by Bowerman’s office to say that Iwouldn’tbeabletopracticethatafternoon.“Uh-huh,”hesaid.“Who’sthecoachofthisteam?”

“Youare.”“Well,ascoachofthisteamI’mtellingyoutogetyourassoutthere.And

bytheway...we’regoingtohaveatimetrialtoday.”Iwasclosetotears.ButIheldittogether,channeledallmyemotioninto

my run, andposted one ofmybest times of the year.As Iwalked off thetrackIgloweredatBowerman.Happynow,yousonofa—?Helookedatme,checkedhis stopwatch, lookedatmeagain,nodded.He’d testedme.He’dbrokenmedownandremademe,justlikeapairofshoes.AndI’dheldup.Thereafter,IwastrulyoneofhisMenofOregon.Fromthatdayon,Iwasatiger.

IheardbackrightawayfromBowerman.HewrotetosayhewascomingtoPortland the followingweek, for theOregon Indoor.He invitedme tolunchattheCosmopolitanHotel,wheretheteamwouldbestaying.

January25,1964.Iwasterriblynervousasthewaitressshowedustoourtable. I recall that Bowerman ordered a hamburger, and I said croakily:“Makeittwo.”

We spent a few minutes catching up. I told Bowerman about my triparound the world. Kobe, Jordan, the Temple of Nike. Bowerman wasespecially interested in my time in Italy, which, despite his brushes withdeath,herememberedfondly.

At lasthecameto thepoint.“ThoseJapaneseshoes,”hesaid.“They’reprettygood.Howaboutlettingmeinonthedeal?”

Ilookedathim.In?Deal?Ittookmeamomenttoabsorbandunderstandwhat hewas saying.Hedidn’tmerelywant to buy a dozenTigers for histeam, he wanted to become—my partner? Had God spoken from thewhirlwindandaskedtobemypartner,Iwouldn’thavebeenmoresurprised.Istammered,andstuttered,andsaidyes.

Iputoutmyhand.But then I pulled it back. “What kind of partnership did you have in

mind?”Iasked.I was daring to negotiate with God. I couldn’t believe my nerve. Nor

couldBowerman.Helookedbemused.“Fifty-fifty,”hesaid.“Well,you’llhavetoputuphalfthemoney.”“Ofcourse.”“I figure the firstorderwillbe fora thousanddollars.Yourhalfwillbe

fivehundred.”“I’mgoodforthat.”When the waitress dropped off the check for the two hamburgers, we

splitthat,too.Fifty-fifty.

I REMEMBER ITasthenextday,ormaybesometimeinthenextfewdaysorweeks,andyetallthedocumentscontradictmymemory.Letters,diaries,appointment books—they all definitively show it taking place much later.But I remember what I remember, and there must be a reason why Iremember it the way I do. As we left the restaurant that day, I can seeBowermanputtingonhisballcap,Icanseehimstraighteninghisstringtie,Icanhearhimsaying:“I’llneedyoutomeetmylawyer,JohnJaqua.Hecanhelpusgetthisinwriting.”

Eitherway.Dayslater,weekslater,yearslater,themeetinghappenedlikethis.

IpulleduptoBowerman’sstonefortressandmarveled,asIalwaysdid,atthesetting.Remote.Notmanyfolksmadeitoutthere.AlongCoburgRoadtoMackenzieDriveuntilyoufoundawindingdirt lanethatwentacouplemiles up the hills into thewoods.Eventually you came to a clearingwithrosebushes,solitarytrees,andapleasanthouse,smallbutsolid,withastoneface.Bowermanhadbuiltitwithhisbarehands.AsIslippedmyValiantintopark,Iwonderedhowonearthhe’dmanagedallthatbackbreakinglaborbyhimself.Themanwhomovesamountainbeginsbycarryingawaysmallstones.

Wrappedaroundthehousewasawidewoodenporch,withseveralcampchairs—he’d built that by himself, too. It afforded sweeping views of theMcKenzieRiver, and itwouldn’t have takenmuch convincing to havemebelievingBowermanhadlaidtheriverbetweenitsbanksaswell.

Now I saw Bowerman standing on the porch. He squinted and strodedownthestepstowardmycar.Idon’trememberalotofsmalltalkashegotin.Ijustslammeditintodriveandsetacourseforhislawyer’shouse.

BesidesbeingBowerman’slawyerandbestfriend,Jaquawashisnext-doorneighbor. He owned fifteen hundred acres at the base of Bowerman’smountain, prime bottomland right on the McKenzie. Driving there, Icouldn’timaginehowthiswasgoingtobegoodforme.IgotalongfinewithBowerman, sure, and we had ourselves a deal, but lawyers always messedthings up. Lawyers specialized in messing things up. And best friend–lawyers...?

Bowerman,meanwhile,wasdoingnothingtoputmymindatease.Hesatramrodstraightandwatchedthescenery.

Amid thebooming silence I keptmyeyeson the road andmulledoverBowerman’seccentricpersonality,whichcarriedovertoeverythinghedid.He always went against the grain. Always. For example, he was the firstcollege coach in America to emphasize rest, to place as much value onrecovery as on work. But when he worked you, brother, he worked you.Bowerman’sstrategyforrunningthemilewassimple.Setafastpaceforthefirsttwolaps,runthethirdashardasyoucan,thentripleyourspeedonthefourth. There was a Zen-like quality to this strategy, because it wasimpossible. And yet it worked. Bowerman coachedmore sub-four-minutemilers than anybody, ever. I wasn’t one of them, however, and this day IwonderedifIwasgoingtofallshortonceagaininthatcrucialfinallap.

WefoundJaquastandingoutonhisporch.I’dmethimbefore,atatrackmeet or two, but I’d never gotten a really good look at him. Thoughbespectacled,andsneakinguponmiddleage,hedidn’tsquarewithmyideaofalawyer.Hewastoosturdy,toowellmade.Ilearnedlaterthathe’dbeenastartailbackinhighschool,andoneofthebesthundred-metermeneveratPomona College. He still had that telltale athletic power. It came rightthrough his handshake. “Buckaroo,” he said, grabbingme by the arm andguidingmeintohislivingroom,“IwasgoingtowearyourshoestodaybutIgotcowshitallover’em!”

ThedaywastypicalforOregoninJanuary.Alongwiththespittingrain,adeep, wet cold permeated everything. We arranged ourselves on chairsaroundJaqua’sfireplace,thebiggestfireplaceIeversaw,bigenoughtoroastan elk. Roaring flames were spinning around several logs the size ofhydrants.FromasidedoorcameJaqua’swifecarryinga tray.Mugsofhotchocolate. She asked if I’d like whipped cream ormarshmallows.Neither,thankyou,ma’am.Myvoicewastwooctaveshigherthannormal.Shetiltedherheadandgavemeapityinglook.Boy,they’regoingtoskinyoualive.

Jaquatookasip,wipedthecreamfromhislips,andbegan.HetalkedabitaboutOregontrack,andaboutBowerman.Hewaswearingdirtybluejeans

andawrinkledflannelshirt,andIcouldn’tstopthinkinghowunlawyerlyhelooked.

NowJaquasaidhe’dneverseenBowermanthispumpedupaboutanidea.I liked the soundof that. “But,”headded, “fifty-fifty isnot sohot for theCoach. He doesn’t want to be in charge, and he doesn’t want to be atloggerheadswithyou,ever.Howaboutwemakeitfifty-one–forty-nine?Wegiveyouoperatingcontrol?”

His whole demeanor was that of a man trying to help, to make thissituationawinforeveryone.Itrustedhim.

“Finebyme,”Isaid.“That...all?”Henodded.“Deal?”hesaid.“Deal,” I said.Weall shookhands, signed

thepapers,andIwasnowofficiallyinalegalandbindingpartnershipwithAlmightyBowerman.Mrs. Jaqua asked if I’d care formore hot chocolate.Yes,please,ma’am.Anddoyouhaveanymarshmallows?

LATER THAT DAYIwroteOnitsukaandasked if IcouldbetheexclusivedistributorofTigershoesinthewesternUnitedStates.ThenIaskedthemto send three hundred pairs of Tigers, ASAP. At $3.33 a pair that wasroughly $1,000 worth of shoes. Even with Bowerman’s kick-in, that wasmorethanIhadonhand.AgainIputthetouchonmyfather.Thistimehebalked.Hedidn’tmindgettingme started,buthedidn’twantmecomingbacktohimyearafteryear.Besides,he’dthoughtthisshoethingwasalark.Hehadn’tsentmetoOregonandStanfordtobecomeadoor-to-doorshoesalesman,he said. “Jackassing around,” that’swhathe called it. “Buck,”hesaid, “how longdo you think you’re going to keep jackassing aroundwiththeseshoes?”

Ishrugged.“Idon’tknow,Dad.”I looked atmymother. As usual, she said nothing. She simply smiled,

vaguely,prettily. Igotmyshyness fromher, thatwasplain. IoftenwishedI’dalsogottenherlooks.

The first timemy father laideyesonmymother,he thought shewasamannequin.HewaswalkingbytheonlydepartmentstoreinRoseburgandthereshewas,standinginthewindow,modelinganeveninggown.Realizingthatshewasflesh-and-blood,hewentstraighthomeandbeggedhissistertofindoutthenameofthatgorgeousgalinthewindow.Hissisterfoundout.That’sLotaHatfield,shesaid.

EightmonthslatermyfathermadeherLotaKnight.Atthetimemyfatherwasonhiswaytobecominganestablishedlawyer,

onhisway toescaping the terriblepoverty thatdefinedhis childhood.Hewas twenty-eight years old.Mymother, who had just turned twenty-one,had grown up even poorer than he had. (Her father was a railroadconductor.)Povertywasoneofthefewthingstheyhadincommon.

In many ways they were the classic case of opposites attracting. Mymother,tall,stunning,aloveroftheoutdoors,wasalwaysseekingplacestoregain some lost inner peace.My father, small, averagewith thick rimlessglassestocorrecthis20-450vision,wasengagedinadaily,noisomebattletoovercome his past, to become respectable, mainly through academics andhard work. Second in his law school class, he never tired of complainingabouttheoneConhistranscript. (Hefelt theprofessorpenalizedhimforhispoliticalbeliefs.)

When their diametrically opposed personalities caused problems, myparentswouldfallbackonthethingtheyhadmostdeeplyincommon,theirbeliefthatfamilycomesfirst.Whenthatconsensusdidn’twork,thereweredifficultdays.Andnights.Myfatherturnedtodrink.Mymotherturnedtostone.

Herfaçadecouldbedeceiving,however.Dangerouslyso.Peopleassumedfrom her silence that she was meek, and she’d often remind them, instartlingways,thatshewasnot.Forinstance,therewasthetimemyfatherrefused to cut back on his salt, despite a doctor’s warnings that his bloodpressure was up.Mymother simply filled all the saltshakers in the housewithpowderedmilk.AndtherewasthedaymysistersandIwerebickeringandclamoringforlunch,despiteherpleasforquiet.Mymothersuddenlylet

outasavagescreamandhurledaneggsaladsandwichagainstthewall.Shethenwalked out of the house, across the lawn, and disappeared. I’ll neverforget the sight of that egg salad slowly dripping down thewallwhilemymother’ssundressdissolvedinthedistanttrees.

Perhapsnothingeverrevealedmymother’struenaturelikethefrequentdrills she putme through.As a young girl she’dwitnessed a house in herneighborhoodburntotheground;oneofthepeopleinsidehadbeenkilled.Sosheoftentiedaropetothepostofmybedandmademeuseittorappelout of my second-floor window. While she timed me. What must theneighborshavethought?WhatmustIhavethought?Probablythis:Life isdangerous.Andthis:Wemustalwaysbeprepared.

Andthis:Mymotherlovesme.WhenIwastwelve,LesSteersandhisfamilymovedinacrossthestreet,

nexttomybestfriendJackieEmory.OnedayMr.Steerssetupahigh-jumpcourseinJackie’sbackyard,andJackieandIdidbattle.Eachofusmaxedoutat four feetsix inches.“Maybeoneofyouwillbreaktheworldrecordoneday,”Mr.Steerssaid.(Ilearnedlaterthattheworldrecordatthattime,sixfeeteleveninches,belongedtoMr.Steers.)

Outofnowheremymotherappeared.(Shewaswearinggardeningslacksandasummeryblouse.)Uh-oh,Ithought,we’reintrouble.Shelookedoverthe scene, looked atme and Jackie. Looked atMr. Steers. “Move the barup,”shesaid.

Sheslippedoffhershoes,toedhermark,andburstforward,clearingfivefeeteasily.

Idon’tknowifIeverlovedhermore.InthemomentIthoughtshewascool.Soonafter,Irealizedshewasalso

aclosettrack-ophile.It happened my sophomore year. I developed a painful wart on the

bottom of my foot. The podiatrist recommended surgery, which wouldmeana lost seasonof track.Mymotherhad twowords for thatpodiatrist.“Un.Acceptable.”Shemarcheddowntothedrugstoreandboughtavialofwart remover, which she applied each day to my foot. Then, every two

weeks,shetookacarvingknifeandparedawayasliverofthewart,until itwasallgone.ThatspringIpostedthebesttimesofmylife.

SoIshouldn’thavebeentoosurprisedbymymother’snextmovewhenmy fatheraccusedmeof jackassingaround.Casually sheopenedherpurseand took out seven dollars. “I’d like to purchase one pair ofLimberUps,please,”shesaid,loudenoughforhimtohear.

Wasitmymother’swayofdiggingatmyfather?Ashowofloyaltytoheronlyson?Anaffirmationofherloveoftrack?Idon’tknow.Butnomatter.Itneverfailedtomoveme,thesightofherstandingatthestoveorthekitchensink,cookingdinnerorwashingdishesinapairofJapaneserunningshoes,size6.

PROBABLY BECAUSE HEdidn’t want any trouble with my mother, myfatherloanedmethethousandbucks.Thistimetheshoescamerightaway.

April 1964. I rented a truck, drovedown to thewarehousedistrict, andthecustomsclerkhandedovertenenormouscartons.AgainIhurriedhome,carried the cartonsdown to thebasement, ripped themopen.EachcartonheldthirtypairsofTigers,andeachpairwaswrappedincellophane.(Shoeboxeswouldhavebeentoocostly.)Withinminutesthebasementwasfilledwithshoes.Iadmiredthem,studiedthem,playedwiththem,rolledaroundontopofthem.ThenIstackedthemoutoftheway,arrangingthemneatlyaround the furnaceandunder thePing-Pong table, as far aspossible fromthewasheranddryer,somymothercouldstilldolaundry.LastlyItriedonapair.Irancirclesaroundthebasement.Ijumpedforjoy.

DayslatercamealetterfromMr.Miyazaki.Yes,hesaid,youcanbethedistributorforOnitsukaintheWest.

ThatwasallIneeded.Tomyfather’shorror,andmymother’ssubversivedelight, I quit my job at the accounting firm, and all that spring I didnothingbutsellshoesoutofthetrunkofmyValiant.

MY SALES STRATEGYwas simple, and I thought rather brilliant. Afterbeing rejectedby a coupleof sportinggoods stores (“Kid,what thisworlddoes not need is another track shoe!”), I drove all over the PacificNorthwest, to various trackmeets.Between races I’d chat up the coaches,therunners,thefans,andshowthemmywares.Theresponsewasalwaysthesame.Icouldn’twriteordersfastenough.

DrivingbacktoPortlandI’dpuzzleovermysuddensuccessatselling.I’dbeen unable to sell encyclopedias, and I’d despised it to boot. I’d beenslightlybetterat sellingmutual funds,but I’d feltdead inside.Sowhywassellingshoes sodifferent?Because, I realized, itwasn’t selling. Ibelieved inrunning.Ibelievedthatifpeoplegotoutandranafewmileseveryday,theworldwouldbeabetterplace,andIbelievedtheseshoeswerebettertorunin.People,sensingmybelief,wantedsomeofthatbeliefforthemselves.

Belief,Idecided.Beliefisirresistible.Sometimes people wanted my shoes so badly that they’d write me, or

phoneme,sayingthey’dheardaboutthenewTigersandjusthadtohaveapair, could I please send them, COD?Withoutmy even trying, mymailorderbusinesswasborn.

Sometimespeoplewouldsimplyshowupatmyparents’house.Everyfewnights the doorbell would ring, and my father, grumbling, would get upfromhisvinylreclinerandturndowntheTVandwonderwhointheworld.There on the porch would be some skinny kid with oddlymuscular legs,shifty-eyedandtwitchy,likeajunkylookingtoscore.“Buckhere?”thekidwould say.My father would call through the kitchen to my room in theservants’quarters.I’dcomeout,invitethekidin,showhimovertothesofa,thenkneelbeforehimandmeasurehisfoot.Myfather,handsjammedintohispockets,wouldwatchthewholetransaction,incredulous.

Most people who came to the house had found me through word ofmouth.Friendofafriend.Butafewfoundmethroughmyfirstattemptatadvertising—a handout I’d designed and produced at a local print shop.Alongthetop,inbigtype,itsaid:Bestnewsinflats!JapanchallengesEuropeantrack shoe domination! The handout then went on to explain:Low Japanese

laborcostsmake itpossible foranexcitingnewfirmtooffer these shoesat the lowlowprice of$6.95.Along thebottomwasmy address andphonenumber. InailedthemupalloverPortland.

On July 4, 1964, I sold out my first shipment. I wrote to Tiger andordered nine hundred more. That would cost roughly three thousanddollars, which would wipe out my father’s petty cash, and patience. TheBankofDad,hesaid,isnowclosed.Hedidagree,grudgingly,togivemealetter of guarantee, which I took down to the First National Bank ofOregon.Onthestrengthofmy father’s reputation,andnothingmore, thebankapprovedtheloan.Myfather’svauntedrespectabilitywasfinallypayingdividends,atleastforme.

I HADAvenerablepartner,alegitimatebank,andaproductthatwassellingitself.Iwasonaroll.

Infact,theshoessoldsowell,Idecidedtohireanothersalesman.Maybetwo.InCalifornia.

The problemwas, how to get toCalifornia? I certainly couldn’t affordairfare.AndIdidn’thavetimetodrive.SoeveryotherweekendI’d loadaduffelbagwithTigers,putonmycrispestarmyuniform,andheadouttothelocal air base. Seeing theuniform, theMPswouldwavemeonto thenextmilitary transport to San Francisco or Los Angeles, no questions asked.When Iwent toLosAngeles I’d save evenmoremoney by crashingwithChuckCale,afriendfromStanford.Agoodfriend.WhenI’dpresentedmyrunning-shoepapertomyentrepreneurshipclass,Caleshowedup,formoralsupport.

During one of those Los Angeles weekends I attended a meet atOccidentalCollege.Asalways,Istoodontheinfieldgrass,lettingtheshoesdotheirmagic.Suddenlyaguysaunteredupandheldouthishand.Twinklyeyes,handsomeface.Infact,veryhandsome—thoughalsosad.Despitetheenameled calm of his expression, there was something sorrowful, almost

tragic, around the eyes. Also, something vaguely familiar. “Phil,” he said.“Yes?”Isaid.“JeffJohnson,”hesaid.

Of course! Johnson. I’d knownhim at Stanford.He’d been a runner, aprettyfairmiler,andwe’dcompetedagainsteachotheratseveralall-comermeets.Andsometimeshe’dgoneforarunwithmeandCale,thenforabiteafter.“Heya,Jeff,”Isaid,“whatareyouuptothesedays?”“Gradschool,”hesaid, “studying anthro.” The plan was to become a social worker. “Nokidding,”Isaid,archinganeyebrow.Johnsondidn’tseemthesocialworkertype. I couldn’t seehimcounselingdrugaddictsandplacingorphans.Nordid he seem the anthropologist type. I couldn’t imagine him chatting upcannibalsinNewGuinea,orscouringAnasazicampsiteswithatoothbrush,siftingthroughgoatdungforpotteryshards.

Butthese,hesaid,weremerelyhisdaytimedrudgeries.Onweekendshewasfollowinghisheart,sellingshoes.“No!”Isaid.“Adidas,”hesaid.“ScrewAdidas,” I said, “you shouldwork forme,helpme sell thesenew Japaneserunningshoes.”

IhandedhimaTigerflat,toldhimaboutmytriptoJapan,mymeetingwithOnitsuka.Hebenttheshoe,examinedthesole.Prettycool,hesaid.Hewasintrigued,butno.“I’mgettingmarried,”hesaid.“NotsureIcantakeonanewventurerightnow.”

Ididn’ttakehisrejectiontoheart.ItwasthefirsttimeI’dheardtheword“no”inmonths.

LIFEWAS GOOD.Lifewasgrand.Ievenhadasortofgirlfriend,thoughIdidn’thavemuchtimeforher.Iwashappy,maybeashappyasI’deverbeen,andhappinesscanbedangerous.Itdullsthesenses.Thus,Iwasn’tpreparedforthatdreadfulletter.

Itwas fromahighschoolwrestlingcoach insomebenightedtownbackeast,somelittleburgonLongIslandcalledValleyStreamorMassapequaorManhasset. I had to read it twicebefore I understood.The coach claimedthat he was just back from Japan, where he’d met with top executives at

Onitsuka, who’d anointed him their exclusive American distributor. Sincehe’d heard that I was selling Tigers, I was therefore poaching, and heorderedme—orderedme!—tostop.

Heart pounding, I phoned my cousin, Doug Houser. He’d graduatedfromStanfordLawSchoolandwasnowworkingatarespectedfirmintown.Iaskedhimto look into thisMr.Manhasset, findoutwhathecould, thenbacktheguyoffwithaletter.“Sayingwhat,exactly?”CousinHouserasked.“ThatanyattempttointerferewithBlueRibbonwillbemetwithswiftlegalreprisal,”Isaid.

My“business”wastwomonthsoldandIwasembroiledinalegalbattle?Servedmerightfordaringtocallmyselfhappy.

Next I satdownanddashedoffa frantic letter toOnitsuka.DearSirs, IwasverydistressedtoreceivealetterthismorningfromamaninManhasset,NewYork,whoclaims...?

Iwaitedforaresponse.Andwaited.Iwroteagain.Nanimo.Nothing.

COUSIN HOUSER FOUNDout thatMr.Manhasset was something of acelebrity.Beforebecomingahighschoolwrestlingcoach,he’dbeenamodel—oneoftheoriginalMarlboroMen.Beautiful,Ithought.JustwhatIneed.ApissingmatchwithsomemythicAmericancowboy.

Iwentintoadeepfunk.Ibecamesuchagrouch,suchpoorcompany,thegirlfriendfellaway.EachnightI’dsitwithmyfamilyatdinner,movingmymother’s pot roast and vegetables aroundmy plate. Then I’d sit withmyfather in thenook, staringglumlyat theTV.“Buck,”myfathersaid,“youlooklikesomeonehityouinthebackoftheheadwithatwo-by-four.Snapoutofit.”

ButIcouldn’t.IkeptgoingovermymeetingatOnitsuka.Theexecutiveshad shown me such kei. They’d bowed to me, and vice versa. I’d beenstraightforward with them, honest—for the most part. Sure, I hadn’t“technically”owneda“business”called“BlueRibbon.”Butthatwassplittinghairs. Iownedonenow, and ithad single-handedlybroughtTigers to theWestCoast,anditcouldsellTigerstentimesfasterifOnitsukagavemehalfachance.Insteadthecompanywasgoingtocutmeout?ThrowmeoverforthefrickingMarlboroMan?Cometowheretheflavoris.

TOWARD SUMMER’S ENDI stillhadn’theard fromOnitsuka,andI’dallbut given up on the idea of selling shoes. Labor Day, however, I had achangeofheart.Icouldn’tgiveup.Notyet.AndnotgivingupmeantflyingbacktoJapan.IneededtoforceashowdownwithOnitsuka.

Irantheideabymyfather.Hestilldidn’tlikemejackassingaroundwithshoes.Butwhathe really didn’t likewas someonemistreatinghis son.Hefurrowedhisbrow.“Youshouldprobablygo,”hesaid.

Italkeditoverwithmymother.“Noprobablysaboutit,”shesaid.Infact,she’ddrivemetotheairport.

FIFTY YEARS LATERI can seeus in that car. I can recall everydetail. Itwasabright,clearday,nohumidity,temperatureintheloweighties.Bothofus, quietlywatching the sunlight play across thewindshield, said nothing.Thesilencebetweenuswaslikethesilenceonthemanydaysshedrovemetomeets. I was too busy fightingmy nerves to talk, and she, better thananyone, understood. She respected the lines we draw around ourselves incrisis.

Then,aswenearedtheairport,shebrokethesilence.“Justbeyourself,”shesaid.

I lookedout thewindow.Bemyself.Really? Is thatmybestoption?Tostudytheselfistoforgettheself.

Ilookeddown.Icertainlywasn’tdressedlikemyself.Iwaswearinganewsuit, apropercharcoalgray,and totinga small suitcase. In the sidepocketwas a newbook:How toDoBusinesswith the Japanese.Heaven only knowshoworwhereI’dheardaboutit.AndnowIgrimacetorememberthis lastdetail:Iwasalsowearingablackbowlerhat.I’dboughtitexpresslyforthistrip, thinking itmademe look older. In fact itmademe lookmad. Stark,staring mad. As if I’d escaped from a Victorian insane asylum inside apaintingbyMagritte.

I SPENT MOST of the flight memorizing How to Do Business with theJapanese. When my eyes grew tired I shut the book and stared out thewindow. I tried to talk tomyself, to coachmyself up. I toldmyself that Ineededtoputasidehurt feelings,putasideall thoughtsof injustice,whichwouldonlymakemeemotionalandkeepmefromthinkingclearly.Emotionwouldbefatal.Ineededtoremaincool.

IthoughtbackonmyrunningcareeratOregon.I’dcompetedwith,andagainst, men far better, faster, more physically gifted. Many were futureOlympians.And yet I’d trainedmyself to forget this unhappy fact. Peoplereflexively assume that competition is always a good thing, that it alwaysbringsoutthebestinpeople,butthat’sonlytrueofpeoplewhocanforgetthecompetition.Theartofcompeting,I’dlearnedfromtrack,wastheartofforgetting, and I now remindedmyself of that fact. Youmust forget yourlimits.Youmustforgetyourdoubts,yourpain,yourpast.Youmustforgetthatinternalvoicescreaming,begging,“Notonemorestep!”Andwhenit’snotpossible to forget it,youmustnegotiatewith it. I thoughtoverall theraces inwhichmymindwanted one thing, andmy bodywanted another,those laps inwhichI’dhadtotellmybody,“Yes,youraisesomeexcellentpoints,butlet’skeepgoinganyway...”

Despite all my negotiations with that voice, the skill had never comenaturally,andnowIfearedthatIwasoutofpractice.Astheplaneswooped

downtowardHanedaAirportItoldmyselfthatI’dneedtosummontheoldskillquickly,orlose.

Icouldnotbearthethoughtoflosing.

THE 1964 OLYMPICSwereabouttobeheldinJapan,soIhadmypickofbrand-new, reasonably priced lodgings in Kobe. I got a room rightdowntown, at the Newport, which featured a revolving restaurant on thetop. Just like the one atop the Space Needle—a touch of the GreatNorthwest to settlemy nerves. Before unpacking, I phonedOnitsuka andleftamessage.I’mhereandIrequestameeting.

ThenIsatontheedgeofthebedandstaredatthephone.Atlastitrang.Aprim-soundingsecretaryinformedmethatmycontactat

Onitsuka,Mr.Miyazaki,nolongerworkedthere.Badsign.Hisreplacement,Mr.Morimoto, did not wishme to come to the company’s headquarters.Verybadsign.Instead,shesaid,Mr.Morimotowouldmeetmeforteainmyhotel’srevolvingrestaurant.Tomorrowmorning.

Iwenttobedearly,sleptfitfully.Dreamsofcarchases,prison,duels—thesamedreamsthatalwaysplaguedmethenightbeforeabigmeet,ordate,orexam. I roseatdawn,ateabreakfastof raweggpouredoverhot rice, andsomegrilledfish,andwasheditdownwithapotofgreentea.Then,recitingmemorizedpassagesfromHowtoDoBusinesswiththeJapanese,Ishavedmypalejaws.Icutmyselfonceortwice,andhadtroublestoppingthebleeding.Imusthavebeen a sight.Finally I putonmy suit and shambledonto theelevator.AsIpressedthebuttonforthetopfloorInoticedthatmyhandwaswhiteasbone.

Morimotoarrivedon time.Hewasaboutmyage,but farmoremature,moreself-assured.Heworearumpledsportcoatandhadakindofrumpledface.Wesatatatablebythewindow.Immediately,beforethewaitercametotakeourorder,Ilaunchedintomypitch,sayingeverythingI’dvowednotto say. I told Morimoto how distressed I was by this Marlboro Manencroachingonmyturf.IsaidI’dbeenundertheimpressionthatI’dmadea

personalconnectionwith theexecutives I’dmet thepreviousyear, and theimpression was underscored by a letter from Mr. Miyazaki saying thethirteen western states were exclusivelymine. I was therefore at a loss toexplain this treatment. I appealed toMorimoto’s sense of fairness, to hissenseofhonor.Helookeduncomfortable,soItookabreath,paused.Iraisedit fromthepersonal to theprofessional. I citedmyrobust sales. Idroppedthenameofmypartner, the legendarycoachwhose reputationhadcachetevenon theother sideof thePacific. I emphasized all that Imightdo forOnitsukainthefuture,ifgivenachance.

Morimototookasipoftea.WhenitwasclearthatI’dtalkedmyselfout,he set downhis cup and lookedout thewindow.Slowlywe rotated aboveKobe.“Iwillgetbacktoyou.”

ANOTHER FITFUL NIGHT.I got up several times,went to thewindow,watched the ships bobbing on Kobe’s dark purple bay. Beautiful place, Ithought. Too bad all beauty is beyond me. The world is without beautywhenyoulose,andIwasabouttolose,big-time.

I knew that in the morning Morimoto would tell me he was sorry,nothing personal, it was just business, but they were going with theMarlboroMan.

At9:00a.m. thephoneby thebed rang.Morimoto. “Mr.Onitsuka . . .himself...wishestoseeyou,”hesaid.

I put on my suit and took a taxi to Onitsuka headquarters. In theconferenceroom,thefamiliarconferenceroom,Morimotopointedmetoachair in themiddle of the table.Themiddle this time, not the head.Nomorekei.Hesatacrossfrommeandstaredatmeastheroomslowlyfilledwithexecutives.Wheneveryonewasthere,Morimotonoddedtome.“Hai,”hesaid.

I plunged in, essentially repeating what I’d said to him the previousmorning. As I built to my crescendo, as I prepared to close, all headsswiveled toward thedoor, and I stoppedmidsentence.The temperatureof

theroomdroppedtendegrees.Thefounderofthecompany,Mr.Onitsuka,hadarrived.

Dressed in adarkblue Italian suit,withaheadofblackhair as thick asshag carpet, he filled every man in the conference room with fear. Heseemed oblivious, however. For all his power, for all his wealth, hismovements were deferential. He came forward haltingly, with a shufflinggait,givingnosignthathewasthebossofallbosses,theshogunofshoes.Slowlyhemadehiswayaroundthetable,makingbriefeyecontactwitheachexecutive.Eventuallyhecametome.Webowedtoeachother,shookhands.Now he took the seat at the head of the table and Morimoto tried tosummarizemyreasonforbeingthere.Mr.Onitsukaraisedahand,cuthimoff.

Withoutpreamblehelaunchedintoalong,passionatemonologue.Sometime ago, he said, he’d had a vision. A wondrous glimpse of the future.“Everyone in theworldwear athletic shoes all the time,”he said. “I knowthisdaycome.”Hepaused,lookingaroundthetableateachperson,toseeifthey also knew. His gaze rested on me. He smiled. I smiled. He blinkedtwice. “You remind me of myself when I am young,” he said softly. Hestared into my eyes. One second. Two. Now he turned his gaze toMorimoto. “This about those thirteen western states?” he said. “Yes,”Morimoto said. “Hm,”Onitsuka said. “Hmmmm.”He narrowed his eyes,lookeddown.Heseemedtobemeditating.Againhelookedupatme.“Yes,”hesaid,“allright.Youhavewesternstates.”

TheMarlboroMan, he said, could continue selling his wrestling shoesnationwide,butwouldlimithistrackshoesalestotheEastCoast.

Mr.Onitsukawould personallywrite to theMarlboroMan and informhimofthisdecision.

He rose. I rose. Everyone rose.We all bowed.He left the conferenceroom.

Everyone remaining in the conference room exhaled. “So . . . it isdecided,”Morimotosaid.

Foroneyear,headded.Thenthesubjectwouldberevisited.

IthankedMorimoto,assuredhimthatOnitsukawouldn’tregretitsfaithinme.Iwentaroundthetableshakingeveryone’shand,bowing,andwhenIcame back to Morimoto I gave his hand an extra-vigorous shake. I thenfollowedasecretaryintoasideroom,whereIsignedseveralcontracts,andplacedanorderforawhoppingthirty-fivehundreddollars’worthofshoes.

I RANALLthewaybacktomyhotel.HalfwaythereIstartedskipping,thenleapingthroughtheairlikeadancer.Istoppedatarailingandlookedoutatthebay.Noneofitsbeautywaslostonmenow.IwatchedtheboatsglidingbeforeabriskwindanddecidedthatIwouldhireone.IwouldtakearideontheInlandSea.AnhourlaterIwasstandingintheprowofaboat,windinmyhair,sailingintothesunsetandfeelingprettygoodaboutmyself.

ThenextdayIboardeda train toTokyo. Itwas time,at last, toascendintotheclouds.

ALL THE GUIDEBOOKSsaid to climb Mount Fuji at night. A properclimb,theysaid,mustculminatewithaviewofsunrisefromthesummit.SoIarrivedat thebaseof themountainpromptlyatdusk.Thedayhadbeenmuggy, but the air was growing cooler, and right away I rethought mydecisiontowearBermudashorts,aT-shirt,andTigers.Isawamancomingdown the mountain in a rubberized coat. I stopped him and offered himthreedollarsforhiscoat.Helookedatme,lookedatthecoat,nodded.

IwasnegotiatingsuccessfuldealsalloverJapan!As night fell hundreds of natives and tourists appeared and began

streamingupthemountain.All,Inoticed,werecarryinglongwoodenstickswithtinklingbellsattached.IspottedanolderBritishcoupleandaskedthemaboutthesesticks.“Theywardoffevilspirits,”thewomansaid.

“Thereareevilspiritsonthismountain?”Iasked.“Presumably.”Iboughtastick.

I then noticed people gathering at a roadside stand and buying strawshoes.TheBritishwomanexplainedthatFujiwasanactivevolcano,anditsash and soot were guaranteed to ruin shoes. Climbers therefore woredisposablestrawsandals.

Iboughtsandals.Poorer,butproperlyoutfittedatlast,Isetoff.Thereweremanyways downMount Fuji, according tomy guidebook,

butonlyonewayup.Lifelessoninthat,Ithought.Signsalongtheupwardpath,writteninmanylanguages,saidtherewouldbeninestationsbeforethesummit,eachofferingfoodandaplacetorest.Withintwohours,however,I’d passed Station 3 several times. Did the Japanese count differently?Alarmed,Iwonderedifthirteenwesternstatesmightactuallymeanthree?

AtStation7IstoppedandboughtaJapanesebeerandacupofnoodles.While eatingmy dinner I fell to talking with another couple. They wereAmericans, younger than me—students, I assumed. He was preppy, in aridiculoussortofway.Golfslacksandtennisshirtandclothbelt—hewasallthecolorsofanEasteregg.Shewaspurebeatnik.Tornjeans,fadedT-shirt,wild dark hair. Her wide-set eyes were brown-black. Like little cups ofespresso.

Both were sweating from the climb. They mentioned that I wasn’t. Ishrugged and said that I’d run track atOregon. “Half-miler.”The youngman scowled. His girlfriend said, “Wow.” We finished our beers andresumedclimbingtogether.

HernamewasSarah.Shewas fromMaryland.Horsecountry, she said.Richcountry,Ithought.She’dgrownupriding,andjumping,andshowing,andstillspentmuchofhertimeinsaddlesandshowrings.Shetalkedaboutherfavoriteponiesandhorsesasiftheywereherclosestfriends.

Iaskedabouther family.“Daddyownsacandybarcompany,” shesaid.Shementioned thecompanyandI laughed. I’deatenmanyofher family’scandy bars, sometimes before a race. The company was founded by hergrandfather,shesaid,thoughshehastenedtoaddthatshehadnointerestinmoney.

Icaughtherboyfriendscowlingagain.ShewasstudyingphilosophyatConnecticutCollegeforWomen.“Nota

great school,” she said apologetically.She’dwanted togo toSmith,wherehersisterwasasenior,butshedidn’tgetin.

“Yousoundasifyouhaven’tgottenovertherejection,”Isaid.“Notevenclose,”shesaid.“Rejectionisnevereasy,”Isaid.“Youcansaythatagain.”Her voice was peculiar. She pronounced certain words oddly, and I

couldn’t decide if it was a Maryland accent or a speech impediment.Whichever,itwasadorable.

SheaskedwhatbroughtmetoJapan.IexplainedthatI’dcometosavemyshoecompany.“Yourcompany?”shesaid.Clearlyshewasthinkingaboutthemen in her family, founders of companies, captains of industry.Entrepreneurs.“Yes,”Isaid,“mycompany.”“Anddidyou...saveit?”sheasked.“Idid,”Isaid.“Alltheboysbackhomearegoingtobusinessschool,”she said, “and then they all plan to become bankers.” She rolled her eyes,adding:“Everyonedoesthesamething—soboring.”

“Boredomscaresme,”Isaid.“Ah.That’sbecauseyou’rearebel.”I stopped climbing, stabbed my walking stick into the ground. Me—a

rebel?Myfacegrewwarm.As we neared the summit, the path grew narrow. I mentioned that it

remindedmeofatrailI’dhikedintheHimalayas.Sarahandtheboyfriendstared.Himalayas?Nowshewasreallyimpressed.Andhewasreallyputout.Asthesummitcameslowlyintoview,theclimbbecametricky,treacherous.She seizedmyhand. “The Japanesehave a saying,”herboyfriend shoutedoverhisshoulder,tous,toeveryone.“AwisemanclimbsFujionce.Afoolclimbsittwice.”

Noonelaughed.ThoughIwantedto,athisEastereggclothing.Onthevery topwecametoa largewoodentoriigate.Wesatbeside it

andwaited.Theairwasstrange.Notquitedark,notquite light.Thenthe

suncreptabovethehorizon.ItoldSarahandherboyfriendthattheJapaneseplace torii gates at sacral borderlands, portals between this world and theworldbeyond.“Whereveryoupassfromtheprofanetothesacred,”Isaid,“you’ll find a torii gate.” Sarah liked that. I told her that Zen mastersbelievedmountains“flow,”but thatwecan’talwaysperceive the flowwithour limited senses, and indeed, in thatmoment,we did feel as if Fujiwasflowing,asifwewereridingawaveacrosstheworld.

Unliketheclimbup,theclimbdowntooknoeffort,andnotime.AtthebottomIbowedandsaidgood-byetoSarahandtheEasteregg.“Yoroshikune.” Nice meeting you. “Where you headed?” Sarah asked. “I think I’mgoing to stay at the Hakone Inn tonight,” I said. “Well,” she said, “I’mcomingwithyou.”

Itookastepback.Ilookedattheboyfriend.Hescowled.Irealizedatlastthathewasn’therboyfriend.HappyEaster.

WE SPENT TWOdays at the inn, laughing, talking, falling.Beginning. Ifonlythiscouldneverend,wesaid,butofcourseithadto.IhadtogobacktoTokyo, tocatcha flighthome,andSarahwasdetermined tomoveon, seetherestofJapan.Wemadenoplanstoseeeachotheragain.Shewasafreespirit, shedidn’tbelieve inplans. “Good-bye,” she said.“Hajimemashite,” Isaid.Lovelymeetingyou.

Hours before I boarded my plane, I stopped at the American Expressoffice. I knew she’d have to stop there, too, at some point, to getmoneyfrom the Candy Bar People. I left her a note: “You’ve got to fly overPortlandtogettotheEastCoast...whynotstopforavisit?”

MY FIRST NIGHThome,overdinner,Itoldmyfamilythegoodnews.I’dmetagirl.

ThenItoldthemtheothergoodnews.I’dsavedmycompany.Iturnedandlookedhardatmytwinsisters.Theyspenthalfofeveryday

crouchedbesidethetelephone,waitingtopounceonitatthefirstring.“Her

nameisSarah,”Isaid.“Soifshecalls,please...benice.”

WEEKS LATER I camehome fromrunningerrandsand there shewas, inmy living room, sitting with my mother and sisters. “Surprise,” she said.She’dgottenmynoteanddecidedtotakemeuponmyoffer.She’dphonedfromtheairportandmysisterJoannehadansweredandshownwhatsistersarefor.ShepromptlydroveouttotheairportandfetchedSarah.

I laughed. We hugged, awkwardly, my mother and sisters watching.“Let’sgoforawalk,”Isaid.

Igotherajacketfromtheservants’quartersandwewalkedinalightraintoawoodedparknearby.ShesawMountHoodinthedistanceandagreedthatitlookedastonishinglylikeFuji,whichmadeusbothreminisce.

I asked where she was staying. “Silly boy,” she said. The second timeshe’dinvitedherselfintomyspace.

For twoweeks she lived inmy parents’ guestroom, just like one of thefamily,whichIbegantothinkshemightonedaybe.Iwatchedindisbeliefasshe charmed the uncharmable Knights. My protective sisters, my shymother, my autocratic father, they were no match for her. Especially myfather.When she shook his hand, shemelted something hard at his core.MaybeitwasgrowingupamongtheCandyBarPeople,andalltheirmogulfriends—shehadthekindofself-confidenceyourunacrossonceortwiceinalifetime.

ShewascertainlytheonlypersonI’deverknownwhocouldcasuallydropBabePaley andHermannHesse into the same conversation. She admiredthemboth.ButespeciallyHesse.Shewasgoingtowriteabookabouthimoneday.“It’slikeHessesays,”shepurredoverdinneronenight,“happinessisahow,notawhat.”TheKnightschewedtheirpotroast,sippedtheirmilk.“Veryinteresting,”myfathersaid.

IbroughtSarahdowntotheworldwideheadquartersofBlueRibbon,inthe basement, and showed her the operation. I gave her a pair ofLimberUps.Shewore themwhenwedroveout to the coast.Wewenthikingup

Humbug Mountain, and crabbing along the scalloped coastline, andhuckleberrypickinginthewoods.Standingunderaneighty-footsprucewesharedahuckleberrykiss.

When itwas timeforher to flybacktoMaryland,Iwasbereft. Iwroteher every other day. My first-ever love letters.Dear Sarah, I think aboutsittingbesidethattoriigatewithyou...

Shealwayswrotebackrightaway.Shealwaysexpressedherundyinglove.

THAT CHRISTMAS, 1964 ,shereturned.This timeIpickedherupat theairport.Onthewaytomyhouseshetoldmethattherehadbeenaterriblerow before she got on the plane.Her parents forbade her to come.Theydidn’tapproveofme.“Myfatherscreamed,”shesaid.

“Whatdidhescream?”Iasked.Sheimitatedhisvoice.“Youcan’tmeetaguyonMountFujiwho’sgoing

toamounttoanything.”Iwinced.IknewIhadtwostrikesagainstme,butIdidn’trealizeclimbing

MountFujiwasoneofthem.WhatwassobadaboutclimbingMountFuji?“Howdidyougetaway?”Iasked.“Mybrother.Hesnuckmeoutofthehouseearlythismorninganddrove

metotheairport.”Iwonderedifshereallylovedme,orjustsawmeasachancetorebel.

DURINGTHE DAY,whileIwasbusyworkingonBlueRibbonstuff,Sarahwouldhangoutwithmymother.AtnightsheandIwouldgodowntownfordinner and drinks.On the weekend we skiedMountHood.When it wastimeforhertoreturnhome,Iwasbereftagain.DearSarah,Imissyou.Iloveyou.

Shewrotebackrightaway.Shemissedme,too.Shelovedme,too.Then,withthewinterrains,therewasaslightcoolinginherletters.They

were less effusive.Or so I thought.Maybe it’s justmy imagination, I toldmyself.ButIhadtoknow.Iphonedher.

Itwasn’tmyimagination.Shesaidshe’dgivenitalotofthoughtandshewasn’tsurewewererightforeachother.Shewasn’tsureIwassophisticatedenoughforher.“Sophisticated,”thatwasthewordsheused.BeforeIcouldprotest,beforeIcouldnegotiate,shehungup.

I tookout a piece of paper and typedher a long letter, beggingher toreconsider.

Shewrotebackrightaway.Nosale.

THE NEW SHIPMENTof shoes arrived from Onitsuka. I could hardlybringmyselftocare.Ispentweeksinafog.Ihidinthebasement.Ihidintheservants’quarters.Ilayonmybedandstaredatmyblueribbons.

ThoughIdidn’t tell them,my familyknew.Theydidn’task fordetails.Theydidn’tneedthem,orwantthem.

Except my sister Jeanne. While I was out one day she went into theservants’quartersandintomydeskandfoundSarah’sletters.Later,whenIcame home andwent down to the basement, Jeanne came and foundme.She saton the floorbesidemeand said she’d read the letters, allof them,carefully,concludingwiththefinalrejection.I lookedaway.“You’rebetteroffwithouther,”Jeannesaid.

Myeyes filledwith tears. Inodded thanks.Notknowingwhat to say, IaskedJeanneifshe’dliketodosomepart-timeworkforBlueRibbon.Iwasprettyfarbehind,andIcouldsureusesomehelp.“Sinceyou’resointerestedinmail,” I saidhoarsely, “maybeyou’denjoydoing some secretarialwork.Dollarandahalfanhour?”

Shechuckled.Andthusmysisterbecamethefirst-everemployeeofBlueRibbon.

1965

IgotaletterfromthatJeffJohnsonfellowatthestartoftheyear.Afterour

chancemeeting atOccidental, I’d senthim apair ofTigers, as a gift, andnowhewrote to say thathe’d tried themonandgone fora run.He likedthem, he said.He liked them awhole lot.Others liked them, too.Peoplekeptstoppinghimandpointingathisfeetandaskingwheretheycouldbuysomeneatshoeslikethose.

JohnsonhadgottenmarriedsinceI last sawhim,hesaid,andtherewasalready a babyon theway, so hewas looking forways to earn extra cash,apart fromhis gig as a socialworker, and thisTiger shoe seemed to havemore upside than Adidas. I wrote him back and offered him a post as a“commissioned salesman.” Meaning I’d give him $1.75 for each pair ofrunningshoeshesold,twobucksforeachpairofspikes.Iwasjustbeginningtoputtogetheracrewofpart-timesalesreps,andthatwasthestandardrateIwasoffering.

Hewrotebackrightaway,acceptingtheoffer.And then the letters didn’t stop. On the contrary, they increased. In

lengthandnumber.Atfirsttheyweretwopages.Thenfour.Theneight.Atfirsttheycameeveryfewdays.Thentheycamefaster,andfaster,tumblingalmostdailythroughthemailslot likeawaterfall,eachonewiththatsamereturnaddress,P.O.Box492,SealBeach,CA90740,untilIwonderedwhatinGod’snameI’ddoneinhiringthisguy.

Ilikedhisenergy,ofcourse.Anditwashardtofaulthisenthusiasm.ButIbegan toworry thathemighthave toomuchof each.With the twentiethletter,orthetwenty-fifth,Ibegantoworrythatthemanmightbeunhinged.

I wondered why everything was so breathless. I wondered if he was evergoing to run out of things he urgently needed to tell me, or ask me. Iwonderedifhewasevergoingtorunoutofstamps.

Every time a thought crossed Johnson’s mind, seemingly, he wrote itdownandstuckit intoanenvelope.HewrotetotellmehowmanyTigershe’d sold thatweek.Hewrote to tellmehowmanyTigers he’d sold thatday.Hewrotetotellmewho’dwornTigersatwhichhighschoolmeetandinwhatplacethey’dfinished.Hewrotetosaythathewantedtoexpandhissales territory beyond California, to include Arizona, and possibly NewMexico.HewrotetosuggestthatweopenaretailstoreinLosAngeles.Hewrote to tellme thathewasconsideringplacingads in runningmagazinesandwhatdidIthink?Hewrotetoinformmethathe’dplacedthoseadsinrunningmagazinesandtheresponsewasgood.HewrotetoaskwhyIhadn’tansweredanyofhispreviousletters.Hewrotetopleadforencouragement.He wrote to complain that I hadn’t responded to his previous plea forencouragement.

I’d always considered myself a conscientious correspondent. (I’d sentcountless letters andpostcardshomeduringmy trip around theworld. I’dwrittenfaithfullytoSarah.)AndIalwaysmeanttoanswerJohnson’sletters.But before I got around to it there was always another one, waiting.Something about the sheer volume of his correspondence stopped me.Somethingabouthisneedinessmademenotwanttoencouragehim.ManynightsI’dsitdownattheblackRoyaltypewriterinmybasementworkshop,curlapieceofpaperintotheroller,andtype,“DearJeff.”ThenI’ddrawablank.Iwouldn’tknowwheretobegin,whichofhisfiftyquestionstostartwith, so I’dgetup,attend toother things,and thenextday there’dbeyetanother letter from Johnson. Or two. Soon I’d be three letters behind,sufferingfromcripplingwriter’sblock.

IaskedJeannetodealwiththeJohnsonFile.Fine,shesaid.Withinamonthshethrustthefileatme,exasperated.“You’renotpaying

meenough,”shesaid.

AT SOME POINTI stopped reading Johnson’s letters all the way to thebottom.ButfromskimmingthemIlearnedthathewassellingTigerspart-time and on weekends, that he’d decided to keep his day job as a socialworkerforLosAngelesCounty.Istillcouldn’tfathomit.Johnsonjustdidn’tstrike me as a people person. In fact he’d always seemed somewhatmisanthropic.ItwasoneofthethingsI’dlikedabouthim.

InApril1965hewrotetosayhe’dquithisdayjob.He’dalwayshatedit,hesaid,butthelaststrawhadbeenadistressedwomanintheSanFernandoValley.He’d been scheduled to check onher, because she’d threatened tokillherself,buthe’dphonedher first toask“if shereallywasgoing tokillherself that day.” If so, he didn’t want to waste the time and gas moneydrivingall thewayouttothevalley.Thewoman,andJohnson’ssuperiors,tookadimviewofhisapproach.TheydeemeditasignthatJohnsondidn’tcare.Johnsondeemeditthesameway.Hedidn’tcare,andinthatmoment,Johnson wrote me, he understood himself, and his destiny. Social workwasn’t it. He wasn’t put here on this earth to fix people’s problems. Hepreferredtofocusontheirfeet.

In his heart of hearts Johnson believed that runners areGod’s chosen,thatrunning,doneright,inthecorrectspiritandwiththeproperform,isamysticalexercise,nolessthanmeditationorprayer,andthushefeltcalledtohelprunnersreachtheirnirvana.I’dbeenaroundrunnersmuchofmylife,but this kind of dewy romanticism was something I’d never encountered.NoteventheYahwehofrunning,Bowerman,wasaspiousaboutthesportasBlueRibbon’sPart-timeEmployeeNumberTwo.

Infact,in1965,runningwasn’tevenasport.Itwasn’tpopular,itwasn’tunpopular—it just was. To go out for a three-mile run was somethingweirdos did, presumably to burn off manic energy. Running for pleasure,running for exercise, running for endorphins, running to live better andlonger—thesethingswereunheardof.

Peopleoftenwentoutoftheirwaytomockrunners.Driverswouldslowdownandhonktheirhorns.“Getahorse!” they’dyell, throwingabeerorsodaattherunner’shead.JohnsonhadbeendrenchedbymanyaPepsi.He

wantedtochangeallthis.Hewantedtohelpalltheoppressedrunnersoftheworld,tobringthemintothelight,enfoldtheminacommunity.Somaybehewasasocialworkerafterall.Hejustwantedtosocializeexclusivelywithrunners.

Aboveall, Johnsonwanted tomakea livingdoing it,whichwasnext toimpossiblein1965.Inme,inBlueRibbon,hethoughthesawaway.

IdideverythingIcouldtodiscourageJohnsonfromthinkinglikethis.Atevery turn I tried to dampen his enthusiasm for me and my company.Besidesnotwritingback,Ineverphoned,nevervisited,neverinvitedhimtoOregon. I also never missed an opportunity to tell him the unvarnishedtruth. In one ofmy rare replies to his letters I put it flatly: “Though ourgrowthhasbeengood, IoweFirstNationalBankofOregon$11,000. . . .Cashflowisnegative.”

Hewrotebackimmediately,askingifhecouldworkformefull-time.“IwanttobeabletomakeitonTiger,andtheopportunitywouldexistformetodootherthingsaswell—running,school,nottomentionbeingmyownboss.”

I shookmyhead. I tell themanBlueRibbon is sinking like theTitanic,andherespondsbybeggingforaberthinfirstclass.

Ohwell,Ithought,ifwedogodown,miserylovescompany.So in the late summer of 1965 Iwrote and accepted Johnson’s offer to

becomethefirstfull-timeemployeeofBlueRibbon.Wenegotiatedhissalaryviathemail.He’dbeenmaking$460amonthasasocialworker,buthesaidhe could live on $400. I agreed. Reluctantly. It seemed exorbitant, butJohnsonwassoscattered,soflighty,andBlueRibbonwassotenuous—onewayoranotherIfigureditwastemporary.

As ever, the accountant in me saw the risk, the entrepreneur saw thepossibility.SoIsplitthedifferenceandkeptmovingforward.

AND THEN I stopped thinking about Johnson altogether. I had biggerproblemsatthemoment.Mybankerwasupsetwithme.

After posting eight thousand dollars in sales in my first year, I wasprojectingsixteenthousanddollarsinmysecondyear,andaccordingtomybankerthiswasaverytroublingtrend.

“Aonehundredpercentincreaseinsalesistroubling?”Iasked.“Yourrateofgrowthistoofastforyourequity,”hesaid.“Howcansuchasmallcompanygrowtoofast?Ifasmallcompanygrows

fast,itbuildsupitsequity.”“It’sallthesameprinciple,regardlessofsize,”hesaid.“Growthoffyour

balancesheetisdangerous.”“Lifeisgrowth,”Isaid.“Businessisgrowth.Yougroworyoudie.”“That’snothowweseeit.”“Youmightaswelltellarunnerinaracethathe’srunningtoofast.”“Applesandoranges.”Yourheadisfullofapplesandoranges,Iwantedtosay.It was textbook tome.Growing sales, plus profitability, plus unlimited

upside, equalsquality company. In thosedays,however, commercialbankswere different from investment banks. Their myopic focus was cashbalances.Theywantedyoutonever,everoutgrowyourcashbalance.

AgainandagainI’dgentlytrytoexplaintheshoebusinesstomybanker.If Idon’tkeepgrowing, I’d say, Iwon’tbeable topersuadeOnitsuka thatI’m thebestman todistribute their shoes in theWest. If I can’tpersuadeOnitsukathatI’mthebest,they’llfindsomeotherMarlboroMantotakemyplace. And that doesn’t even take into account the battlewith the biggestmonsteroutthere,Adidas.

Mybankerwasunmoved.UnlikeAthena,hedidnotadmiremyeyesofpersuasion. “Mr. Knight,” he’d say, again and again, “you need to slowdown.Youdon’thaveenoughequityforthiskindofgrowth.”

Equity.HowIwasbeginningtoloathethisword.Mybankeruseditoverandover, until it became a tune I couldn’t get out ofmyhead.Equity—Iheard itwhilebrushingmyteeth in themorning.Equity—Iheard itwhilepunchingmypillowatnight.Equity—IreachedthepointwhereIrefusedtoevensayitaloud,becauseitwasn’tarealword,itwasbureaucraticjargon,a

euphemismforcoldhard cash,ofwhich Ihadnone.Purposely.Anydollarthatwasn’tnaileddownIwasplowingdirectlybackintothebusiness.Wasthatsorash?

Tohavecashbalancessittingarounddoingnothingmadenosensetome.Sure, itwouldhavebeenthecautious,conservative,prudentthing.Buttheroadside was littered with cautious, conservative, prudent entrepreneurs. Iwantedtokeepmyfootpressedhardonthegaspedal.

Somehow, inmeeting aftermeeting, I heldmy tongue. Everythingmybankersaid,Iultimatelyaccepted.ThenI’ddoexactlyasIpleased.I’dplaceanother order with Onitsuka, double the size of the previous order, andshowupatthebankallwide-eyedinnocence,askingforaletterofcredittocover it.Mybankerwouldalwaysbe shocked.YouwantHOWmuch?AndI’dalwayspretendtobeshockedthathewasshocked.Ithoughtyou’dseethewisdom . . . I’dwheedle, grovel,negotiate, andeventuallyhe’d approvemyloan.

AfterI’dsoldouttheshoes,andrepaidtheborrowinginfull,I’ddoitallover again. Place a mega order with Onitsuka, double the size of thepreviousorder,thengotothebankinmybestsuit,anangelic lookonmyface.

Mybanker’snamewasHarryWhite.Fiftyish,avuncular,withavoicelikeahandfulofgravelinablender,hedidn’tseemtowanttobeabanker,andheparticularlydidn’twanttobemybanker.Heinheritedmebydefault.Myfirst banker had been Ken Curry, but when my father refused to be myguarantor, Curry phoned him straightaway. “Between us, Bill, if the kid’scompanygoesunder—you’llstillbackhim,right?”

“Hellno,”myfathersaid.SoCurrydecidedhewantednopartof this father-son internecinewar,

andturnedmeovertoWhite.WhitewasavicepresidentatFirstNational,butthistitlewasmisleading.

He didn’t have much power. The bosses were always looking over hisshoulder,second-guessinghim,andthebossiestofbosseswasamannamed

BobWallace.ItwasWallacewhomadelifedifficultforWhite,andtherebyforme.ItwasWallacewhofetishizedequityandpooh-poohedgrowth.

Squarely built, with a thuggish face andNixonian five o’clock shadow,Wallacewas tenyearsmysenior,butsomehowthoughthimself thebank’sboywonder.Hewasalsodetermined tobecomethebank’snextpresident,andheviewedallbad credit risks as themain roadblockbetweenhimandthatgoal.Hedidn’tlikegivingcredittoanyone,foranything,butwithmybalance hovering always around zero, he saw me as a disaster waiting tohappen.Oneslowseason,onedownturninsales,I’dbeoutofbusiness,thelobbyofWallace’sbankwouldbefilledwithmyunsoldshoes,andtheholygrail of bank presidentwould slip fromhis grasp.Like Sarah atopMountFuji,Wallacesawmeasarebel,buthedidn’tthinkofthisasacompliment.Nor,intheend,cometothinkofit,hadshe.

Ofcourse,Wallacedidn’talwayssayall thisdirectlytome.Itwasoftenconveyed by his middleman, White. White believed in me, and in BlueRibbon,buthe’d tellmeall the time,with a sadhead shake, thatWallacemade thedecisions,Wallace signed thechecks, andWallacewasno fanofPhilKnight. I thought itwas fitting, and telling, and hopeful, thatWhitewouldusethatword—“fan.”Hewastall,lean,aformerathletewholovedtotalk sports. No wonder we saw eye to eye. Wallace, on the other hand,lookedasifhe’dneversetfootonaballfield.Unlessmaybetorepossesstheequipment.

WhatsweetsatisfactionitwouldhavebeentotellWallacewherehecouldshove his equity, then storm out and take my business elsewhere. But in1965therewasnoelsewhere.FirstNationalBankwastheonlygameintownandWallace knew it. Oregon was smaller back then, and it had just twobanks, First National and U.S. Bank. The latter had already turned medown.IfIgotthrownoutoftheformer,I’dbedone.(Todayyoucanliveinone state and bank in another, no problem, but banking regulations weremuchtighterinthosedays.)

Also, there was no such thing as venture capital. An aspiring youngentrepreneurhadveryfewplacestoturn,andthoseplaceswereallguarded

by risk-aversegatekeeperswith zero imagination. Inotherwords, bankers.Wallacewastherule,nottheexception.

Tomakeeverythingmoredifficult,Onitsukawasalwayslateshippingmyshoes,whichmeantlesstimetosell,whichmeantlesstimetomakeenoughmoney to cover my loan. When I complained, Onitsuka didn’t answer.When they did answer, they failed to appreciatemy quandary. Time andagainI’dsendthema frantic telex, inquiringabout thewhereaboutsof thelatest shipment, and in response I’d typically get a telex that wasmaddeningly obtuse. Little more days. It was like dialing 911 and hearingsomeoneontheotherendyawn.

Given all these problems, givenBlueRibbon’s cloudy future, I decidedthatI’dbettergetarealjob,somethingsafetofallbackonwheneverythingwentbust.AtthesamemomentJohnsondevotedhimselfexclusivelytoBlueRibbon,Idecidedtobranchout.

Bynow I’dpassed all fourparts of theCPAexam.So Imailedmy testresultsandrésumétoseverallocalfirms,interviewedwiththreeorfour,andgot hired by Price Waterhouse. Like it or not, I was officially andirrevocably a card-carrying bean counter. My tax returns for that yearwouldn’t list my occupation as self-employed, or business owner, orentrepreneur.TheywouldidentifymeasPhilipH.Knight,Accountant.

MOST DAYS I didn’tmind.Forstarters,Iinvestedahealthyportionofmypaycheck into Blue Ribbon’s account at the bank, padding my preciousequity, boosting the company’s cash balance. Also, unlike Lybrand, thePortland branch of Price Waterhouse was a midsized firm. It had somethirty accountants on staff, compared to Lybrand’s four, whichmade it abetterfitforme.

Theworksuitedmebetter,too.PriceWaterhouseboastedagreatvarietyofclients,amixofinterestingstart-upsandestablishedcompanies,allsellingeverything imaginable—lumber, water, power, food.While auditing thesecompanies,diggingintotheirguts,takingthemapartandputtingthemback

together, Iwas also learning how they survived, or didn’t.How they soldthings,ordidn’t.Howtheygotintotrouble,howtheygotout.Itookcarefulnotesaboutwhatmadecompaniestick,whatmadethemfail.

AgainandagainIlearnedthatlackofequitywasaleadingcauseoffailure.Theaccountantsworkedinteams,generally,andtheATeamwasheaded

byDelbert J.Hayes, thebest accountant in theoffice, andby far itsmostflamboyantcharacter.Sixfoottwo,threehundredpounds,mostofitstuffedsausage-likeintoanexceedinglyinexpensivepolyestersuit,Hayespossessedgreattalent,greatwit,greatpassion—andgreatappetites.Nothinggavehimmorepleasurethanlayingwastetoahoagieandabottleofvodka,unlessitwas doing both while studying a spreadsheet. And he had a comparablehungerforsmoke.Rainorshineheneededsmokerunningthroughhislungsandnasalpassages.Hechuffedthroughatleasttwopacksaday.

I’d met other accountants who knew numbers, who had a way withnumbers, but Hayes was to the numbers born. In a column of otherwiseunspectacularfoursandninesandtwos,hecoulddiscerntherawelementsofBeauty.Helookedatnumbersthewaythepoetlooksatclouds,thewaythegeologistlooksatrocks.Hecoulddrawfromthemrhapsodicsong,demotictruths.

Anduncannypredictions.Hayescouldusenumberstotellthefuture.DayafterdayIwatchedHayesdosomethingI’dneverthoughtpossible:

He made accounting an art.Which meant he, and I, and all of us, wereartists. Itwas awonderful thought, an ennobling thought, one thatwouldhaveneveroccurredtome.

IntellectuallyIalwaysknewthatnumberswerebeautiful.OnsomelevelIunderstoodthatnumbersrepresentedasecretcode,thatbehindeveryrowofnumbers layetherealPlatonic forms.Myaccountingclasseshadtaughtmethat, sort of. As had sports. Running track gives you a fierce respect fornumbers, because you arewhat your numbers say you are, nothingmore,nothingless.IfIpostedabadtimeinarace,theremighthavebeenreasons—injury,fatigue,brokenheart—butnoonecared.Mynumbers,intheend,

wereall that anyonewould remember. I’d lived this reality,butHayes theartistmademefeelit.

Alas, I came to fear that Hayes was the tragic kind of artist, the self-sabotaging,vanGoghkind.Heundercuthimselfatthefirm,everyday,bydressing badly, slouching badly, behaving badly. He also had an array ofphobias—heights,snakes,bugs,confinedspaces—whichcouldbeoff-puttingtohisbossesandcolleagues.

Buthewasmostphobicaboutdiets.PriceWaterhousewouldhavemadeHayesapartner,withouthesitation,despiteallhismanyvices,butthefirmcouldn’t overlook his weight. It wasn’t going to tolerate a three-hundred-poundpartner.More than likely itwas thisunhappy fact thatmadeHayeseatsomuchinthefirstplace.Whateverthereason,heatealot.

By1965hedrankasmuchasheate,whichissayingalot.Andherefusedtodrinkalone.Comequittingtime,he’dinsistthatallhisjunioraccountantsjoinhim.

He talked like he drank, nonstop, and some of the other accountantscalledhimUncleRemus.ButIneverdid.IneverrolledmyeyesatHayes’sstem-winders.Eachstorycontainedsomegemofwisdomaboutbusiness—whatmade companies work, what the ledgers of a company reallymeant.Thus,manynights, I’dvoluntarily, eveneagerly, enter somePortlanddiveandmatchHayes round for round, shot for shot. In themorningI’dwakefeelingsickerthanIhadinthathammockinCalcutta,anditwouldtakeallmyself-disciplinetobeofanyusetoPriceWaterhouse.

Itdidn’thelpthat,whenIwasn’tafootsoldierinHayes’sArmy,Iwasstillserving in theReserves. (Aseven-yearcommitment.)Tuesdaynights, fromseven to ten, I had to throw a switch in my brain and become FirstLieutenantKnight.Myunitwas composedof longshoremen, andwewereoften stationed in the warehouse district, a few football fields away fromwhereIpickedupmyshipmentsfromOnitsuka.MostnightsmymenandIwould loadandunload ships,maintain jeepsand trucks.Manynightswe’ddoPT—physicaltraining.Push-ups,pull-ups,sit-ups,running.IrememberonenightI ledmycompanyonafour-milerun.Ineededtosweatoutthe

boozefromaHayesbinge,soIsetakillingpace,andsteadily increasedit,grindingmyselfandthementodust.After,Ioverheardonepantingsoldiertell another: “I was listening real close as Lieutenant Knight countedcadence.Ineveronceheardthatmantakeadeepbreath!”

Itwasperhapsmyonlytriumphof1965.

SOME TUESDAY NIGHTS in the Reserves were set aside for classroomtime. Instructors would talk to us about military strategy, which I foundriveting.The instructorswouldoftenbegin class by dissecting some long-ago,famousbattle.Butinvariablytheywoulddriftofftopic,ontoVietnam.Theconflictwasgettinghotter.TheUnitedStateswasbeingdrawntowardit, inexorably, as if by a giant magnet. One instructor told us to get ourpersonal lives in order, kiss our wives and girlfriends good-bye.Weweregoingtobe“intheshit—realsoon.”

Ihadgrown tohate thatwar.Not simplybecause I felt itwaswrong. Ialso felt itwas stupid,wasteful. Ihated stupidity. Ihatedwaste.Above all,thatwar,morethanotherwars,seemedtoberunalongthesameprinciplesasmybank.Fightnottowin,buttoavoidlosing.Asurefirelosingstrategy.

Myfellowsoldiersfeltthesameway.Isitanywonderthat,themomentweweredismissed,wemarcheddouble-timetothenearestbar?

BetweentheReservesandHayes,Iwasn’tsuremyliverwasgoingtosee1966.

NOWANDTHENHayeswouldhittheroad,visitclientsacrossOregon,andI frequently found myself part of his traveling medicine show. Of all hisjunior accountants, Imight have been his favorite, but especiallywhen hetraveled.

IlikedHayes,alot,butIwasalarmedtodiscoverthatwhenontheroadhereally lethishairdown.Andasalwaysheexpectedhiscohortstodothesame.ItwasneverenoughtojustdrinkwithHayes.Hedemandedthatyoumatch him drop for drop. He counted drinks as carefully as he counted

credits anddebits.He saidoften thathebelieved in teamwork, and if youwereonhisteam,byGodyou’dbetterfinishthatdamndrink.

Half a century latermy stomach rollswhen I recall touringwithHayesaroundAlbany,Oregon, doing a job forWahChungExoticMetals.Eachnight,aftercrunchingthenumbers,we’dhitalittlediveontheedgeoftownandcloseitdown.Ialsorecall,dimly,blurreddaysinWallaWalla,doingajobforBirdsEye,followedbynightcapsattheCityClub.WallaWallawasadry town, but bars got around the law by calling themselves “clubs.”Membership intheCityClubwasonedollar,andHayeswasamember ingoodstanding—untilImisbehavedandgotuskickedout.Idon’trememberwhatIdid,butI’msureitwasawful.I’mequallysureIcouldn’thelpmyself.Bythenmybloodwas50percentgin.

IvaguelyrememberthrowingupalloverHayes’scar.Ivaguelyrememberhimverysweetlyandpatientlytellingmetocleanitup.WhatIremembervividly is that Hayes grew red in the face, righteously indignant on mybehalf,eventhoughIwasclearlyinthewrong,andresignedhismembershipintheCityClub.Suchloyalty,suchunreasonableandunwarrantedfealty—thatmighthavebeenthemomentIfell in lovewithHayes.I lookeduptothemanwhenhesawsomethingdeeperinnumbers,butIlovedhimwhenhesawsomethingspecialinme.

Ononeofthoseroadtrips,inoneofourboozylate-nightconversations,ItoldHayes about BlueRibbon.He saw promise in it.He also saw doom.Thenumbers,hesaid,didn’tlie.“Startinganewcompany,”hesaid,“inthiseconomy?Andashoecompany?Withzerocashbalance?”Heslouchedandshookhisbigfuzzyhead.

On theotherhand,he said, Ihadone thing inmy favor.Bowerman.Alegendforapartner—thatwasoneassetforwhichitwasimpossibletoassignanumber.

PLUS,MYASSETwasrisinginvalue.BowermanhadgonetoJapanforthe1964Olympics, to support themembers of theU.S. track-and-field team

he’d coached. (Two of his runners, Bill Dellinger and Harry Jerome,medaled.)Andafter theGames,Bowermanhad switchedhats andbecomeanambassadorforBlueRibbon.HeandMrs.Bowerman—whoseChristmasClubaccounthadprovidedthe initial fivehundreddollarsBowermangavemetoformourpartnership—visitedOnitsukaandcharmedeveryoneinthebuilding.

They were given a royal welcome, a VIP tour of the factory, andMorimoto even introduced them toMr. Onitsuka. The two old lions, ofcourse,bonded.Both,afterall,werebuiltfromthesamelast,shapedbythesame war. Both still approached everyday life as a battle. Mr. Onitsuka,however, had the particular tenacity of the defeated, which impressedBowerman.Mr.OnitsukatoldBowermanaboutfoundinghisshoecompanyin the ruins of Japan, when all the big cities were still smoldering fromAmericanbombs.He’dbuilthisfirstlasts,foralineofbasketballshoes,bypouring hot wax from Buddhist candles over his own feet. Though thebasketballshoesdidn’tsell,Mr.Onitsukadidn’tgiveup.Hesimplyswitchedtorunningshoes,andtherestwasshoehistory.EveryJapaneserunnerinthe1964Games,Bowermantoldme,waswearingTigers.

Mr.OnitsukaalsotoldBowermanthattheinspirationfortheuniquesolesonTigershadcometohimwhileeatingsushi.Lookingdownathiswoodenplatter,attheundersideofanoctopus’sleg,hethoughtasimilarsuctioncupmight work on the sole of a runner’s flat. Bowerman filed that away.Inspiration,helearned,cancomefromquotidianthings.Thingsyoumighteat.Orfindlyingaroundthehouse.

NowbackinOregon,Bowermanwashappilycorrespondingwithhisnewfriend,Mr.Onitsuka,andwith theentireproductionteamat theOnitsukafactory.Hewas sending thembunches of ideas andmodifications of theirproducts.Though all people are the same under the skin, Bowerman hadcometobelievethatallfeetarenotcreatedequal.Americanshavedifferentbodies than Japanese do—longer, heavier—and Americans therefore needdifferentshoes.AfterdissectingadozenpairsofTigers,Bowermansawhow

theycouldbetailoredtocatertoAmericancustomers.Tothatend,hehadaslewofnotes,sketches,designs,allofwhichhewasfiringofftoJapan.

Sadly,hewasdiscovering,asIhad,thatnomatterhowwellyougotalongin personwith the team atOnitsuka, thingswere different once youwereback on your side of the Pacific. Most of Bowerman’s letters wentunanswered.Whentherewasananswer,itwascryptic,orcurtlydismissive.ItpainedmeattimestothinktheJapaneseweretreatingBowermanthewayIwastreatingJohnson.

But Bowerman wasn’t me. He didn’t take rejection to heart. LikeJohnson,whenhisletterswentunanswered,Bowermansimplywrotemore.Withmoreunderlinedwords,moreexclamationmarks.

Nor did he flag in his experiments.He continued to tear apartTigers,continuedtousetheyoungmenonhistrackteamsaslabmice.Duringtheautumn track season of 1965, every race had two results for Bowerman.Therewastheperformanceofhisrunners,andtherewastheperformanceoftheir shoes.Bowermanwouldnotehow the archesheldup, how the solesgrippedthecinders,howthetoespinchedandtheinstepflexed.Thenhe’dairmailhisnotesandfindingstoJapan.

Eventuallyhebrokethrough.OnitsukamadeprototypesthatconformedtoBowerman’svisionofamoreAmericanshoe.Soft innersole,morearchsupport,heelwedgetoreducestressontheAchillestendon—theysenttheprototypetoBowermanandhewentwildforit.Heaskedformore.Hethenhanded these experimental shoes out to all his runners,whoused them tocrushthecompetition.

AlittlesuccessalwayswenttoBowerman’shead,inthebestway.Aroundthistimehewasalsotestingsportselixirs,magicpotionsandpowderstogivehisrunnersmoreenergyandstamina.WhenIwasonhisteamhe’dtalkedabout the importance of replacing an athlete’s salt and electrolytes. He’dforcedmeandothers to chokedownapotionhe’d invented, a vilegooofmushed bananas, lemonade, tea, honey, and several unnamed ingredients.Now, while tinkering with shoes, he was also monkeying with his sports

drinkrecipe,makingittasteworseandworkbetter.Itwasn’tuntilyearslaterthatIrealizedBowermanwastryingtoinventGatorade.

Inhis“freetime,”helikedtonoodlewiththesurfaceatHaywardField.Haywardwas hallowed ground, steeped in tradition, butBowermandidn’tbelieveinlettingtraditionslowyoudown.Wheneverrainfell,whichitdidall the time inEugene,Hayward’s cinder lanes turned toVenetian canals.Bowerman thought something rubberywouldbe easier todry, sweep, andclean.Healso thought somethingrubberymightbemore forgivingonhisrunners’feet.Soheboughtacementmixer,filleditwitholdshreddedtiresand assorted chemicals, and spent hours searching for just the rightconsistencyandtexture.Morethanoncehemadehimselfviolentlysickfrominhalingthefumesofthiswitches’brew.Blindingheadaches,apronouncedlimp, loss of vision—these were a few of the lasting costs of hisperfectionism.

Again, itwasyearsbeforeIrealizedwhatBowermanwasactuallyupto.Hewastryingtoinventpolyurethane.

I once asked him how he fit everything into a twenty-four-hour day.Coaching,traveling,experimenting,raisingafamily.Hegruntedasiftosay,“It’snothing.”Thenhetoldme,sottovoce,thatontopofeverythingelse,hewasalsowritingabook.

“Abook?”Isaid.“Aboutjogging,”hesaidgruffly.Bowermanwasforevergripingthatpeoplemakethemistakeofthinking

onlyeliteOlympiansareathletes.Buteveryone’sanathlete,hesaid.Ifyouhave a body, you’re an athlete.Now he was determined to get this pointacrosstoalargeraudience.Thereadingpublic.“Soundsinteresting,”Isaid,butIthoughtmyoldcoachhadpoppedascrew.Whoinheckwouldwanttoreadabookaboutjogging?

1966

AsInearedtheendofmycontractwithOnitsuka,Icheckedthemailevery

day,hopingfora letter thatwouldsaytheywantedtorenew.Orthat theydidn’t.Therewouldbe relief in knowing eitherway.Of course Iwas alsohoping for a letter from Sarah, saying she’d changed her mind. And asalwaysIwasbracedforaletterfrommybank,tellingmemybusinesswasnolongerwelcome.

But everyday theonly letterswere from Johnson.LikeBowerman, themandidn’tsleep.Ever.Icouldthinkofnootherexplanationforhisceaselessstreamofcorrespondence.Muchofwhichwaspointless.Alongwithgobsofinformation Ididn’tneed, the typical Johnson letterwould include severallongparentheticalasides,andsomekindoframblingjoke.

Theremightalsobeahand-drawnillustration.Theremightalsobeamusicallyric.Sometimestherewasapoem.Batted out on amanual typewriter that violentlyBrailled the onionskin

pages,manyJohnsonletterscontainedsomekindofstory.Maybe“parable”is a better word.How Johnson had sold this person a pair ofTigers, butdown the road saidpersonmightbegood forXmorepairs, and thereforeJohnson had a plan . . .How Johnson had chased and badgered the headcoachatsuch-and-suchhighschool,andtriedtosellhimsixpairs,butintheendsoldhimabaker’sdozen...whichjustwenttoshow...

Often Johnson would describe in excruciating detail the latest ad he’dplacedorwascontemplatingplacinginthebackpagesofLongDistanceLogorTrack&FieldNews.Orhe’ddescribethephotographofaTigershoehe’d

included with the ad. He’d constructed a makeshift photo studio in hishouse, and he’d pose the shoes seductively on the sofa, against a blacksweater.Nevermindthatitsoundedabitlikeshoeporn,Ijustdidn’tseethepointofplacingadsinmagazinesreadexclusivelybyrunningnerds.Ididn’tsee thepointofadvertising,period.But Johnsonseemedtobehaving fun,andhesworetheadsworked,so,fine,farbeitfrommetostophim.

The typical Johnson letter would invariably close with a lament, eithersarcastic or pointedly earnest, aboutmy failure to respond to his previousletter.Andtheonebeforethat,etc.ThentherewouldbeaPS,andusuallyanother PS, and sometimes a pagoda of PS’s. Then one last plea forencouragingwords,whichInever sent. Ididn’thave time forencouragingwords.Besides,itwasn’tmystyle.

I look back now and wonder if I was truly being myself, or if I wasemulatingBowerman,ormyfather,orboth.WasIadoptingtheirman-of-few-wordsdemeanor?WasImaybemodelingallthemenIadmired?Atthetime I was reading everything I could get my hands on about generals,samurai, shoguns, along with biographies of my three main heroes—Churchill, Kennedy, and Tolstoy. I had no love of violence, but I wasfascinatedby leadership,or lack thereof,underextremeconditions.War isthe most extreme of conditions. But business has its warlike parallels.Someone somewhere once said that business is war without bullets, and Itendedtoagree.

Iwasn’tthatunique.ThroughouthistorymenhavelookedtothewarriorforamodelofHemingway’scardinalvirtue,pressurizedgrace.(HemingwayhimselfwrotemostofAMoveableFeastwhilegazingatastatueofMarshalNey,Napoléon’sfavoritecommander.)OnelessonItookfromallmyhome-schooling about heroes was that they didn’t say much. None was ablabbermouth. None micromanaged.Don’t tell people how to do things, tellthemwhattodoandletthemsurpriseyouwiththeirresults.SoIdidn’tanswerJohnson,andIdidn’tpesterhim.Havingtoldhimwhattodo,Ihopedthathewouldsurpriseme.

Maybewithsilence.

ToJohnson’scredit,thoughhecravedmorecommunication,heneverletthe lack of it discourage him.On the contrary, itmotivated him.Hewasanal,herecognizedthatIwasnot,andthoughheenjoyedcomplaining(tome, tomy sister, tomutual friends), he saw thatmymanagerial stylegavehim freedom. Left to do as he pleased, he responded with boundlesscreativityandenergy.Heworkedsevendaysaweek,sellingandpromotingBlueRibbon,andwhenhewasn’tselling,hewasbeaverishlybuildinguphiscustomerdatafiles.

Eachnewcustomergothisorherown indexcard, andeach indexcardcontained that customer’s personal information, shoe size, and shoepreferences. This database enabled Johnson to keep in touch with all hiscustomers, at all times, and tokeep themall feeling special.He sent themChristmas cards. He sent them birthday cards. He sent them notes ofcongratulationaftertheycompletedabigraceormarathon.WheneverIgotaletterfromJohnsonIknewitwasoneofdozenshe’dcarrieddowntothemailbox that day. He had hundreds and hundreds of customer-correspondents,allalongthespectrumofhumanity,fromhighschooltrackstars to octogenarian weekend joggers. Many, upon pulling yet anotherJohnsonletterfromtheirmailboxes,musthavethoughtthesamethingIdid:“Wheredoesthisguyfindthetime?”

Unlike me, however, most customers came to depend on Johnson’sletters. Most wrote him back. They’d tell him about their lives, theirtroubles,theirinjuries,andJohnsonwouldlavishlyconsole,sympathize,andadvise.Especiallyaboutinjuries.Fewinthe1960sknewthefirstthingaboutrunninginjuries,orsportsinjuriesingeneral,soJohnson’sletterswereoftenfilledwithinformationthatwasimpossibletofindanywhereelse.Iworriedbrieflyaboutliabilityissues.IalsoworriedthatI’donedaygetalettersayingJohnsonhadrentedabusandwasdrivingthemalltothedoctor.

Some customers freely volunteered their opinion about Tigers, soJohnson began aggregating this customer feedback, using it to create newdesign sketches.Oneman, for instance, complained thatTiger flats didn’thave enough cushion.He wanted to run the BostonMarathon but didn’t

think Tigers would last the twenty-six miles. So Johnson hired a localcobblertograftrubbersolesfromapairofshowershoesintoapairofTigerflats.Voilà. Johnson’sFrankenstein flathad space-age, full-length,midsolecushioning.(Todayit’sstandardinalltrainingshoesforrunners.)Thejerry-rigged Johnson sole was so dynamic, so soft, so new, Johnson’s customerposted a personal best in Boston. Johnson forwarded me the results andurgedmetopassthemalongtoTiger.Bowermanhadjustaskedmetodothesamewithhisbatchofnotesafewweeksearlier.Goodgrief,Ithought,onemadgeniusatatime.

EVERY NOW ANDthenI’dmakeamentalnotetowarnJohnsonabouthisgrowing listofpenpals.BlueRibbonwassupposedtoconfine itself tothethirteenwesternstates,andFull-timeEmployeeNumberOnewasnotdoingso. Johnson had customers in thirty-seven states, including the entireEasternSeaboard,whichwastheheartofMarlboroCountry.TheMarlboroManwasn’tdoinganythingwithhisterritory,soJohnson’sincursionsseemedharmless.Butwedidn’twanttorubtheman’snoseinit.

Still, I never got around to telling Johnson my concerns. Per usual, Ididn’ttellhimanything.

ATTHE STARTofsummerIdecidedmyparents’basementwasnolongerbigenoughtoserveas theheadquartersofBlueRibbon.Andtheservants’quarters weren’t big enough for me. I rented a one-bedroom apartmentdowntown, in a spiffy new high-rise. The rent was two hundred dollars,whichseemedprettysteep,butohwell.Ialsorentedafewessentials—table,chairs, king-sizedbed, olive couch—and tried to arrange them stylishly. Itdidn’tlooklikemuch,butIdidn’tcare,becausemyrealfurniturewasshoes.Myfirst-everbachelorpadwasfilledfromfloortoceilingwithshoes.

ItoyedwiththeideaofnotgivingJohnsonmynewaddress.ButIdid.Sureenough,mynewmailboxbegantofillwithletters.Returnaddress:

P.O.Box492,SealBeach,CA90740.

NoneofwhichIanswered.

THEN JOHNSON WROTEmetwolettersIcouldn’t ignore.First,hesaidthat he, too,wasmoving.He and his newwifewere splitting up.HewasplanningtostayinSealBeach,buttakingasmallbachelorapartment.

Dayslaterhewrotetosayhe’dbeeninacarwreck.Ithappened in theearlymorning, somewherenorthofSanBernardino.

Hewasonhiswaytoaroadrace,ofcourse,wherehe’dintendedtobothrunandsellTigers.He’dfallenasleepatthewheel,hewrote,andwoketofindhimselfandhis1956VolkswagenBugupsidedownandairborne.Hestruckthedivider,thenrolled,thenflewoutofthecar,justbeforeitsomersaulteddowntheembankment.WhenJohnson’sbodyfinallystoppedtumbling,hewas on his back, looking at the sky, his collarbone, foot, and skull allshattered.

Theskull,hesaid,wasactuallyleaking.Worse,beingnewlydivorced,hehadnoonetocare forhimduringhis

convalescence.Thepoorguywasonedeaddogfrombecomingacountry-westernsong.Despite all these recent calamities, Johnson was of good cheer. He

assuredme in a seriesof chirpy follow-up letters thathewasmanaging tomeetallhisobligations.Hewasdragginghimselfaroundhisnewapartment,fillingorders,shippingshoes,correspondingpromptlywithallcustomers.Afriendwasbringinghimhismail,hesaid,sonottoworry,P.O.Box492wasstill fullyoperational. Inclosing,headded thatbecausehewasnow facingalimony,childsupport,anduntoldmedicalbills,heneededtoinquireaboutthelong-termprospectsofBlueRibbon.HowdidIseethefuture?

Ididn’tlie...exactly.Maybeoutofpity,maybehauntedbytheimageofJohnson,single, lonely,hisbodywrappedinplasterofParis,gamelytryingto keep himself and my company alive, I sounded an upbeat tone. BlueRibbon, I said, would probably morph over the years into a generalizedsporting goods company.We’d probably have offices on theWest Coast.

Andoneday,maybe, in Japan. “Farfetched,” Iwrote. “But it seemsworthshootingfor.”

This last line was wholly truthful. It was worth shooting for. If BlueRibbonwentbust,I’dhavenomoney,andI’dbecrushed.ButI’dalsohavesome valuablewisdom,which I could apply to the next business.Wisdomseemedan intangibleasset,butanasset all the same,one that justified therisk.Startingmyownbusinesswastheonlythingthatmadelife’sotherrisks—marriage,Vegas,alligatorwrestling—seemlikesurethings.ButmyhopewasthatwhenI failed, if I failed, I’d failquickly, soI’dhaveenoughtime,enough years, to implement all the hard-won lessons. I wasn’t much forsettinggoals,butthisgoalkeptflashingthroughmymindeveryday,untilitbecamemyinternalchant:Failfast.

InclosingItoldJohnsonthatifhecouldsell3,250pairsofTigersbytheend of June 1966—completely impossible, by my calculations—I wouldauthorizehimtoopenthatretailoutlethe’dbeenharassingmeabout.Ievenput a PS at the bottom, which I knew he’d devour like a candy treat. Iremindedhimthathewassellingsomanyshoes,sofast,hemightwanttospeaktoanaccountant.Thereareincometaxissuestoconsider,Isaid.

Hefiredbackasarcasticthanksforthetaxadvice.Hewouldn’tbefilingtaxes, he said, “because gross income was $1,209 while expenses total$1,245.”His legbroken,hisheartbroken,he toldmethathewasalsoflatbroke.Hesignedoff:“Pleasesendencouragingwords.”

Ididn’t.

SOMEHOW, JOHNSON HITthemagic number.By the endof Junehe’dsold3,250pairsofTigers.Andhe’dhealed.Thus,hewasholdingmetomyendofthebargain.BeforeLaborDayheleasedasmallretailspaceat3107PicoBoulevard,inSantaMonica,andopenedourfirst-everretailstore.

He then set about turning the store into amecca, a holy of holies forrunners.Hebought themost comfortable chairshe could find, and afford(yard sales), and he created a beautiful space for runners to hang out and

talk.Hebuilt shelves and filled themwithbooks that every runner shouldread,manyofthemfirsteditionsfromhisownlibrary.HecoveredthewallswithphotosofTiger-shodrunners,andlaidinasupplyofsilk-screenedT-shirtswithTigeracrossthefront,whichhehandedouttohisbestcustomers.HealsostuckTigerstoablacklacqueredwallandilluminatedthemwithastrip of can lights—very hip. Verymod. In all the world there had neverbeensuchasanctuaryforrunners,aplacethatdidn’tjustsellthemshoesbutcelebratedthemandtheirshoes.Johnson,theaspiringcultleaderofrunners,finallyhadhischurch.ServiceswereMondaythroughSaturday,ninetosix.

When he first wroteme about the store, I thought of the temples andshrinesI’dseeninAsia,andIwasanxioustoseehowJohnson’scompared.But there just wasn’t time. Between my hours at Price Waterhouse, mydrunkenrevelswithHayes,mynightsandweekendshandlingtheminutiaeconnectedwithBlueRibbon,andmyfourteenhourseachmonthsoldieringintheReserves,Iwasonfumes.

ThenJohnsonwrotemeafatefulletter,andIhadnochoice.Ijumpedonaplane.

JOHNSON’S CUSTOMER PENpals now numbered in the hundreds, andoneofthem,ahighschoolkidonLongIsland,hadwrittentoJohnsonandinadvertentlyrevealedsometroublingnews.Thekidsaidhistrackcoachhadrecentlybeen talking about acquiringTigers fromanew source . . . somewrestlingcoachinValleyStreamorMassapequaorManhasset.

TheMarlboroManwasback.He’devenplacedanationaladinanissueof Track and Field. While Johnson was busy poaching on the MarlboroMan’s turf, the Marlboro Man was poaching our poaching. Johnson haddone all thismarvelousgroundwork,hadbuiltup this enormous customerbase,hadspread thewordaboutTigers throughhisdoggednessandcrudemarketing, and now the Marlboro Man was going to swoop in andcapitalize?

I’mnotsurewhyIhoppedonthenextplanetoLosAngeles.Icouldhavephoned.Maybe, like Johnson’scustomers, Ineededa senseofcommunity,evenifitwasacommunityofjusttwo.

THE FIRSTTHINGwedidwasgoforalong,punishingrunonthebeach.Thenwebought a pizza andbrought it back to his apartment,whichwasyour standard Divorced Guy Pad, only more so. Tiny, dark, sparse—itremindedme of some of the no-frills hostelswhere I’d stayed onmy triparoundtheworld.

Of course there were a few distinctly Johnsonian touches. Like shoeseverywhere. I thought my apartment was filled with shoes, but Johnsonbasically lived inside a running shoe. Shoved into every nook and cranny,spread across every surface,were running shoes, andmore running shoes,mostinsomestateofdeconstruction.

Thefewnooksandcranniesthatdidn’tholdshoeswerefilledwithbooks,and more books, piled on homemade bookshelves, rough planks laid oncinderblocks.AndJohnsondidn’treadtrash.Hiscollectionwasmostlythickvolumesofphilosophy,religion,sociology,anthropology,andtheclassicsofWesternliterature.IthoughtIlovedtoread;Johnsonwasnextlevel.

What struckmemostwas the eerie violet light that suffused thewholeplace.Itssourcewasaseventy-five-gallonsaltwaterfishtank.Afterclearingaplaceformeonthesofa,Johnsonpattedthetankandexplained.Mostnewlydivorced guys like to prowl singles bars, but Johnson spent his nightsprowlingundertheSealBeachpier,lookingforrarefish.Hecapturedthemwith something called a “slurp gun,” which he waved under my nose. Itlooked like a prototype for the first-ever vacuum cleaner. I asked how itworked.Juststickthisnozzleintoshallowwater,hesaid,andsuckupthefishintoaplastictube,thenintoasmallchamber.Thenshootitintoyourbucketandschlepithome.

He’d managed to accumulate a wide variety of exotic creatures—seahorses,opal-eyeperch—whichheshowedmewithpride.Hepointedout

thejewelofhiscollection,ababyoctopushe’dnamedStretch.“Speakingofwhich,”Johnsonsaid.“Feedingtime.”

He reached into a paper sack and pulled out a live crab. “Come on,Stretch,”he said,dangling thecrabover the tank.Theoctopusdidn’t stir.Johnsonloweredthecrab,legswriggling,ontothetank’ssand-strewnfloor.StillnoreactionfromStretch.“Hedead?”Iasked.“Watch,”Johnsonsaid.

Thecrabdancedleftandright,panicking,seekingcover.Therewasnone,however. And Stretch knew it. After a few minutes something emergedtentativelyfromStretch’sundercarriage.Anantennaortentacle.Itunfurledtoward the crab and lightly tapped its carapace. Yoo-hoo? “Stretch justinjected poison in the crab,” Johnson said, grinning like a proud dad.Wewatchedthecrabslowlystopdancing,stopmovingaltogether.WewatchedStretchgentlywraphisantenna-tentaclearoundthecrabanddragitbacktohislair,aholehe’ddugintothesandbeneathabigrock.

Itwasamorbidpuppetshow,adarkkabukiplay,starringawitlessvictimandamicro-kraken—wasitasign,ametaphorforourdilemma?Onelivingthingbeingeatenbyanother?Thiswasnature,wetintoothandclaw,andIcouldn’thelpwonderingifitwasalsotobethestoryofBlueRibbonandtheMarlboroMan.

We spent the rest of the evening sitting at Johnson’s kitchen table andgoingovertheletterfromhisLongIslandinformant.Hereaditaloud,andthenIreaditsilently,andthenwedebatedwhattodo.

“GettheetoJapan,”Johnsonsaid.“What?”“Yougottago,”hesaid.“Tellthemabouttheworkwe’vedone.Demand

yourrights.KillthisMarlboroManonceandforall.Oncehestartssellingrunning shoes, once he really gets going, there will be no stopping him.Eitherwedrawalineinthesand,rightnow,orit’sover.”

I’djustcomebackfromJapan,Isaid,andIdidn’thavethemoneytogoagain.I’dpouredallmysavingsintoBlueRibbon,andIcouldn’tpossiblyaskWallace for another loan. The thought nauseatedme. Also, I didn’t havetime. Price Waterhouse allowed two weeks’ vacation a year—unless you

needed that twoweeks for theReserves,which I did.Then theygave youoneextraweek.WhichI’dalreadyused.

Aboveall,ItoldJohnson,“It’snouse.TheMarlboroMan’srelationshipwithOnitsukapredatesmine.”

Undaunted,Johnsonpulledouthistypewriter,theonehe’dbeenusingtotortureme,andbegandraftingnotes,ideas,lists,whichwecouldthenturninto a manifesto for me to deliver to the executives at Onitsuka. WhileStretch finishedoff the crab,wemunchedourpizza andguzzledbeer andplottedlateintothenight.

BACK IN OREGONthenextafternoon,IwentstraightintoseetheofficemanageratPriceWaterhouse.“I’vegottohavetwoweeksoff,”Isaid,“rightnow.”

Helookedupfromthepapersonhisdeskandglaredatme,andforonehellishlylongmomentIthoughtIwasgoingtobefired.Instead,heclearedhisthroatandmumbledsomething...odd.Icouldn’tmakeouteverywordbutheseemedtothink . . . frommyintensity,myvagueness . . .I’dgottensomeonepregnant.

I took a stepback and started to protest, then shutmymouth.Let themanthinkwhathewants.Solongashegivesmethetime.

Running a hand through his thinning hair, he finally sighed and said:“Go.Goodluck.Hopeitallworksout.”

I PUTTHEairfareonmycreditcard.Twelvemonthstopay.AndunlikemylastvisittoJapan,thistimeIwiredahead.ItoldtheexecutivesatOnitsukathatIwascoming,andthatIwantedameeting.

Theywiredback:Comeahead.ButtheirwirewentontosaythatIwouldn’tbemeetingwithMorimoto.

Hewaseitherfiredordead.Therewasanewexportmanager,thewiresaid.HisnamewasKitami.

KISHIKAN .Japanesefordéjàvu.AgainIfoundmyselfboardingaflightforJapan.AgainIfoundmyselfunderliningandmemorizingmycopyofHowtoDoBusinesswiththeJapanese.AgainIfoundmyselftakingthetraintoKobe,checkingintotheNewport,pacinginmyroom.

AtzerohourItookacabovertoOnitsuka.Iexpectedthatwe’dgointotheoldconferenceroom,butno,they’ddonesomeremodelingsincemylastvisit.Newconferenceroom,theysaid.Sleeker,bigger,ithadleatherchairsinsteadoftheoldclothones,andamuchlongertable.Moreimpressive,butlessfamiliar.Ifeltdisoriented,intimidated.ItwaslikepreppingforameetatOregonStateandlearningatthelastminutethatithadbeenmovedtotheLosAngelesMemorialColiseum.

Amanwalkedintotheconferenceroomandextendedhishand.Kitami.Hisblackshoeswerebrightlypolished,hishairequallypolished.Jetblack,swept straight back, not a strand out of place.Hewas a great contrast toMorimoto,whoalwayslookedasifhe’ddressedblindfolded.IwasputoffbyKitami’s veneer, but suddenly he gave me a warm, ready smile, andencouragedmetosit,relax,tellhimwhyI’dcome,andnowIgotthedistinctsensethat,despitehisslickappearance,hewasn’taltogethersureofhimself.Hewasinabrand-newjob,afterall.Hedidn’tyethavemuch—equity.Thewordsprangtomind.

It occurred tome also that I had high value forKitami. Iwasn’t a bigclient,butIwasn’tsmall,either.Locationiseverything.IwassellingshoesinAmerica, a market vital to the future of Onitsuka. Maybe, just maybe,Kitamididn’twanttolosemejustyet.Maybehewantedtoholdontomeuntilthey’dtransitionedtotheMarlboroMan.Iwasanasset,Iwasacredit,for the moment, which meant I might be holding better cards than Ithought.

Kitami spoke more English than his predecessors, but with a thickeraccent.Myearneededafewminutestoadjustaswechattedaboutmyflight,theweather,sales.Allthewhileotherexecutiveswerefilingin,joiningusattheconferencetable.AtlastKitamileanedback.“Hai...”Hewaited.“Mr.Onitsuka?”Iasked.“Mr.Onitsukawillnotbeabletojoinustoday,”hesaid.

Damn.IwashopingtodrawuponMr.Onitsuka’sfondnessforme,nottomentionhisbondwithBowerman.Butno.Alone,withoutallies,trappedintheunfamiliarconferenceroom,Iplungedahead.

I told Kitami and the other executives that Blue Ribbon had done aremarkable job thus far. We’d sold out every order, while developing arobust customer base, andwe expected this solid growth to continue.Wehad forty-four thousand dollars in sales for 1966, and projected to haveeighty-four thousand dollars in 1967. I described our new store in SantaMonica,andlaidoutplansforotherstores—forabigfuture.ThenIleanedin.“WewouldverymuchliketobetheexclusiveU.S.distributorforTiger’strack-and-fieldline,”Isaid.“AndIthinkitisverymuchinTiger’sinterestthatwebecomethat.”

Ididn’tevenmentiontheMarlboroMan.Ilookedaroundthetable.Grimfaces.NonegrimmerthanKitami’s.He

said ina few tersewords that thiswouldnotbepossible.OnitsukawantedforitsU.S.distributorsomeonebigger,moreestablished,afirmthatcouldhandletheworkload.AfirmwithofficesontheEastCoast.

“But, but,” I spluttered, “Blue Ribbon does have offices on the EastCoast.”

Kitamirockedbackinhischair.“Oh?”“Yes,”Isaid,“we’reontheEastCoast,theWestCoast,andsoonwemay

be in the Midwest. We can handle national distribution, no question.” Ilookedaroundthetable.Thegrimfaceswerebecominglessgrim.

“Well,”Kitamisaid,“thischangethings.”He assuredme that theywould givemyproposal careful consideration.

So.Hai.Meetingadjourned.Iwalkedbacktomyhotelandspentasecondnightpacing.Firstthingthe

next morning I received a call summoning me back to Onitsuka, whereKitamiawardedmeexclusivedistributionrightsfortheUnitedStates.

Hegavemeathree-yearcontract.ItriedtobenonchalantasIsignedthepapersandplacedanorderforfive

thousand more shoes, which would cost twenty thousand dollars I didn’t

have.Kitamisaidhe’dshipthemtomyEastCoastoffice,whichIalsodidn’thave.

Ipromisedtowirehimtheexactaddress.

ON THE FLIGHThomeI lookedoutthewindowat thecloudsabovethePacificOceanandthoughtbacktosittingatopMountFuji.IwonderedhowSarah would feel about me now, after this coup. I wondered how theMarlboroMan would feel when he got word fromOnitsuka that he wastoast.

IstowedawaymycopyofHowtoDoBusinesswiththeJapanese.Mycarry-onwasstuffedwithsouvenirs.KimonosformymotherandsistersandMomHatfield, a tiny samurai sword to hang abovemy desk. Andmy crowningglory—a small Japanese TV. Spoils of war, I thought, smiling. ButsomewhereoverthePacificthefullweightofmy“victory”cameoverme.IimaginedthelookonWallace’sfacewhenIaskedhimtocoverthisgiganticneworder.Ifhesaidno,whenhesaidno,whatthen?

Ontheotherhand,ifhesaidyes,howwasIgoingtoopenanofficeontheEastCoast?Andhowwas I going todo itbefore those shoes arrived?AndwhowasIgoingtogettorunit?

Istaredatthecurved,glowinghorizon.Therewasonlyonepersonontheplanetrootlessenough,energeticenough,gung-hoenough,crazyenough,topickup andmove to theEastCoast, on amoment’snotice, andget therebeforetheshoesdid.

IwonderedhowStretchwasgoingtoliketheAtlanticOcean.

1967

Ididn’thandleitwell.Notwellatall.

Knowingwhat his reactionwould be, and dreading it, I put off tellingJohnsonthewholestory. I shothimaquicknote, sayingthemeetingwithOnitsukahadgonefine,tellinghimI’dsecurednationaldistributionrights.But I left it at that. I think Imusthaveheldouthope, in thebackofmymind,thatImightbeabletohiresomeoneelsetogoeast.OrthatWallacewouldblowthewholeplanup.

AndinfactIdidhiresomeoneelse.Aformerdistancerunner,ofcourse.But he changed his mind, backed out, just days after agreeing to go. So,frustrated, distracted, mired in a cycle of anxiety and procrastination, IturnedtothemuchsimplerproblemoffindingsomeonetoreplaceJohnsonatthestoreinSantaMonica.IaskedJohnBork,ahighschooltrackcoachinLosAngeles,afriendofafriend.Hejumpedatthechance.Hecouldn’thavebeenmoreeager.

Howcould Ihaveknownhe’dbequite soeager?ThenextmorningheappearedatJohnson’sstoreandannouncedthathewasthenewboss.“Thenew—what?”Johnsonsaid.

“I’vebeenhiredtotakeoverforyouwhenyougobackeast,”Borksaid.“WhenIgo—where?”Johnsonsaid,reachingforthephone.Ididn’thandle thatconversationwell, either. I told Johnson that,haha,

hey,man,Iwasjustabouttocallyou.IsaidIwassorryhe’dheardthenewsthat way, how awkward, and I explained that I’d been forced to lie toOnitsuka and claimwe alreadyhad anoffice on theEastCoast.Thus,wewere in one heck of a jam. The shoes would soon be on the water, an

enormousshipmentsteamingforNewYork,andnoonebutJohnsoncouldhandlethetaskofclaimingthoseshoesandsettingupanoffice.ThefateofBlueRibbonrestedonhisshoulders.

Johnsonwasflabbergasted.Thenfurious.Thenfreaked.Allinthespaceofoneminute.SoIgotonaplaneandflewdowntovisithimathisstore.

HE DIDN’TWANT to live on the East Coast, he told me. He lovedCalifornia.He’d lived inCalifornia all his life.He couldgo running year-roundinCalifornia,andrunning,asIknew,wasalltoJohnson.Howwashesupposedtogorunningduringthosebittercoldwintersbackeast?Onandonitwent.

Allatoncehismannerchanged.Wewerestanding in themiddleofhisstore, his sneaker sanctuary, and in a barely audible mumble heacknowledged that this was amake-or-breakmoment for BlueRibbon, inwhich he was heavily invested, financially, emotionally, spiritually. Heacknowledged that therewas no one elsewho could set up anEastCoastoffice.Hedeliveredhimselfof a long, rambling, semi-internalmonologue,sayingthattheSantaMonicastorepracticallyranitself,sohecouldtrainhisreplacementinoneday,andhe’dalreadysetupastoreinaremotelocationonce,sohecoulddoitagain,fast,andweneededitdonefast,withtheshoesonthewaterandback-to-schoolordersabouttorollin,andthenhelookedoffandaskedthewallsortheshoesortheGreatSpiritwhyheshouldn’tjustshutupanddo it,dowhateverIasked,andbedown-on-his-kneesgratefulforthedamnopportunity,whenanyonecouldseethathewas—hesearchedfortheexactwords—“atalentlessfuck.”

Imighthavesaidsomethinglike,“Ohnoyou’renot.Don’tbesohardonyourself.”Imighthave.ButIdidn’t.Ikeptmymouthshutandwaited.

Andwaited.“Okay,”hesaid,atlast,“I’llgo.”“Great.That’sgreat.Terrific.Thankyou.”“Butwhere?”

“Wherewhat?”“Doyouwantmetogo?”“Ah.Yes.Well.AnywhereontheEastCoastwithaport.Justdon’tgoto

Portland,Maine.”“Why?”“A company based in two differentPortlands?That’ll confuse the heck

outoftheJapanese.”Wehashed itoutsomemoreandfinallydecidedNewYorkandBoston

were the most logical places. Especially Boston. “It’s where most of ourordersarecomingfrom,”oneofussaid.

“Okay,”hesaid.“Boston,hereIcome.”Then Ihandedhimabunchof travel brochures forBoston,playingup

thefallfoliageangle.Alittleheavy-handed,butIwasdesperate.HeaskedhowIhappenedtohavethesebrochuresonme,andItoldhimI

knewhe’dmaketherightdecision.Helaughed.The forgiveness Johnson showed me, the overall good nature he

demonstrated,filledmewithgratitude,andanewfondnessfortheman.Andperhaps a deeper loyalty. I regretted my treatment of him. All thoseunanswered letters.There are teamplayers, I thought, and then there areteamplayers,andthenthere’sJohnson.

ANDTHENHEthreatenedtoquit.Vialetter,ofcourse.“IthinkIhavebeenresponsibleforwhatsuccesswe

havehadsofar,”hewrote.“Andanysuccessthatwillbecominginforthenexttwoyearsatleast.”

Therefore,hegavemeatwo-partultimatum.

1.MakehimafullpartnerinBlueRibbon.2.Raisehissalarytosixhundreddollarsamonth,plusathirdof

allprofitsbeyondthefirstsixthousandpairsofshoessold.

Orelse,hesaid,good-bye.IphonedBowermanandtoldhimthatFull-timeEmployeeNumberOne

wasstagingamutiny.Bowermanlistenedquietly,consideredalltheangles,weighedtheprosandcons,thenrenderedhisverdict.“Fuckhim.”

IsaidIwasn’tsure“fuckinghim”wasthebeststrategy.Maybetherewassome middle way of mollifying Johnson, of giving him a stake in thecompany. But as we talked about it in greater detail, themath just didn’tpencilout.NeitherBowermannorIwantedtosurrenderanyportionofourstake, so Johnson’s ultimatum, even if I’d wanted to accept it, was anonstarter.

IflewtoPaloAlto,whereJohnsonwasvisitinghisparents,andaskedforasit-down.Johnsonsaidhewantedhisfather,Owen,tojoinus.Themeetingtook place at Owen’s office, and I was immediately stunned by thesimilaritiesbetweenfatherandson.They lookedalike,soundedalike,evenhadmanyof the samemannerisms.The similaritiesended there,however.FromthestartOwenwasloud,aggressive,andIcouldseethathe’dbeentheinstigatorbehindthismutiny.

BytradeOwenwasasalesman.Hesoldvoicerecordingequipment,likeDictaphones,andhewasdarnedgoodatit.Forhim,aswithmostsalesmen,lifewasonelongnegotiation,whichherelished.Inotherwords,hewasmycomplete opposite. Here we go, I thought. Yet another shootout with aconsummatenegotiator.Whenwillitend?

Beforegettingdowntobrasstacks,Owenfirstwantedtotellmeastory.Salesmenalwaysdo.SinceIwasanaccountant,hesaid,hewasremindedofanaccountanthe’dmetrecentlywhohadatoplessdancerforaclient.Thestory,Ibelieve,revolvedaroundwhetherthedancer’ssiliconeimplantsweredeductible.AtthepunchlineIlaughed,tobepolite,thengrippedthearmsofmy chair andwaited forOwen to stop laughing andmake his openingmove.

HebeganbycitingallthethingshissonhaddoneforBlueRibbon.HeinsistedthathissonwasthemainreasonBlueRibbonstillexisted.Inodded,let him talk himself out, and resisted the urge to make eye contact with

Johnson,whosatofftotheside.Iwonderedifthey’drehearsedallthis,thewayJohnsonandI rehearsedmypitchbeforemy last trip to Japan.WhenOwenfinished,whenhesaidthat,giventhefacts,hissonobviouslyshouldbe a full partner in Blue Ribbon, I cleared my throat and conceded thatJohnsonwasadynamo,thathisworkhadbeenvitalandinvaluable.ButthenIdroppedthehammer.“Thetruthofthematteris,wehavefortythousanddollars in sales, andmore than that in debt, so there’s simply nothing todivvyuphere,fellas.We’refightingoverslicesofapiethatdoesn’texist.”

Moreover, I toldOwen thatBowermanwasunwilling to sell anyof hisstakeinBlueRibbon,andthereforeIcouldn’tsellanyofmine.IfIdidI’dbesurrenderingmajoritycontrolofthethingI’dcreated.Thatwasn’tfeasible.

Imademycounteroffer.IwouldgiveJohnsonafifty-dollarraise.Owen stared. It was a fierce, tough stare, honed during many intense

negotiations.AlotofDictaphoneshadmovedoutthedoorafterthatstare.Hewaswaitingformetobend,toupmyoffer,butforonceinmylifeIhadleverage,becauseIhadnothinglefttogive.“Takeitorleaveit”islikefourofakind.Hardtobeat.

FinallyOwenturnedtohisson.IthinkwebothknewfromthestartthatJohnsonwouldbetheonetosettlethis,andIsawinJohnson’sfacethattwocontrary desires were fighting for his heart.He didn’t want to acceptmyoffer.Buthedidn’twant to quit.He lovedBlueRibbon.HeneededBlueRibbon.HesawBlueRibbonastheoneplaceintheworldwherehefit,analternative to the corporate quicksand that had swallowed most of ourschoolmatesandfriends,mostofourgeneration.He’dcomplainedamilliontimes about my lack of communication, but in fact my laissez-fairemanagementstylehadfosteredhim,unleashedhim.Hewasn’tlikelytofindthatkindofautonomyanywhereelse.Afterseveralsecondshereachedouthishand.“Deal,”hesaid.“Deal,”Isaid,shakingit.

Wesealedournewagreementwithasix-milerun.AsIremember,Iwon.

WITH JOHNSONONtheEastCoast,andBorktakingoverhisstore,Iwasawashinemployees.AndthenIgotacallfromBowermanaskingmetoaddyetanother.Oneofhisformertrackguys—GeoffHollister.

I took Hollister out for a hamburger, and we got along fine, but hecinchedthedealbynotevenflinchingwhenIreached intomypocketandfoundIdidn’thaveanymoneytopayforlunch.SoIhiredhimtogoaroundthe state sellingTigers, therebymakinghimFull-timeEmployeeNumberThree.

Soon Bowerman phoned again. He wanted me to hire another person.Quadruplingmystaffinthespanofafewmonths?DidmyoldcoachthinkIwasGeneralMotors?Imighthavebalked,butthenBowermansaidthejobcandidate’sname.

BobWoodell.I knew the name, of course. Everyone in Oregon knew the name.

WoodellhadbeenastandoutonBowerman’s1965team.Notquiteastar,but a gritty and inspiring competitor.WithOregon defending its secondnational championship in three years,Woodell had come out of nowhereandwonthelongjumpagainstvauntedUCLA.I’dbeenthere,I’dwatchedhimdoit,andI’dgoneawaymightyimpressed.

ThenextdaytherehadbeenabulletinonTV.AnaccidentatOregon’sMother’sDayCelebrations.Woodell and twentyof his frat brotherswerehoistingafloatdowntotheMillrace,astreamthatwoundthroughcampus.They were trying to flip it over and someone lost their footing. Thensomeonelosttheirhold.Someoneelseletgo.Someonescreamed,everyoneran. The float collapsed, trappingWoodell underneath, crushing his firstlumbarvertebra.Thereseemedlittlehopeofhiswalkingagain.

BowermanhadheldatwilightmeetatHaywardFieldtoraisemoneyforWoodell’smedicalexpenses.NowhefacedthetaskoffindingsomethingforWoodell to do. At present, he said, the poor guy was sitting around hisparents’ house in a wheelchair, staring at the walls. Woodell had madetentative inquiries aboutbeingBowerman’s assistant coach,butBowerman

saidtome:“Ijustdon’tthinkthat’sgoingtowork,Buck.MaybehecoulddosomethingforBlueRibbon.”

I hungup and dialedWoodell. I nearly said how sorry Iwas about hisaccident,butIcaughtmyself.Iwasn’tsurethatwastherightthingtosay.Inmymind I ran through another half dozen things, each of which seemedwrong. I’d never been so at a loss for words, and I’d spent half my lifetongue-tied.Whatdoesonesaytoatrackstarwhosuddenlycan’tmovehislegs? Idecided tokeep it strictlybusiness. I explained thatBowermanhadrecommendedWoodell and said Imight have a job for himwithmynewshoecompany.Isuggestedwegettogetherforlunch.Surething,hesaid.

We met the next day at a sandwich shop in downtown Beaverton, asuburb north of Portland. Woodell drove there himself; he’d alreadymasteredaspecialcar,aMercuryCougarwithhandcontrols.Infact,hewasearly.Iwasfifteenminuteslate.

Ifnotforhiswheelchair,Idon’tknowthatI’dhaverecognizedWoodellwhenIfirstwalkedin.I’dseenhimonceinperson,andseveraltimesonTV,butafterhismanyordealsandsurgerieshewasshockinglythinner.He’dlostsixtypounds,andhisnaturallysharpfeatureswerenowdrawnwithamuchfiner pencil. His hair, however, was still jet black, and still grew inremarkably tightcurls.He looked like abust or friezeofHermes I’d seensomewhere in the Greek countryside. His eyes were black, too, and theyshone with a steeliness, a shrewdness—maybe a sadness. Not unlikeJohnson’s.Whateveritwas, itwasmesmerizing,andendearing.Iregrettedbeinglate.

Lunchwas supposed tobea job interview,but the interviewpartwas aformality, we both knew. Men of Oregon take care of their own.Fortunately, loyaltyaside,wehit itoff.Wemadeeachother laugh,mostlyaboutBowerman.Wereminiscedaboutthemanywayshetorturedrunners,ostensiblyto instill toughness, likeheatingakeyonastoveandpressing itagainsttheirnakedfleshinthesauna.We’dbothfallenvictim.BeforelongIfeltthatI’dhavegivenWoodella jobevenifhe’dbeenastranger.Gladly.Hewasmykindofpeople. Iwasn’t certainwhatBlueRibbonwas,or if it

would everbecomea thing at all, butwhatever itwasormightbecome, Ihopeditwouldhavesomethingofthisman’sspirit.

Iofferedhimapositionopeningour second retail store, inEugene,offthecampus,atamonthlysalaryoffourhundreddollars.Hedidn’tnegotiate,thankgoodness.Ifhe’daskedforfourthousandamonth,Imighthavefoundaway.

“Deal?”Isaid.“Deal,”hesaid.Hereachedout,shookmyhand.Hestillhadthestronggripofanathlete.

Thewaitress brought the check and I toldWoodell grandly that lunchwasonme.Ipulledoutmywalletandfoundthatitwasempty.IaskedBlueRibbon’s Full-timeEmployeeNumber Four if he could floatme. Just tillpayday.

WHEN HE WASN’Tsendingme new employees, Bowermanwas sendingmetheresultsofhislatestexperiments.In1966he’dnoticedthattheSpringUp’soutersolemelted likebutter,whereasthemidsoleremainedsolid.Sohe’durgedOnitsukatotakeSpringUp’smidsoleandfuseitwiththeLimberUp’souter sole, thuscreating theultimatedistance training shoe.Now, in1967, Onitsuka sent us the prototype, and it was astonishing. With itsluxuriouscushioninganditssleeklines,itlookedlikethefuture.

Onitsuka asked what we thought it should be called. Bowerman liked“Aztec,”inhomagetothe1968Olympics,whichwerebeingheldinMexicoCity.Ilikedthat,too.Fine,Onitsukasaid.TheAztecwasborn.

AndthenAdidasthreatenedtosue.Adidasalreadyhadanewshoenamedthe“AztecaGold,”atrackspiketheywereplanningtointroduceatthesameOlympics.No one had ever heard of it, but that didn’t stop Adidas fromkickingupafuss.

Aggravated, Idroveup themountain toBowerman’shouse to talk it allover.Wesatonthewideporch,lookingdownattheriver.Itsparkledthatdaylikeasilvershoelace.Hetookoffhisballcap,putitonagain,rubbedhis

face.“Whowasthatguywhokickedtheshitoutof theAztecs?”heasked.“Cortez,”Isaid.Hegrunted.“Okay.Let’scallittheCortez.”

I WAS DEVELOPINGanunhealthycontemptforAdidas.Ormaybeitwashealthy.ThatoneGermancompanyhaddominated the shoemarket for acouple of decades, and they possessed all the arrogance of unchallengeddominance.Ofcourse it’spossiblethattheyweren’tarrogantatall, thattomotivatemyselfIneededtoseethemasamonster.Inanyevent,Idespisedthem.Iwastiredof lookingupeverydayandseeingthemfar, farahead.Icouldn’tbearthethoughtthatitwasmyfatetodosoforever.

The situation put me in mind of JimGrelle. In high school, Grelle—pronouncedGrella, or sometimesGorilla—had been the fastest runner inOregon,andIhadbeenthesecond-fastest,whichmeantfouryearsofstaringatGrelle’sback.ThenGrelleandIbothwenttotheUniversityofOregon,wherehistyrannyovermecontinued.BythetimeIgraduatedIhopedneveragain to see Grelle’s back. Years later, when Grelle won the 1,500 inMoscow’sLeninStadium,Iwaswearinganarmyuniform,sittingonacouchinthedayroomatFortLewis.Ipumpedmyfistatthescreen,proudofmyfellowOregonian,butIalsodieda littleat thememoryof themanytimeshe’d bested me. Now I began to see Adidas as a second Grelle. Chasingthem,being legallycheckedby them, irritatedme tonoend. It alsodroveme.Hard.

Onceagain,inmyquixoticefforttoovertakeasuperioropponent,IhadBowermanasmycoach.Onceagainhewasdoingeverythinghecouldtoputme inposition towin. Ioftendrewon thememoryofhisoldpreracepeptalks, especiallywhenwewereup against ourblood rivalsOregonState. Iwould replay Bowerman’s epic speeches, hear him telling us that OregonState wasn’t just any opponent. Beating USC and Cal was important, hesaid,butbeatingOregonStatewas(pause)different.Nearlysixtyyearslateritgivesme chills to recall hiswords,his tone.Noone couldget yourbloodgoing like Bowerman, though he never raised his voice.He knew how to

speak in subliminal italics, to slyly insert exclamationmarks, like hot keysagainsttheflesh.

For extra inspiration I’d sometimes think back to the first time I sawBowerman walking around the locker room and handing out new shoes.When he came to me, I wasn’t even sure I’d made the team. I was afreshman,stillunproven,stilldeveloping.Butheshovedanewpairofspikesstraightintomychest.“Knight,”hesaid.Thatwasall.Justmyname.Notasyllablemore. I lookeddownat the shoes.TheywereOregongreen,withyellow stripes, themost breathtaking things I’d ever seen. I cradled them,andlaterIcarriedthembacktomyroomandputthemgingerlyonthetopshelfofmybookcase.IrememberthatItrainedmygooseneckdesklamponthem.

TheywereAdidas,ofcourse.Bythetailendof1967Bowermanwasinspiringmanypeoplebesidesme.

Thatbookhe’dbeentalkingabout,thatsillybookaboutjogging,wasdone,and out in bookstores. A slight one hundred pages, Jogging preached thegospel of physical exercise to a nation that had seldomheard that sermonbefore,anationthatwascollectivelylollingonthecouch,andsomehowthebookcaughtfire.Itsoldamillioncopies,sparkedamovement,changedtheverymeaningoftheword“running.”Beforelong,thankstoBowermanandhisbook,runningwasnolongerjustforweirdos.Itwasnolongeracult.Itwasalmost—cool?

Iwashappyforhim,butalsoforBlueRibbon.Hisbestsellerwouldsurelygeneratepublicityandbumpoursales.ThenIsatdownandreadthething.My stomach dropped. In his discussion of proper equipment, Bowermangave some commonsense advice, followed by some confoundingrecommendations.Discussingshinsplints,or“buckshins,”hesaidtherightshoes were important, but almost any shoes would work. “Probably theshoes you wear for gardening, or working around the house, will do justfine.”

What?

Asforworkoutclothes,Bowermantoldreadersthatproperclothing“mayhelpthespirit,”butaddedthatpeopleshouldn’tgethunguponbrands.

Maybehethoughtthiswastrueforthecasual jogger,asopposedtothetrainedathlete,butbyGoddidheneedtosayso inprint?Whenwewerefightingtoestablishabrand?More to thepoint,whatdid thismeanabouthistrueopinionofBlueRibbon—andme?Anyshoewoulddo?Ifthatweretrue, why in the world were we bothering to sell Tigers?Why were wejackassingaround?

Here Iwas, chasingAdidas,but in away Iwas still chasingBowerman,seeking his approval, and as always it seemed highly unlikely in late 1967thatI’devercatcheitherone.

THANKS LARGELYTOBowerman’sCortez,weclosedtheyearinablaze,meetingourexpectationof revenue:eighty-four thousanddollars. I almostlookedforwardtomynexttriptoFirstNational.FinallyWallacewouldbackoff,loosenthepursestrings.Maybehe’devenconcedethevalueofgrowth.

In themeantimeBlueRibbon had outgrownmy apartment.Maybe it’smoreaccuratetosaythatithadtakenover.TheplacewasnowtheequalofJohnson’sbachelorpad.Allitneededwasavioletlightandababyoctopus.Icouldn’tput itoffanylonger,Ineededaproperofficespace,soIrentedalargeroomontheeastsideoftown.

It wasn’t much. A plain old workspace with a high ceiling and highwindows, several of whichwere broken or stuck open,meaning the roomwasaconstant,briskfiftydegrees.Rightnextdoorwasaraucoustavern,thePinkBucket,andeverydayat4:00p.m.,promptly,thejukeboxwouldkickin. The walls were so thin, you could hear the first record drop and feeleverythumpingnotethereafter.

You could almost hear people striking matches, lighting cigarettes,clinkingglasses.Cheers.Salud.Mudinyoureye.

Buttherentwascheap.Fiftybucksamonth.

When I took Woodell to see it, he allowed it had a certain charm.Woodellneededtolikeit,becauseIwastransferringhimfromtheEugenestore to this office.He’d shown tremendous skills at the store, a flair fororganizing,alongwithboundlessenergy,butIcouldusehimbetterinwhatIwouldbecalling“thehomeoffice.”Sureenough,onDayOnehecameupwithasolutiontothestuckwindows.Hebroughtinoneofhisoldjavelinstohookthewindowlatchesandpushthemshut.

We couldn’t afford to fix the brokenglass in the otherwindows, so onreallycolddayswejustworesweaters.

Meanwhile,inthemiddleoftheroomIerectedaplywoodwall,therebycreatingwarehousespaceinthebackandretail-officespaceupfront.Iwasnohandyman, and the floorwasbadlywarped, so thewallwasn’t close tostraightoreven.Fromtenfeetawayitappearedtoundulate.WoodellandIdecidedthatwaskindofgroovy.

Atanofficethriftstoreweboughtthreebattereddesks,oneforme,oneforWoodell,onefor“thenextpersonstupidenoughtoworkforus.”Ialsobuiltacorkboardwall,towhichIpinneddifferentTigermodels,borrowingsomeof Johnson’s décor ideas inSantaMonica. In a far corner I set up asmallsittingareaforcustomerstotryonshoes.

Oneday,atfiveminutesbefore6:00p.m.,ahighschoolkidwanderedin.Need some running shoes, he said timidly.Woodell and I looked at eachother, looked at the clock.We were beat, but we needed every sale.Wetalked to thekid abouthis instep,his stride,his life, andgavehim severalpairstotryon.Hetookhistimelacingthemup,walkingaroundtheroom,andeachpairhedeclared“notquiteright.”At7:00p.m.hesaidhe’dhavetogo home and “think about it.” He left, andWoodell and I sat amid themoundsofemptyboxesandscatteredshoes.I lookedathim.Helookedatme.Thisishowwe’regoingtobuildashoecompany?

AS I GRADUALLYmovedmyinventoryoutofmyapartment,intomynewoffice,thethoughtcrossedmymindthatitmightmakemoresensetogive

uptheapartmentaltogether,justmoveintotheoffice,sinceI’dbasicallybelivingthereanyway.WhenIwasn’tatPriceWaterhouse,makingtherent,I’dbeatBlueRibbon,andviceversa.Icouldshoweratthegym.

ButItoldmyselfthatlivinginyourofficeistheactofacrazyperson.And then I got a letter from Johnson saying he was living in his new

office.He’dchosentolocateourEastCoastofficeinWellesley,atonysuburbof

Boston.Ofcoursehe includedahand-drawnmap,anda sketch,andmoreinformation than I’d ever need about the history and topography andweatherpatternsofWellesley.Also,hetoldmehowhe’dcometochooseit.

At firsthe’d consideredLong Island,NewYork.Uponhis arrival therehe’d rendezvoused with the high school kid who’d alerted him to theMarlboroMan’s secretmachinations.Thekiddrove Johnsonall over, andJohnsonsawenoughofLongIslandtoknowthatthisplacewasn’thisbag.He left the high school kid, headed north on I-95, and when he hitWellesley,itjustspoketohim.Hesawpeoplerunningalongquaintcountryroads,many of themwomen,many of themAliMacGraw look-alikes.AliMacGraw was Johnson’s type. He remembered that Ali MacGraw hadattendedWellesleyCollege.

Then he learned, or remembered, that the BostonMarathon route ranrightthroughthetown.Sold.

He riffled through his card catalog and found the address of a localcustomer, another high school track star. He drove to the kid’s house,knocked at the door, unannounced.The kid wasn’t there, but his parentssaidJohnsonwasmorethanwelcometocomeinandwait.Whenthekidgothome he found his shoe salesman sitting at the dining room table eatingdinner with the whole family. The next day, after they went for a run,Johnsongotfromthekidalistofnames—localcoaches,potentialcustomers,likelycontacts—andalistofwhatneighborhoodshemightlike.Withindayshe’dfoundandrentedalittlehousebehindafuneralparlor.ClaimingitinthenameofBlueRibbon,healsomade ithishome.Hewantedme togohalfsiesonthetwo-hundred-dollarrent.

InaPShesaidIshouldbuyhimfurniturealso.Ididn’tanswer.

1968

I was putting in six days a week at Price Waterhouse, spending early

morningsandlatenightsandallweekendsandvacationsatBlueRibbon.Nofriends,noexercise,no social life—andwhollycontent.My lifewasoutofbalance,sure,butIdidn’tcare.Infact,Iwantedevenmoreimbalance.Oradifferentkindofimbalance.

IwantedtodedicateeveryminuteofeverydaytoBlueRibbon.I’dneverbeenamultitasker,andIdidn’tseeanyreasontostartnow.Iwantedtobepresent, always. I wanted to focus constantly on the one task that reallymattered.Ifmylifewastobeallworkandnoplay,Iwantedmyworktobeplay. Iwanted toquitPriceWaterhouse.Not that Ihated it; it justwasn’tme.

Iwantedwhateveryonewants.Tobeme,full-time.Butitwasn’tpossible.BlueRibbonsimplycouldn’tsupportme.Though

the company was on track to double sales for a fifth straight year, it stillcouldn’tjustifyasalaryforitscofounder.SoIdecidedtocompromise,findadifferent day job, one that would pay my bills but require fewer hours,leavingmemoretimeformypassion.

TheonlyjobIcouldthinkofthatfitthiscriterionwasteaching.IappliedtoPortlandStateUniversity,andgotajobasanassistantprofessor,atsevenhundreddollarsamonth.

IshouldhavebeendelightedtoquitPriceWaterhouse,butI’dlearnedalotthere,andIwassadaboutleavingHayes.Nomoreafter-workcocktails,Itoldhim.NomoreWallaWalla.“I’mgoingtofocusonmyshoething,”I

said.Hayes frowned, grumbled something aboutmissingme, or admiringme.

Iaskedwhathewasgoingtodo.Hesaidhewasgoingtoride itoutatPrice Waterhouse. Lose fifty pounds, make partner, that was his plan. Iwishedhimluck.

Aspartofmyformalsevering,Ihadtogoinandtalktotheboss,aseniorpartnerwith theDickensian name ofCurly Leclerc.Hewas polite, even-handed,smooth,playingaone-actdramahe’dplayedahundredtimes—theexitinterview.HeaskedwhatIwasgoingtodoinsteadofworkingforoneofthe finest accounting firms in the world. I said that I’d started my ownbusinessandwashopingitmighttakeoff,andinthemeantimeIwasgoingtoteachaccounting.

He stared. I’d gone off script.Way off. “Why the hell would you dosomethinglikethat?”

Lastly,thereallydifficultexitinterview.Itoldmyfather.He,too,stared.BadenoughIwasstilljackassingaroundwithshoes,hesaid,butnow...this.Teaching wasn’t respectable. Teaching at Portland State was downrightdisrespectable.“WhatamIgoingtotellmyfriends?”heasked.

THE UNIVERSITY ASSIGNEDme four accounting classes, includingAccounting101.Ispentafewhoursprepping,reviewingbasicconcepts,andasfallarrivedthebalanceofmylifeshiftedjustasI’dplanned.Istilldidn’thaveallthetimeIwantedorneededforBlueRibbon,butIhadmore.Iwasfollowing a path that felt likemy path, and though Iwasn’t surewhere itwouldlead,Iwasreadytofindout.

So I was beamingwith hope on that first day of the semester, in earlySeptember1967.Mystudents,however,werenot.Slowlytheyfiledintotheclassroom,eachoneradiatingboredomandhostility.Forthenexthourtheywere to be confined in this stifling cage, force-fed some of the driestconceptseverdevised,andIwastoblame,whichmademethetargetoftheirresentment.Theyeyedme,frowned.Afewscowled.

I empathized.But Iwasn’tgoing to let themrattleme.Standingat thelectern inmyblacksuitandskinnygraytie, Iremainedcalm, forthemostpart.Iwasalwayssomewhatrestless,somewhattwitchy,andinthosedaysIhadseveralnervous tics—likewrappingrubberbandsaroundmywristandplaying with them, snapping them againstmy skin. Imight have snappedthemextra fast, extrahard, as I saw the students slump into the room likeprisonersonachaingang.

Suddenly, sweeping lightly into the classroom and taking a seat in thefront row was a striking young woman. She had long golden hair thatbrushedhershoulders,andmatchinggoldenhoopearringsthatalsobrushedhershoulders.Ilookedather,andshelookedatme.Brightblueeyessetoffbydramaticblackeyeliner.

IthoughtofCleopatra.IthoughtofJulieChristie.Ithought:Jeez,JulieChristie’skidsisterhasjustenrolledinmyaccountingclass.

I wondered how old she was. She couldn’t yet be twenty, I guessed,snappingmyrubberbandsagainstmywrist,snapping,snapping,andstaring,thenpretendingnottostare.Shewashardtolookawayfrom.Andhardtofigure. So young, and yet so worldly. Those earrings—they were strictlyhippie,andyetthateyemakeupwastrèschic.Whowasthisgirl?AndhowwasIgoingtoconcentrateonteachingwithherinthefrontrow?

Icalledroll.Icanstillrememberthenames.“Mr.Trujillo?”“Here.”“Mr.Peterson?”“Here.”“Mr.Jameson?”“Here.”“MissParks?”“Here,”saidJulieChristie’skidsister,softly.I lookedup,gaveahalf smile.Shegaveahalf smile. Ipencileda shaky

checknexttoherfullname:PenelopeParks.Penelope,likethefaithfulwifeofworld-travelingOdysseus.

Presentandaccountedfor.

I DECIDED TOemploytheSocraticmethod.IwasemulatingtheOregonandStanfordprofessorswhoseclassesI’denjoyedmost,Iguess.AndIwasstill under the spell of all thingsGreek, still enchanted bymy day at theAcropolis.Butmaybe,byaskingquestionsratherthan lecturing,Iwasalsotrying to deflect attention from myself, force students to participate.Especiallycertainprettystudents.

“Okay, class,” I said, “you buy three virtually identical widgets for onedollar, two dollars, and three dollars, respectively. You sell one for fivedollars.What’s the costof that soldwidget?Andwhat’s thegrossprofitonthesale?”

Several hands went up. None, alas, wasMiss Parks’s. She was lookingdown. Shier than the professor, apparently. I was forced to call on Mr.Trujillo,andthenMr.Peterson.

“Okay,” I said. “Now,Mr. Trujillo recorded his inventory on a FIFObasisandmadeagrossprofitof fourdollars.Mr.PetersonusedLIFOandhadagrossprofitoftwodollars.So...whohasthebetterbusiness?”

Aspiriteddiscussionfollowed,involvingnearlyeverybodybutMissParks.Ilookedather.Andlooked.Shedidn’tspeak.Shedidn’tlookup.Maybeshewasn’t shy, I thought.Maybeshe justwasn’tverybright.Howsad if she’dhavetodroptheclass.OrifI’dhavetoflunkher.

Early on, I drummed into my students the primary principle of allaccounting:Assetsequalliabilitiesplusequity.Thisfoundationalequation,Isaid, must always, always be in balance. Accounting is problem-solving, Isaid,andmostproblemsboildowntosomeimbalanceinthisequation.Tosolve, therefore,get itbalanced. I felta littlehypocriticalsayingthis, sincemycompanyhadanout-of-whackliabilities-to-equityratioofninetytoten.MorethanonceIwincedtothinkwhatWallacewouldsayifhecouldsitinononeofmyclasses.

Mystudentsapparentlyweren’tanymorecapablethanIofbalancingthisequation.Theirhomeworkpapersweredreadful.Thatis,withtheexceptionofMissParks!Sheacedthefirstassignment.Withthenextandthenextsheestablished herself as the top student in the class. And she didn’t just get

every answer right. Her penmanship was exquisite. Like Japanesecalligraphy.Agirlthatlookedlikethat—andwhipsmart?

Shewenton to record thehighestgrade in the classon themidterm. Idon’tknowwhowashappier,MissParksorMr.Knight.

NotlongafterIhandedbackthetestsshelingeredatmydesk,askingifshecouldhaveaword.Ofcourse,Isaid,reachingformywristrubberbands,givingthemaseriesofvehementsnaps.SheaskedifImightconsiderbeingheradviser.Iwastakenback.“Oh,”Isaid.“Oh.I’dbehonored.”

ThenIblurted:“Howwouldyou...like...ajob?”“Awhat?”“I’vegot this little shoe company . . . uh . . . on the side.And itneeds

somebookkeepinghelp.”Shewasholdinghertextbooksagainstherchest.Sheadjustedthemand

flutteredhereyelashes.“Oh,”shesaid.“Oh.Well.Okay.Thatsounds . . .fun.”

Iofferedtopayhertwodollarsanhour.Shenodded.Deal.

DAYS LATER SHEarrivedat theoffice.WoodellandIgaveher the thirddesk. She sat, placed her palms on the desktop, looked around the room.“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”sheasked.

Woodell handed her a list of things—typing, bookkeeping, scheduling,stocking,filinginvoices—andtoldhertopickoneortwoeachdayandhaveatit.

But she didn’t pick. She did them all.Quickly, andwith ease. Inside aweek neitherWoodell nor I could remember howwe’d ever gotten alongwithouther.

Itwasn’tjustthequalityofMissParks’sworkthatwefoundsovaluable.Itwastheblithespiritinwhichshedidit.FromDayOne,shewasallin.Shegraspedwhatweweretryingtodo,whatweweretryingtobuildhere.Shefelt thatBlueRibbonwasunique, that itmightbecomesomething special,andshewantedtodowhatshecouldtohelp.Whichprovedtobealot.

Shehadaremarkablewaywithpeople,especiallythesalesrepswewerecontinuing tohire.Whenever theycame into theoffice,MissParkswouldsize them up, fast, and either charm them or put them in their place,dependingonwhatwascalledfor.Thoughshy,shecouldbewry,funny,andthesalesreps—thatis,theonessheliked—oftenleftlaughing,lookingbackovertheirshoulders,wonderingwhatjusthitthem.

TheimpactofMissParkswasmostapparentinWoodell.Hewasgoingthroughabadtimejustthen.Hisbodywasfightingthewheelchair,resistingits life imprisonment. He was plagued by bedsores and other maladiesrelatedtosittingmotionless,andoftenhe’dbeoutsickforweeksatatime.Butwhenhewasintheoffice,whenhewassittingalongsideMissParks,shebroughtthecolorbacktohischeeks.Shehadahealingeffectonhim,andseeingthishadabewitchingeffectonme.

MostdaysIsurprisedmyself,offeringeagerlytorunacrossthestreettogetlunchforMissParksandWoodell.Thiswasthekindofthingwemighthave asked Miss Parks to do, but day after day I volunteered. Was itchivalry?Devilry?Whatwashappeningtome?Ididn’trecognizemyself.

And yet some things never change.My head was so full of debits andcredits,andshoes,shoes,shoes,thatIrarelygotthelunchordersright.MissParksnevercomplained.NordidWoodell.InvariablyI’dhandeachofthemabrownpaperbagandthey’dexchangeaknowingglance.“Can’twaittoseewhatI’meatingforlunchtoday,”Woodellwouldmutter.MissParkswouldputahandoverhermouth,concealingasmile.

MissParkssawmybewitchment,I think.Therewereseveral longlooksbetween us, several meaningfully awkward pauses. I recall one burst ofparticularlynervouslaughter,oneportentoussilence.Irememberonelongmomentofeyecontactthatkeptmeawakethatnight.

Then it happened. On a cold afternoon in lateNovember, whenMissParkswasn’t in theoffice, Iwaswalking toward thebackof theofficeandnoticedherdeskdraweropen. I stopped toclose it and inside I saw . . . astackofchecks?Allherpaychecks—uncashed.

Thiswasn’tajobtoher.Thiswassomethingelse.Andsoperhaps...wasI?Maybe?

Maybe.(Later,IlearnedWoodellwasdoingthesamething.)ThatThanksgivingarecordcoldspellhitPortland.Thebreezecoming

through the holes in the office windows was now a fierce arctic wind. Attimesthegustsweresostrong,papersflewfromthedesktops,shoelacesonthesamples fluttered.Theofficewas intolerable,butwecouldn’taffordtofixthewindows,andwecouldn’tshutdown.SoWoodellandImovedtomyapartment,andMissParksjoinedusthereeachafternoon.

One day, afterWoodell had gone home, neitherMiss Parks nor I saidmuch.AtquittingtimeIwalkedherouttotheelevator.Ipressedthedownbutton.Webothsmiledtensely.Ipresseddownagain.Webothstaredatthelight above the elevator doors. I cleared my throat. “Miss Parks,” I said.“Wouldyouliketo,uhh...maybegooutonFridaynight?”

ThoseCleopatraeyes.Theydoubledinsize.“Me?”“Idon’tseeanyoneelsehere,”Isaid.Ping.Theelevatordoorsslidopen.“Oh,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Well. Okay. Okay.” She

hurriedontotheelevator,andasthedoorsclosedsheneverliftedhergazefromhershoes.

I TOOK HERto the Oregon Zoo. I don’t know why. I guess I thoughtwalkingaroundandgazingatanimalswouldbealow-keywayofgettingtoknoweachother.Also,Burmesepythons,Nigeriangoats,Africancrocodiles,they would give me ample opportunities to impress her with tales of mytravels. I felt the need to brag about seeing the pyramids, theTemple ofNike. I also told her about falling ill inCalcutta. I’d never described thatscarymoment, in detail, to anyone. I didn’t knowwhy I was tellingMissParks,exceptthatCalcuttahadbeenoneoftheloneliestmomentsofmylife,andIfeltveryunlonelyjustthen.

IconfessedthatBlueRibbonwastenuous.Thewholethingmightgobustany day, but I still couldn’t seemyself doing anything else.My little shoecompany was a living, breathing thing, I said, which I’d created fromnothing.I’dbreatheditintolife,nurtureditthroughillness,broughtitbackseveraltimesfromthedead,andnowIwanted,needed,toseeitstandonitsownfeetandgooutintotheworld.“Doesthatmakesense?”Isaid.

Mm-hm,shesaid.Westrolledpastthelionsandtigers.ItoldherthatIflat-outdidn’twant

towork for someone else. Iwanted to build something thatwasmy own,somethingIcouldpointtoandsay:Imadethat.ItwastheonlywayIsawtomakelifemeaningful.

She nodded. Like basic accounting principles, she grasped it allintuitively,rightaway.

Iaskedifshewasseeinganyone.Sheconfessedthatshewas.Buttheboy—well,shesaid,hewasjustaboy.Alltheboysshedated,shesaid,werejustthat—boys.They talkedabout sportsandcars. (Iwas smartenoughnot toconfessthatIlovedboth.)“Butyou,”shesaid,“you’veseentheworld.Andnowyou’reputtingeverythingonthelinetocreatethiscompany...”

Hervoicetrailedoff.Istoodupstraighter.Wesaidgood-byetothelionsandtigers.

FOR OUR SECONDdate we walked over to Jade West, a Chineserestaurantacrossthestreetfromtheoffice.OverMongolianbeefandgarlicchickenshetoldmeherstory.Shestilllivedathome,andlovedherfamilyverymuch,but therewerechallenges.Her fatherwasanadmiralty lawyer,which struckme as a good job.Their house certainly soundedbigger andbetterthantheoneinwhichI’dgrownup.Butfivekids,shehinted,wasastrain. Money was a constant issue. A certain amount of rationing wasstandard operating procedure.Therewas never enough; staples, like toiletpaper,werealwaysinlowsupply.Itwasahomemarkedbyinsecurity.Shedidnotlike insecurity.Shepreferredsecurity.Shesaid itagain.Security.That’s

whyshe’dbeendrawntoaccounting.Itseemedsolid,dependable,safe,alineofworkshecouldalwaysrelyon.

I asked how she’d happened to choose Portland State. She said she’dstartedoutatOregonState.

“Oh,”Isaid,asifshe’dconfessedtodoingtimeinprison.She laughed. “If it’s any consolation, I hated it.” In particular, she

couldn’tabidetheschool’srequirementthateverystudenttakeatleastoneclassinpublicspeaking.Shewasfartooshy.

“Iunderstand,MissParks.”“CallmePenny.”AfterdinnerIdroveherhomeandmetherparents.“Mom,Dad,this is

Mr.Knight.”“Pleasedtomeetyou,”Isaid,shakingtheirhands.We all stared at each other. Then the walls. Then the floor. Lovely

weatherwe’rehaving,isn’tit?“Well,”Isaid,tappingmywatch,snappingmyrubberbands,“it’slate,I’d

betterbegoing.”Hermother looked at a clock on thewall. “It’s only nine o’clock,” she

said.“Somehotdate.”

JUST AFTER OURseconddatePennywentwithherparentstoHawaiiforChristmas.Shesentmeapostcard,andItookthisasagoodsign.Whenshereturned,herfirstdaybackattheoffice,Iaskedheragaintodinner.ItwasearlyJanuary1968,abitterlycoldnight.

AgainwewenttoJadeWest,butthistimeImetherthere,andIwasquitelate, arriving frommy Eagle Scout review board, for which she gave memuchgrief.“EagleScout?You?”

Itookthisasanothergoodsign.Shefeltcomfortableenoughtoteaseme.Atsomepointduringthatthirddate,Inoticedwewerebothmuchmore

at ease. It felt nice. The ease continued, and over the next few weeksdeepened. We developed a rapport, a feel for each other, a knack for

communicating nonverbally. As only two shy people can.When she wasfeelingshy,oruncomfortable,Isensedit,andeithergaveherspaceortriedto draw her out, depending.When I was spaced out, embroiled in someinternaldebatewithmyselfaboutthebusiness,sheknewwhethertotapmelightlyontheshoulderorwaitpatientlyformetoreemerge.

Pennywasn’tlegallyoldenoughtodrinkalcohol,butwe’doftenborrowone of my sisters’ driver’s licenses and go for cocktails at Trader Vic’sdowntown.Alcoholandtimeworkedtheirmagic.ByFebruary,aroundmythirtiethbirthday, shewas spending everyminuteof her free time atBlueRibbon, and evenings atmy apartment.At somepoint she stopped callingmeMr.Knight.

INEVITABLY, I BROUGHTherhometomeetmyfamily.Weallsataroundthedining roomtable, eatingMom’spot roast,washing itdownwithcoldmilk, pretending it wasn’t awkward. Penny was the second girl I’d everbroughthome,andthoughshedidn’thavethewildcharismaofSarah,whatshe had was better. Her charm was real, unrehearsed, and though theKnights seemed to like it, they were still the Knights. My mother saidnothing;mysisterstriedinvaintobeabridgetomymotherandfather;myfather asked a series of probing, thoughtful questions about Penny’sbackgroundandupbringing,whichmadehimsoundlikeacrossbetweenaloan officer and a homicide detective. Penny told me later that theatmospherewas the exactoppositeofherhouse,wheredinnerwas a free-for-all, everyone laughing and talking over one another, dogs barking andTVs blaring in the background. I assured her that no one would havesuspectedshefeltoutofherelement.

Nextshebroughtmehome,andIsawthetruthofeverythingshe’dtoldme. Her house was the opposite. Though much grander than ChateauKnight, it was a mess. The carpets were stained from all the animals—aGermanshepherd,amonkey,acat,severalwhiterats,anill-temperedgoose.

Andchaoswas the rule.Besides theParks clan, and their arkfulofpets, itwasahangoutforallthestraykidsintheneighborhood.

I tried my best to be charming, but I couldn’t seem to connect withanyone, human or otherwise. Slowly, painstakingly, I made inroads withPenny’smother, Dot. She remindedme of AuntieMame—zany,madcap,eternallyyoung.Inmanywaysshewasapermanentteenager,resistingherroleasmatriarch.ItstruckmethatshewasmorelikeasistertoPennythanamother, and indeed, soon after dinner, when Penny and I invited her tocomegetadrinkwithus,Dotjumpedatthechance.

Wehitseveralhotspotsandwoundupatanafter-hoursjointontheeastside.Penny,after twococktails, switched towater—butnotDot.Dotkeptrightongoing,andgoing,and soon shewas jumpingup todancewithallsortsofstrangemen.Sailors,andworse.AtonepointshejabbedathumbinPenny’sdirectionandsaid tome,“Let’sditch thiswetblanket!She’sdeadweight!”Pennyputbothhandsoverhereyes.Ilaughedandkickedback.I’dpassedtheDotTest.

Dot’ssealofapprovalpromisedtobeanassetsomemonthslater,whenIwanted to takePenny away for a longweekend.ThoughPenny had beenspendingeveningsatmyapartment,wewerestillinsomewaysconstrainedbypropriety.Aslongasshelivedundertheirroof,Pennyfeltboundtoobeyherparents, to abideby their rules and rituals. So Iwasbound togethermother’sconsentbeforesuchabigtrip.

Wearingasuitandtie,Ipresentedmyselfatthehouse.Imadenicewiththeanimals,pettedthegoose,andaskedDotforaword.Thetwoofussatatthekitchentable,overcupsofcoffee,andIsaidthatIcaredverymuchforPenny.Dotsmiled.IsaidthatIbelievedPennycaredverymuchforme.Dotsmiled,butlesscertainly.IsaidthatIwantedtotakePennytoSacramentofortheweekend.Tothenationaltrack-and-fieldchampionships.

Dottookasipofhercoffeeandpuckeredher lips.“Hmm. . .no,”shesaid.“No,no,Buck,Idon’tthinkso.Idon’tthinkwe’regoingtodothat.”

“Oh,”Isaid.“I’msorrytohearthat.”

IwentandfoundPennyinoneofthebackroomsofthehouseandtoldherthathermothersaidno.Pennyputherpalmsagainsthercheeks.Itoldher not to worry, I’d go home, collect my thoughts, and try to think ofsomething.

ThenextdayIreturnedtothehouseandagainaskedDotforamomentofhertime.Againwesatinthekitchenovercupsofcoffee.“Dot,”Isaid,“Iprobablydidn’tdoaverygoodjobyesterdayofexplaininghowseriousIamaboutyourdaughter.Yousee,Dot,IlovePenny.AndPennylovesme.Andif things continue in this vein, I see us building a life together. So I reallyhopethatyou’llreconsideryouranswerofyesterday.”

Dotstirredsugarintohercoffee,drummedherfingersonthetable.Shehadanoddlookonherface,alookoffear,andfrustration.Shehadn’tfoundherself involved inmany negotiations, and she didn’t know that the basicruleofnegotiationistoknowwhatyouwant,whatyouneedtowalkawaywith in order to be whole. So she got flummoxed and instantly folded.“Okay,”shesaid.“Okay.”

PENNYANDI flewtoSacramento.Wewerebothexcitedtobeontheroad,far from parents and curfews, though I suspected Penny might be moreexcitedaboutgettingtouseherhighschoolgraduationgift—amatchingsetofpinkluggage.

Whatever the reason, nothing could diminish her good mood. It wasblazinghotthatweekend,morethanonehundreddegrees,butPennyneveronce complained, not even about the metal seats in the bleachers, whichturned to griddles. She didn’t get bored when I explained the nuances oftrack, the loneliness and craftsmanship of the runner. She was interested.Shegotit,allofit,rightaway,asshegoteverything.

Ibroughtherdowntothe infieldgrass, introducedhertotherunnersIknew, and to Bowerman, who complimented her with great courtliness,saying how pretty she was, asking in complete earnestness what she was

doingwithabumlikeme.Westoodwithmyformercoachandwatchedtheday’slastraces.

Thatnightwestayedatahotelontheedgeoftown,inasuitepaintedanddecorated in an unsettling shade of brown.The color of burned toast,weagreed.Sundaymorningwespentinthepool,hidingfromthesun,sharingtheshadebeneaththedivingboard.AtsomepointIraisedthesubjectofourfuture.IwasleavingthenextdayforalongandvitaltriptoJapan,tocementmy relationship with Onitsuka, I hoped. When I returned, later thatsummer,we couldn’t keep “dating,” I toldher.PortlandState frownedonteacher-studentrelationships.We’dhave todosomethingto formalizeourrelationship,toset itabovereproach.Meaning,marriage.“CanyouhandlearrangingaweddingbyyourselfwhileI’mgone?”Isaid.“Yes,”shesaid.

Therewasvery littlediscussion,orsuspense,oremotion.Therewasnonegotiation. It all felt like a foregone conclusion. We went inside theburned-toast suite and phoned Penny’s house. Dot answered, first ring. Igaveherthenews,andafteralong,stranglingpauseshesaid:“Yousonofabitch.”Click.

Moments later she phoned back. She said she’d reacted impulsivelybecause she’dbeenplanning to spend the summerhaving funwithPenny,andshe’dfeltdisappointed.NowshesaiditwouldbealmostasmuchfuntospendthesummerplanningPenny’swedding.

Wephonedmyparentsnext.Theysoundedpleased,butmysisterJeannehadjustgottenmarriedandtheywereabitweddingedout.

Wehungup, looked at eachother, looked at thebrownwallpaper, andthebrownrug,andbothsighed.Sothisislife.

Ikeptsayingtomyself,overandover,I’mengaged,I’mengaged.Butitdidn’tsinkin,maybebecausewewereinahotelinthemiddleofaheatwaveinexurbanSacramento.Later,whenwegothomeandwenttoaZalesandpickedoutanengagementringwithanemeraldstone,itstartedtofeelreal.The stone and setting cost five hundred dollars—thatwas very real. But Ineveroncefeltnervous,neveraskedmyselfwiththattypicalmaleremorse,Oh,God, what have I done? Themonths of dating and getting to know

Pennyhadbeenthehappiestofmylife,andnowIwouldhavethechancetoperpetuate that happiness. That’s how I saw it. Basic as Accounting 101.Assetsequalliabilitiesplusequity.

Not until I left for Japan, not until I kissed my fiancée good-bye andpromised to write as soon as I got there, did the full reality, with all itsdimensionsandcontours,hitme.Ihadmorethanafiancée,alover,afriend.Ihadapartner.InthepastI’dtoldmyselfBowermanwasmypartner,andtosomeextentJohnson.ButthisthingwithPennywasunique,unprecedented.Thisalliancewas life-altering. It stilldidn’tmakemenervous, it justmadememoremindful.I’dneverbeforesaidgood-byetoatruepartner,anditfeltmassivelydifferent. Imagine that, I thought.Thesingleeasiestway to findouthowyoufeelaboutsomeone.Saygoodbye.

FOR ONCE, MY former contact atOnitsukawas stillmy contact.Kitamiwasstillthere.Hehadn’tbeenreplaced.Hehadn’tbeenreassigned.Onthecontrary, his role with the company was more secure, judging by hisdemeanor.Heseemedeasier,moreself-assured.

Hewelcomedmelikeoneofthefamily,saidhewasdelightedwithBlueRibbon’s performance, andwithourEastCoast office,whichwas thrivingunderJohnson.“NowletusworkonhowwecancapturetheU.S.market,”hesaid.

“Ilikethesoundofthat,”Isaid.Inmy briefcase I was carrying new shoe designs from both Bowerman

andJohnson,includingonethey’dteamedupon,ashoewewerecallingtheBoston. It had an innovative full-length midsole cushion. Kitami put thedesignsonthewallandstudiedthemclosely.Heheldhischininonehand.Helikedthem,hesaid.“Likeveryverymuch,”hesaid,slappingmeontheback.

Wemetmanytimesoverthecourseofthenextseveralweeks,andeachtime I sensed from Kitami an almost brotherly vibe. One afternoon hementionedthathisExportDepartmentwashavingitsannualpicnicinafew

days. “You come!” he said. “Me?” I said. “Yes, yes,” he said, “you arehonorarymemberofExportDepartment.”

ThepicnicwasonAwaji,atinyislandoffKobe.Wetookasmallboattoget there,andwhenwearrivedwesaw long tables setupalong thebeach,each one covered with platters of seafood and bowls of noodles and rice.Beside the tables were tubs filled with cold bottles of soda and beer.Everyonewaswearingbathingsuitsandsunglassesandlaughing.PeopleI’donlyknowninareserved,corporatesettingwerebeingsillyandcarefree.

Late in the day there were competitions. Team-building exercises likepotatosackrelaysandfootracesalongthesurf.Ishowedoffmyspeed,andeveryonebowedtomeasIcrossedthefinishlinefirst.EveryoneagreedthatSkinnyGaijinwasveryfast.

Iwaspickingupthelanguage,slowly.IknewtheJapanesewordforshoe:gutzu.IknewtheJapanesewordforrevenue:shunyu.Iknewhowtoaskthetime,anddirections,andIlearnedaphraseIusedoften:Watakushidomonokaishanitsuitenojohhoudes.

Hereissomeinformationaboutmycompany.TowardtheendofthepicnicIsatonthesandandlookedoutacrossthe

PacificOcean.Iwaslivingtwoseparatelives,bothwonderful,bothmerging.Backhome Iwaspartof a team,meandWoodell and Johnson—andnowPenny.HereinJapanIwaspartofateam,meandKitamiandallthegoodpeopleofOnitsuka.BynatureIwasaloner,butsincechildhoodI’dthrivedinteamsports.Mypsychewas intrueharmonywhenIhadamixofalonetimeandteamtime.ExactlywhatIhadnow.

Also,IwasdoingbusinesswithacountryI’dcometolove.Gonewastheinitial fear. I connectedwith the shyness of the Japanese people, with thesimplicityoftheircultureandproductsandarts.Ilikedthattheytriedtoaddbeautytoeverypartoflife,fromtheteaceremonytothecommode.Ilikedthat the radio announced each day exactly which cherry trees, on whichcorner,wereblossoming,andhowmuch.

Myreveriewas interruptedwhenamannamedFujimotosatbesideme.Fiftyish, slouch-shouldered, he had a gloomy air that seemed more than

middle-agemelancholy.LikeaJapaneseCharlieBrown.AndyetIcouldseethat he was making a concerted effort to extend himself, to be cheerfultowardme.HeforcedabigsmileandtoldmethathelovedAmerica,thathelongedtolivethere.ItoldhimthatI’djustbeenthinkinghowmuchIlovedJapan. “Maybe we should trade places,” I said. He smiled ruefully. “Anytime.”

IcomplimentedhisEnglish.Hesaidhe’d learned it fromtheAmericanGIs. “Funny,” I said, “the first things I learned about Japanese culture, Ilearnedfromtwoex-GIs.”

ThefirstwordshisGIstaughthim,hesaid,were,“Kissmyass!”Wehadagoodlaughaboutthat.

Iaskedwherehelivedandhissmiledisappeared.“Monthsago,”hesaid,“I losemyhome.TyphoonBillie.”The stormhadcompletelywipedawaythe Japanese islands of Honshu and Kyushu, along with two thousandhouses.“Mine,”Fujimotosaid,“wasoneofhouses.”“I’mverysorry,”Isaid.Henodded,lookedatthewater.He’dstartedover,hesaid.AstheJapanesedo. The one thing he hadn’t been able to replace, unfortunately, was hisbicycle.Inthe1960sbicycleswereexorbitantlyexpensiveinJapan.

Kitami now joined us. I noticed that Fujimoto got up right away andwalkedoff.

ImentionedtoKitamithatFujimotohad learnedhisEnglishfromGIs,andKitamisaidwithpridethathe’dlearnedhisEnglishallbyhimself,fromarecord. I congratulated him, and said I hoped one day to be as fluent inJapaneseashewasinEnglish.ThenImentionedthatIwasgettingmarriedsoon.ItoldhimabitaboutPenny,andhecongratulatedmeandwishedmeluck. “When iswedding?”he asked. “September,” I said. “Ah,”he said, “Iwill be in America one month after, when Mr. Onitsuka and I attendOlympicsinMexicoCity.WemightvisitLosAngeles.”

Heinvitedmetoflydown,havedinnerwiththem.IsaidI’dbedelighted.ThenextdayIreturnedtotheUnitedStates,andoneofthefirstthingsI

did after landing was put fifty dollars in an envelope and airmail it toFujimoto.OnthecardIwrote:“Foranewbicycle,myfriend.”

Weeks lateranenvelopearrivedfromFujimoto.Myfiftydollars, foldedinside a note explaining that he’d asked his superiors if he could keep themoney,andthey’dsaidno.

TherewasaPS:“Ifyousendmyhouse,Icankeep.”SoIdid.Andthusanotherlife-alteringpartnershipwasborn.

ON SEPTEMBER 13 ,1968, Penny and I exchanged our vows before twohundredpeople atSt.Mark’sEpiscopalChurch indowntownPortland, atthe same altar where Penny’s parents had beenmarried. It was one year,nearlytotheday,afterMissParkshadfirstwalkedintomyclassroom.Shewasagaininthefrontrow,ofasort,onlythistimeIwasstandingbesideher.AndshewasnowMrs.Knight.

Before us stood her uncle, an Episcopal priest from Pasadena, whoperformed the service. Pennywas shaking somuch, she couldn’t raise herchintolookhim,orme,intheeye.Iwasn’tshaking,becauseI’dcheated.Inmy breast pocket I had twominiature airplane bottles ofwhiskey, stashedfrommyrecenttriptoJapan.Inippedonejustbefore,andonejustafter,theceremony.

MybestmanwasCousinHouser.My lawyer,mywingman.TheothergroomsmenwerePenny’stwobrothers,plusafriendfrombusinessschool,andCale, who toldmemoments before the ceremony, “Second time I’veseenyouthisnervous.”Welaughed,andreminisced,forthemillionthtime,about that day at Stanford when I’d given my presentation to myentrepreneurshipclass.Today,Ithought,issimilar.OnceagainI’mtellingaroomful of people that something is possible, that something can besuccessful,wheninfactIdon’treallyknow.I’mspeakingfromtheory,faith,andbluster, like everygroom.Andeverybride. Itwouldbeup tomeandPennytoprovethetruthofwhatwesaidthatday.

ThereceptionwasattheGardenClubofPortland,wheresocietyladiesgatheredon summernights todrinkdaiquiris and tradegossip.Thenight

was warm. The skies threatened rain, but never opened. I danced withPenny. I danced with Dot. I danced with my mother. Before midnightPennyandIsaidgood-byetoallandjumpedintomybrand-newcar,aracyblackCougar.Ispedustothecoast,twohoursaway,whereweplannedtospendtheweekendatherparents’beachhouse.

Dotcalledeveryhalfhour.

1969

Suddenly,awholenewcastofcharacterswaswanderinginandoutofthe

office.Risingsalesenabledmetohiremoreandmorereps.Mostwereex-runners, and eccentrics, as only ex-runners can be. But when it came tosellingtheywereallbusiness.Becausetheywere inspiredbywhatweweretryingtodo,andbecausetheyworkedsolelyoncommission(twodollarsapair),theywereburninguptheroads,hittingeveryhighschoolandcollegetrack meet within a thousand-mile radius, and their extraordinary effortswereboostingournumbersevenmore.

We’dposted$150,000insalesin1968,andin1969wewereonourwaytojustunder$300,000.ThoughWallacewasstillbreathingdownmyneck,hasslingmetoslowdownandmoaningaboutmy lackofequity, IdecidedthatBlueRibbonwasdoingwellenough to justifya salary for its founder.Rightbeforemythirty-firstbirthdayImadetheboldmove.IquitPortlandState and went full-time at my company, paying myself a fairly generouseighteenthousanddollarsayear.

Above all, I toldmyself, the best reason for leavingPortland StatewasthatI’dalreadygottenmoreoutoftheschool—Penny—thanI’deverhoped.Igotsomethingelse,too;Ijustdidn’tknowitatthetime.NordidIdreamhowvaluableitwouldprovetobe.

INMY LASTweekoncampus,walkingthroughthehalls,Inoticedagroupof youngwomen standing around an easel.Oneof themwasdaubing at alarge canvas, and just as I passed I heard her lamenting that she couldn’t

afford to take a class on oil painting. I stopped, admired the canvas. “Mycompanycoulduseanartist,”Isaid.

“What?”shesaid.“Mycompanyneedssomeonetodosomeadvertising.Wouldyouliketo

makesomeextramoney?”Istilldidn’tseeanybang-for-the-buckinadvertising,butIwasstartingto

accept that I couldno longer ignore it.TheStandard InsuranceCompanyhadjustrunafull-pageadintheWallStreetJournal,toutingBlueRibbonasoneof thedynamicyoungcompanies among its clients.Thead featuredaphotoofBowermanandme . . . staringat a shoe.Notas ifwewere shoeinnovators; more as if we’d never seen a shoe before. We looked likemorons.Itwasembarrassing.

InsomeofouradsthemodelwasnoneotherthanJohnson.SeeJohnsonrocking a blue tracksuit. See Johnson waving a javelin.When it came toadvertising,ourapproachwasprimitiveandslapdash.Weweremakingitupas we went along, learning on the fly, and it showed. In one ad—for theTiger marathon flat, I think—we referred to the new fabric as“swooshfiber.”Tothisdaynoneofusrememberswhofirstcameupwiththeword,orwhatitmeant.Butitsoundedgood.

People were telling me constantly that advertising was important, thatadvertisingwasthenextwave.Ialwaysrolledmyeyes.Butifickyphotosandmade-upwords—andJohnson,posedseductivelyonacouch—wereslippingintoourads,Ineededtostartpayingmoreattention.“I’llgiveyoutwobucksanhour,”ItoldthisstarvingartistinthehallwayatPortlandState.“Todowhat?” she asked. “Design print ads,” I said, “do some lettering, logos,maybeafewchartsandgraphsforpresentations.”

Itdidn’t sound likemuchof agig.But thepoorkidwasdesperate.Shewrotehernameonapieceofpaper.CarolynDavidson.Andhernumber.Ishoveditinmypocketandforgotallaboutit.

HIRING SALES REPSand graphic artists showed great optimism, and Ididn’t considermyself anoptimistbynature.Not that Iwas apessimist. Igenerallytriedtohoverbetweenthetwo,committingtoneither.Butas1969approached,Ifoundmyselfstaringintospaceandthinkingthefuturemightbe bright. After a good night’s sleep, after a hearty breakfast, I could seeplentyofreasonforhope.Asidefromourrobustandrisingsalesnumbers,Onitsukawouldsoonbebringingoutseveralexcitingnewmodels,includingtheObori,whichfeaturedafeather-lightnylonupper.Also,theMarathon,another nylon, with lines sleek as a KarmannGhia. These shoes will sellthemselves,ItoldWoodellmanytimes,hangingthemonthecorkboard.

Also,BowermanwasbackfromMexicoCity,wherehe’dbeenanassistantcoachontheU.S.Olympicteam,meaninghe’dplayedapivotalroleintheU.S.winningmoregoldmedals thanany team, fromanynation,ever.Mypartnerwasmorethanfamous;hewaslegendary.

IphonedBowerman,eagertogethisoverallthoughtsontheGames,andparticularlyon themoment forwhich theywould foreverbe remembered,the protest of John Carlos and Tommie Smith. Standing on the podiumduring the playing of “TheStar-Spangled Banner,” bothmen had bowedtheirheads and raisedblack-gloved fists, a shockinggesture,meant to callattention to racism, poverty, human rights abuses. They were still beingcondemned for it. But Bowerman, as I fully expected, supported them.Bowermansupportedallrunners.

CarlosandSmithwereshoelessduringtheprotest;they’dconspicuouslyremoved their Pumas and left them on the stands. I told Bowerman Icouldn’tdecideifthishadbeenagoodthingorabadthingforPuma.Wasall publicity really good publicity? Was publicity like advertising? Achimera?

Bowermanchuckledandsaidhewasn’tsure.He told me about the scandalous behavior of Puma and Adidas

throughouttheGames.Theworld’stwobiggestathleticshoecompanies—‐run by two German brothers who despised each other—had chased eachotherlikeKeystoneKopsaroundtheOlympicVillage,jockeyingforallthe

athletes. Huge sums of cash, often stuffed in running shoes or manilaenvelopes,werepassedaround.OneofPuma’ssalesrepsevengotthrowninjail.(TherewererumorsthatAdidashadframedhim.)Hewasmarriedtoafemale sprinter, andBowerman joked thathe’donlymarriedher to secureherendorsement.

Worse,itdidn’tstopatmerepayouts.Pumahadsmuggledtruckloadsofshoes intoMexicoCity,whileAdidas cleverlymanaged to evadeMexico’sstiff import tariffs. I heard through the grapevine they did it bymaking anominalnumberofshoesatafactoryinGuadalajara.

Bowerman and I didn’t feel morally offended; we felt left out. BlueRibbonhadnomoneyforpayouts,andthereforenopresenceattheGames.

We’d had one meager booth in the Olympic Village, and one guyworkingit—Bork.Ididn’tknowifBorkhadbeensittingtherereadingcomicbooks, or just hadn’t been able to compete with the massive presence ofAdidas and Puma, but either way his booth generated zero business, zerobuzz.Noonestoppedby.

Actually, one person did stop by. Bill Toomey, a brilliant Americandecathlete, asked for some Tigers, so he could show the world that hecouldn’tbebought.ButBorkdidn’thavehis size.Nor the right shoes foranyofhisevents.

Plentyofathleteswere training inTigers,Bowermanreported.We justdidn’t have anybody actually competing in them. Part of the reason wasquality; Tigers just weren’t good enough yet. Themain reason, however,wasmoney.Wehadnotapennyforendorsementdeals.

“We’renotbroke,”ItoldBowerman,“wejustdon’thaveanymoney.”Hegrunted.“Eitherway,”hesaid,“wouldn’titbewonderfultobeableto

payathletes?Legally?”Lastly,Bowerman toldmehe’d bumped intoKitami at theGames.He

didn’tmuch care for theman. “Doesn’t knowadamn thing about shoes,”Bowermangrumbled.“Andhe’salittletooslick.Littletoofullofhimself.”

Iwasstartingtohavethesameinklings.I’dgottenasensefromKitami’slastfewwiresandlettersthathemightnotbethemanhe’dseemed,andthat

hewasn’t the fan of Blue Ribbon he’d appeared to bewhen I was last inJapan.Ihadabadfeelinginmybones.Maybehewasgettingreadytojackup our prices. I mentioned this to Bowerman, and told him I was takingmeasures to protect us.Before hanging up I boasted that, though I didn’thave enough cash or cachet to pay athletes, I did have enough to buysomeoneatOnitsuka.Ihadamanontheinside,Isaid,amanactingasmyeyesandearsandkeepingtabsonKitami.

IsentoutamemosayingasmuchtoallBlueRibbonemployees.(Bynowwe had around forty.) Though I’d fallen in love with Japanese culture—Ikeptmy souvenir samurai swordbesidemydesk—Ialsowarned them thatJapanese business practices were thoroughly perplexing. In Japan youcouldn’tpredictwhateitheryourcompetitionoryourpartnermightdo.I’dgiven up trying. Instead, Iwrote, “I’ve takenwhat I think is a big step tokeep us informed. I’ve hired a spy. He works full-time in the OnitsukaExportDepartment.Withoutgoing intoa lengthydiscussionofwhyIwilljusttellyouthatIfeelheistrustworthy.

“This spymay seem somewhat unethical to you, but the spy system isingrained and completely accepted in Japanese business circles. Theyactuallyhaveschoolsforindustrialspies,muchaswehaveschoolsfortypistsandstenographers.”

Ican’timaginewhatmademeusetheword“spy”sowantonly,soboldly,other than the fact that JamesBondwas all the rage just then.Nor can Iunderstand why, when I was revealing so much, I didn’t reveal the spy’sname.ItwasFujimoto,whosebicycleI’dreplaced.

IthinkImusthaveknown,onsomelevel,thatthememowasamistake,aterriblystupidthingtodo.AndthatIwouldlivetoregretit.IthinkIknew.ButIoftenfoundmyselfasperplexingasJapanesebusinesspractices.

KITAMI AND MR.OnitsukabothattendedtheGamesinMexicoCity,andafterwardtheybothflewtoLosAngeles.IflewdownfromOregontomeetthem for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Santa Monica. I was late, of

course,andbythetimeIarrivedtheywerefullofsake.Likeschoolboysonholiday:Eachwaswearingasouvenirsombrero,loudlywoohooing.

I triedhardtomirrortheir festivemood.Imatchedthemshot forshot,helped them finishoff several platters of sushi, andgenerally bondedwiththemboth.AtmyhotelthatnightIwenttobedthinking,hoping,I’dbeenparanoidaboutKitami.

ThenextmorningweallflewtoPortlandsotheycouldmeetthegangatBlueRibbon. I realized that inmy letters toOnitsuka,not tomentionmyconversations with them, I might have overplayed the grandeur of our“worldwide headquarters.” Sure enough I saw Kitami’s face drop as hewalkedin.IalsosawMr.Onitsukalookingaround,bewildered.Ihastenedtoapologize.“Itmay looksmall,”Isaid, laughingtightly,“butwedoa lotofbusinessoutofthisroom!”

Theylookedatthebrokenwindows,thejavelinwindowcloser,thewavyplywoodroomdivider.TheylookedatWoodellinhiswheelchair.Theyfeltthe walls vibrating from the Pink Bucket jukebox. They looked at eachother,dubious.Itoldmyself:Whelp,it’sallover.

Sensingmyembarrassment,Mr.Onitsukaput a reassuringhandonmyshoulder.“Itis...mostcharming,”hesaid.

OnthefarwallWoodellhadhungalarge,handsomemapoftheUnitedStates,andhe’dputaredpushpineverywherewe’dsoldapairofTigersinthelastfiveyears.Themapwascoveredwithredpushpins.Foronemercifulmomentitdivertedattentionfromourofficespace.ThenKitamipointedateasternMontana. “Nopins,” he said. “Obviously salesmanherenot doingjob.”

DAYS WENT SWOOSHINGby. I was trying to build a company and amarriage.PennyandIwere learningto livetogether, learningtomeldourpersonalitiesandidiosyncrasies,thoughweagreedthatshewastheonewithallthepersonalityandIwastheidiosyncraticone.Thereforeitwasshewhohadmoretolearn.

Forinstance,shewaslearningthatIspentafairportionofeachdaylostin my own thoughts, tumbling down mental wormholes, trying to solvesomeproblemorconstructsomeplan.Ioftendidn’thearwhatshesaid,andifIdidhearIdidn’trememberitminuteslater.

She was learning that I was absentminded, that I would drive to thegrocery store and come home empty-handed, without the one item she’daskedme to buy, because all theway there and all theway back I’d beenpuzzling over the latest bank crisis, or themost recentOnitsuka shippingdelay.

She was learning that I misplaced everything, especially the importantthings, like wallets and keys. Bad enough that I couldn’t multitask, but Iinsistedontrying.I’doftenscanthefinancialpageswhileeatinglunch—anddriving. My new black Cougar didn’t remain new for long. As the Mr.Magoo ofOregon, I was forever bumping into trees and poles and otherpeople’sfenders.

Shewas learningthatIwasn’thousebroken.I left thetoiletseatup, leftmy clothes where they fell, left food on the counter. I was effectivelyhelpless.Icouldn’tcook,orclean,ordoeventhesimplestthingsformyself,becauseI’dbeenspoiledrottenbymymotherandsisters.Allthoseyearsintheservants’quarters,I’dessentiallyhadservants.

ShewaslearningthatIdidn’tliketolose,atanything,thatlosingformewasaspecialformofagony.IoftenflippantlyblamedBowerman,butitwentwayback.ItoldheraboutplayingPing-PongwithmyfatherwhenIwasaboy,andthepainofneverbeingabletobeathim.Itoldherthatmyfatherwouldsometimeslaughwhenhewon,whichsentmeintoarage.MorethanonceI’dthrowndownmypaddleandrunoffcrying.Iwasn’tproudofthisbehavior,butitwasingrained.Itexplainedme.Shedidn’treallygetituntilwe went bowling. Penny was a very good bowler—she’d taken a bowlingclassatOregonState—soIperceivedthisasachallenge,andIwasgoingtomeet thechallengehead-on. Iwasdetermined towin,and thuseverythingotherthanastrikemademeglum.

Above all, she was learning that marrying a man with a start-up shoecompanymeantlivingonashoestringbudget.Andyetshethrived.Icouldgiveheronlytwenty-fivedollarsaweekforgroceries,andstillshemanagedtowhip up deliciousmeals. I gave her a credit cardwith a two-thousand-dollar limit to furnish our entire apartment, and she managed to buy adinette table, two chairs, a Zenith TV, and a big couch with soft arms,perfectfornapping.Shealsoboughtmeabrownrecliner,whichshestuckinacornerofthe livingroom.Now,eachnight,Icould leanbackata forty-five-degree angle and spin insidemy own head all I wanted. It wasmorecomfortable,andsafer,thantheCougar.

Igot intothehabiteverynightofphoningmyfather frommyrecliner.He’dalwaysbe inhis recliner, too,and together, recliner to recliner,we’dhashout the latest threat confrontingBlueRibbon.Heno longer sawmybusiness as a waste of my time, apparently. Though he didn’t say soexplicitly, he did seem to find the problems I faced “interesting,” and“challenging,”whichamountedtothesamething.

INTHE SPRINGof1969Pennybegantocomplainoffeelingpoorlyinthemornings. Food didn’t sit well. By midday she was often a little wobblyaroundtheoffice.Shewenttothedoctor—thesamedoctorwho’ddeliveredher—anddiscoveredshewaspregnant.

Wewerebothoverjoyed.Butwealsofacedawholenewlearningcurve.Ourcozyapartmentwasnowcompletelyinappropriate.We’dhavetobuy

ahouse,ofcourse.Butcouldweaffordahouse?I’djuststartedtopaymyselfa salary.And inwhich part of town shouldwe buy?Wherewere the bestschools?AndhowwasIsupposedtoresearchrealestatepricesandschools,plusalltheotherthingsthatgointobuyingahouse,whilerunningastart-upcompany?Wasitevenfeasibletorunastart-upcompanywhilestartingafamily? Should I go back to accounting, or teaching, or something morestable?

Leaningback inmyreclinereachnight, staringat theceiling, I triedtosettlemyself.Itoldmyself:Lifeisgrowth.Yougroworyoudie.

WE FOUNDAhouseinBeaverton.Small,onlysixteenhundredsquarefeet,but it had an acre of land around it, and a little horse corral, and a pool.There was also a huge pine tree in the front and a Japanese bamboo outback. I loved it.More, I recognized it.When Iwasgrowingupmy sistersaskedmeseveraltimeswhatmydreamhousewouldlooklike,andonedaythey handedme a charcoal pencil and a pad andmademe draw it. AfterPennyandImovedin,mysistersdugouttheoldcharcoalsketch.ItwasanexactpictureoftheBeavertonhouse.

Thepricewasthirty-fourthousanddollars,andIpoppedmyshirtbuttonstodiscoverthatIhad20percentofthatinsavings.Ontheotherhand,I’dpledged those savings againstmymany loans at FirstNational. So IwentdowntotalktoHarryWhite.Ineedthesavings foradownpaymentonahouse,Isaid—butI’llpledgethehouse.

“Okay,”hesaid.“Onthisonewedon’thavetoconsultWallace.”Thatnight I toldPenny that ifBlueRibbon failedwe’d lose thehouse.

Sheputahandonherstomachandsatdown.Thiswasthekindofinsecurityshe’dalwaysvowedtoavoid.Okay,shekeptsaying,okaaaay.

With so much at stake, she felt compelled to keep working for BlueRibbon,rightthroughherpregnancy.ShewouldsacrificeeverythingtoBlueRibbon,evenherdeeplyheldgoalofgraduatingfromcollege.Andwhenshewasn’tphysicallyintheoffice,shewouldrunamailorderbusinessoutofthenewhouse.In1969alone,despitemorningsickness,swollenankles,weightgain, and constant fatigue,Pennygotout fifteenhundredorders.Someoftheorderswerenothingmorethancrudetracingsofahumanfoot,sentinby customers in far-flung places, but Penny didn’t care. She dutifullymatched the tracing to the correct shoe and filled the order. Every salecounted.

AT THE SAMEtimethatmyfamilyoutgrewitshome,sodidmybusiness.OneroombesidethePinkBucketcouldnolongercontainus.Also,WoodellandIweretiredofshoutingtobeheardabovethat jukebox.Soeachnightafterworkwe’dgooutforcheeseburgers,thendrivearoundlookingatofficespace.

Logistically, it was a nightmare. Woodell had to drive, because hiswheelchair wouldn’t fit in my Cougar, and I always felt guilty anduncomfortable,beingchauffeuredbyamanwithsomanylimitations.Ialsofeltcrazedwithnerves,becausemanyoftheofficeswelookedatwereupaflightofstairs.Orseveralflights.ThismeantI’dhavetowheelWoodellupanddown.

At such moments I was reminded, painfully, of his reality. During atypicalworkday,Woodellwassopositive,soenergetic,itwaseasytoforget.Butwheelinghim,maneuveringhim,upstairs,downstairs, Iwasrepeatedlystruckbyhowdelicate,howhelplesshecouldbe.I’dprayundermybreath.Pleasedon’tletmedrophim.Pleasedon’tletmedrophim.Woodell,hearingme,wouldtenseup,andhistensionwouldmakememorenervous.“Relax,”I’dsay,“Ihaven’tlostapatientyet—haha!”

Nomatter what happened, he’d never lose his composure. Even at hismostvulnerable,withmebalancinghimprecariouslyatthetopofsomedarkflightofstairs,he’dneverlosetouchwithhisessentialphilosophy:Don’tyoudarefeelsorryforme.I’mheretokillyou.

(The first time I ever sent him to a trade show, the airline lost hiswheelchair.Andwhenthey found it, the framewasbent likeapretzel.Noproblem.Inhismutilatedchair,Woodellattendedtheshow,tickedoffeveryitem on his to-do list, and came home with an ear-to-ear mission-accomplishedsmileonhisface.)

At the end of each night’s search for new office space,Woodell and Iwould alwayshave abigbelly laughabout thewholedebacle.Mostnightswe’dwindupatsomedivebar,giddy,almostdelirious.Beforepartingwe’doftenplayagame.I’dbringoutastopwatchandwe’dseehowfastWoodellcouldfolduphiswheelchairandgetitandhimselfintohiscar.Asaformer

track star, he loved the challenge of a stopwatch, of trying to beat hispersonalbest.(Hisrecordwasforty-fourseconds.)Webothcherishedthosenights, the silliness, the sense of sharedmission, and wemutually rankedthemamongthesolidgoldmemoriesofouryounglives.

WoodellandIwereverydifferent,andyetourfriendshipwasbasedonaselfsameapproachtowork.Eachofusfoundpleasure,wheneverpossible,infocusing on one small task.One task,we often said, clears themind.Andeachofusrecognizedthatthissmalltaskoffindingabiggerofficemeantwewere succeeding.Weweremaking a go of this thing called BlueRibbon,whichspoketoadeepdesire,ineachofus,towin.Oratleastnotlose.

Thoughneitherofuswasmuchofatalker,webroughtoutachattystreakin each other. Those nights we discussed everything, opened up to eachotherwithunusualcandor.Woodell toldmeindetailabouthis injury.If Iwas ever tempted to take myself too seriously, Woodell’s story alwaysremindedme that things couldbeworse.And thewayhehandledhimselfwasaconstant,bracinglessoninthevirtue,andvalue,ofgoodspirits.

His injurywasn’t typical,he said.And itwasn’t total.Hestillhad somefeeling,stillhadhopesofmarrying,havingafamily.Healsohadhopesofacure.Hewastakinganexperimentalnewdrug,whichhadshownpromiseinparaplegics.Troublewas,ithadagarlickyaroma.Somenightsonouroffice-huntingexpeditionsWoodellwouldsmelllikeanold-schoolpizzeria,andI’dlethimhearaboutit.

IaskedWoodellifhewas—Ihesitated,fearingIhadnoright—happy.Hegave it some thought.Yes, he said.Hewas.He lovedhiswork.He lovedBlueRibbon, thoughhe sometimescringedat the irony.Amanwhocan’twalkpeddlingshoes.

Notsurewhattosaytothis,Isaidnothing.OftenPennyandIwouldhaveWoodellovertothenewhousefordinner.

Hewaslikefamily,welovedhim,butwealsoknewwewerefillingavoidinhislife,aneedforcompanyanddomesticcomforts.SoPennyalwayswantedto cook something specialwhenWoodell cameover, and themost specialthing she could thinkofwasCornishgamehen,plus adessertmade from

brandyandicedmilk—shegottherecipefromamagazine—whichleftusallblotto.Thoughhensandbrandyputaseriousdentinhertwenty-five-dollargrocerybudget,Pennysimplycouldn’teconomizewhenitcametoWoodell.IfItoldherthatWoodellwascomingtodinner,she’dreflexivelygush:“I’llget some capons andbrandy!” Itwasmore thanwanting tobehospitable.Shewasfatteninghimup.Shewasnurturinghim.Woodell,Ithink,spoketohernewlyactivatedmaternalstreak.

I struggle to remember. I close my eyes and think back, but so manyprecious moments from those nights are gone forever. Numberlessconversations, breathless laughing fits. Declarations, revelations,confidences.They’ve all fallen into the sofa cushions of time. I rememberonlythatwealwayssatuphalf thenight,catalogingthepast,mappingoutthe future. I remember that we took turns describing what our littlecompanywas,andwhatitmightbe,andwhatitmustneverbe.HowIwish,onjustoneofthosenights,I’dhadataperecorder.Orkepta journal,asIdidonmytriparoundtheworld.

Still,atleastIcanalwayscalltomindtheimageofWoodell,seatedattheheadofourdinette,carefullydressedinhisbluejeans,histrademarkV-necksweateroverawhiteT.Andalways,onhisfeet,apairofTigers,therubbersolespristine.

Bythenhe’dgrownalongbeard,andabushymustache,bothofwhichIenvied.Heck,itwasthesixties,I’dhavehadabearddowntomychin.ButIwasconstantlyneedingtogotothebankandaskformoney.Icouldn’tlooklikeabumwhenIpresentedmyselftoWallace.AcleanshavewasoneofmyfewconcessionstoTheMan.

WOODELL AND I eventuallyfoundapromisingoffice,inTigard,southofdowntownPortland. Itwasn’t awhole office building—we couldn’t affordthat—butacornerofonefloor.TherestwasoccupiedbytheHoraceMannInsuranceCompany. Inviting, almostplush, itwas adramatic stepup, andyetIhesitated.Therehadbeenacuriouslogic inourbeingnextdoortoa

honky-tonk. But an insurance company? With carpeted halls and watercoolersandmenintailoredsuits?Theatmospherewassobutton-down,socorporate.Oursurroundings,Ifelt,hadmuchtodowithourspirit,andourspirit was a big part of our success, and I worried how our spirit mightchangeifweweresuddenlysharingspacewithabunchofOrganizationMenandautomatons.

Itooktomyrecliner,gaveitsomethought,anddecidedacorporatevibemightbeasymmetrical,contrarytoourcorebeliefs,butitmightalsobejustthethingwithourbank.MaybewhenWallacesawourboring,sterilenewofficespace,he’dtreatuswithrespect.Also,theofficewasinTigard.SellingTigersoutofTigard—maybeitwasmeanttobe.

Then I thought aboutWoodell.He saidhewashappy atBlueRibbon,buthe’dmentionedtheirony.Maybeitwasmorethanironic,sendinghimouttohighschoolsandcollegestosellTigersoutofhiscar.Maybeitwastorture.Andmaybe itwas a pooruseofhis talents.What suitedWoodellbestwasbringingordertochaos,problem-solving.Onesmalltask.

AfterheandIwenttogethertosigntheTigardlease,Iaskedhimifhe’dliketochangejobs,becomeoperationsmanagerforBlueRibbon.Nomoresalescalls.Nomoreschools.Insteadhe’dbeinchargeofdealingwithallthethingsforwhichIdidn’thavethetimeandpatience.LiketalkingtoBorkinL.A.OrcorrespondingwithJohnsoninWellesley.Oropeninganewofficein Miami. Or hiring someone to coordinate all the new sales reps andorganizetheirreports.Orapprovingexpenseaccounts.Bestofall,Woodellwouldhave tooversee thepersonwhomonitoredcompanybankaccounts.Now,ifhedidn’tcashhisownpaychecks,he’dhavetoexplaintheoveragetohisboss:himself.

Beaming,Woodellsaidhelikedthesoundofthatverymuch.Hereachedouthishand.Deal,hesaid.

Stillhadthegripofanathlete.

PENNY WENT TOthedoctorinSeptember1969.Acheckup.Thedoctorsaid everything looked fine, but the baby was taking its time. Probablyanotherweek,hesaid.

The rest of that afternoon Penny spent at Blue Ribbon, helpingcustomers.We went home together, ate an early dinner, turned in early.About4:00a.m.shejostledme.“Idon’tfeelsogood,”shesaid.

IphonedthedoctorandtoldhimtomeetusatEmanuelHospital.In the weeks before Labor Day I’d made several practice trips to the

hospital, and itwas agood thing,becausenow, “game time,” Iwas such awreck that Portland looked to me like Bangkok. Everything was strange,unfamiliar. I drove slowly, to make sure of each turn. Not too slowly, Iscoldedmyself,oryou’llhavetodeliverthebabyyourself.

The streets were all empty, the lights were all green. A soft rain wasfalling. The only sounds in the car were Penny’s heavy breaths and thewiperssqueakingacrossthewindshield.AsIpulleduptotheentranceoftheemergency room, as I helped Penny into the hospital, she kept saying,“We’re probably overreacting, I don’t think it’s time yet.” Still, she wasbreathingthewayIusedtobreatheinthefinallap.

I remember the nurse taking Penny from me, helping her into awheelchair,rollingherdownahall.Ifollowedalong,tryingtohelp.IhadapregnancykitI’dpackedmyself,withastopwatch,thesameoneI’dusedtotimeWoodell.InowtimedPenny’scontractionsaloud.“Five . . . four . . .three.. .”Shestoppedpantingandturnedtome.Throughclenchedteethshesaid,“Stop...doing...that.”

A nurse now helped her out of the wheelchair and onto a gurney androlledheraway.Istumbledbackdownthehallintosomethingthehospitalcalled“TheBullpen,”whereexpectantfatherswereexpectedtositandstareinto space. I would have been in the delivery room with Penny, but myfather had warnedme against it. He’d toldme that I’d been born brightblue,whichscaredthedaylightsoutofhim,andhethereforecautionedme,“Atthedecisivemoment,besomewhereelse.”

I sat in a hard plastic chair, eyes closed, doing shoework inmymind.After an hour I openedmy eyes and saw our doctor standing beforeme.Beadsofsweatglistenedonhisforehead.Hewassayingsomething.Thatis,his lipsweremoving.But Icouldn’thear.Life’s a joy?Here’s a toy?Are youRoy?

Hesaiditagain:It’saboy.“A—a—boy?Really?”“Yourwifedidasuperbjob,”hewassaying,“shedidnotcomplainonce,

andshepushedatalltherighttimes—hasshetakenmanyLamazeclasses?”“Lemans?”Isaid.“Pardon?”“What?”Heledmelikeaninvaliddownalonghallandintoasmallroom.There,

behindacurtain,wasmywife,exhausted,radiant,her facebrightred.Herarmswerewrappedaroundaquiltedwhiteblanketdecoratedwithbluebabycarriages.Ipushedbackacorneroftheblankettorevealaheadthesizeofaripegrapefruit,awhitestockingcapperchedontop.Myboy.Helookedlikeatraveler.Which,ofcourse,hewas.He’djustbegunhisowntriparoundtheworld.

I leaned down, kissed Penny’s cheek. I pushed away her damp hair.“You’re a champion,” Iwhispered. She squinted, uncertain. She thought Iwastalkingtothebaby.

Shehandedmemyson.Icradledhiminmyarms.Hewassoalive,butsodelicate, so helpless. The feeling was wondrous, different from all otherfeelings,thoughfamiliar,too.Pleasedon’tletmedrophim.

AtBlueRibbonIspentsomuchtimetalkingaboutqualitycontrol,aboutcraftsmanship, about delivery—but this, I realized, this was the real thing.“Wemadethis,”IsaidtoPenny.We.Made.This.

Shenodded,thenlayback.IhandedthebabytothenurseandtoldPennytosleep.Ifloatedoutofthehospitalanddowntothecar.Ifeltasuddenandoverpoweringneedtoseemyfather,ahungerformyfather.Idrovetohisnewspaper, parked several blocks away. I wanted to walk. The rain had

stopped.Theairwascoolanddamp.Iduckedintoacigarstore.Ipicturedmyselfhandingmyfatherabigfatrobustoandsaying,“Hiya,Grandpa!”

Comingoutofthestore,thewoodencigarboxundermyarm,Ibumpedstraight intoKeith Forman, a former runner atOregon. “Keith!” I cried.“Heya,Buck,”hesaid.Igrabbedhimbythelapelsandshouted,“It’saboy!”He leaned away, confused.He thought Iwasdrunk.Therewasn’t time toexplain.Ikeptwalking.

FormanhadbeenonthefamousOregonteamthatsettheworldrecordinthefour-milerelay.Asarunner,asanaccountant,Ialwaysrememberedtheir stunning time: 16:08.9. A star on Bowerman’s 1962 nationalchampionshipteam,FormanhadalsobeenthefifthAmericanevertobreakthefour-minutemile.Andtothink,Itoldmyself,onlyhoursagoI’dthoughtthosethingsmadeachampion.

FALL. THE WOOLENskies of November settled in low. I wore heavysweaters,andsatbythefireplace,anddidasortofself-inventory.Iwasallstocked up on gratitude. Penny and my new son, whom we’d namedMatthew,werehealthy.BorkandWoodell and Johnsonwerehappy.Salescontinuedtorise.

Then came themail. A letter fromBork. After returning fromMexicoCity,hewassufferingsomesortofmentalMontezuma’sRevenge.Hehadproblemswithme,hetoldmeintheletter.Hedidn’tlikemymanagementstyle, he didn’t likemy vision for the company, he didn’t likewhat I waspaying him.He didn’t understandwhy I tookweeks to answer his letters,andsometimesdidn’tansweratall.Hehadideasaboutshoedesign,andhedidn’t like how theywere being ignored.After several pages of all this hedemandedimmediatechanges,plusaraise.

My second mutiny. This one, however, was more complicated thanJohnson’s.Ispentseveraldaysdraftingmyreply.Iagreedtoraisehissalary,slightly,andthenIpulledrank.IremindedBorkthatinanycompanytherecouldonlybeoneboss,andsadlyforhimthebossofBlueRibbonwasBuck

Knight.Itoldhimifhewasn’thappywithmeormymanagementstyle,heshouldknowthatquittingandbeingfiredwerebothviableoptions.

Aswithmy“spymemo,”Isufferedinstantwriter’sremorse.ThemomentIdroppeditinthemailIrealizedthatBorkwasavaluablepartoftheteam,thatIdidn’twanttolosehim,thatIcouldn’taffordtolosehim.Idispatchedournewoperationsmanager,Woodell,toLosAngeles,topatchthingsup.

Woodell tookBork to lunch and tried to explain that Iwasn’t sleepingmuch, with a new baby and all. Also, Woodell told him, I was feelingtremendous stress after the visit fromKitami andMr.Onitsuka.Woodelljoked about my unique management style, telling Bork that everyonebitched about it, everyonepulled their hair out aboutmynonresponses totheirmemosandletters.

InallWoodellspentafewdayswithBork,smoothinghisfeathers,goingovertheoperation.HediscoveredthatBorkwasstressed,too.Thoughtheretail store was thriving, the back room, which had basically become ournationalwarehouse,wasinshambles.Boxeseverywhere,invoicesandpapersstackedtotheceiling.Borkcouldn’tkeeppace.

WhenWoodellreturnedhegavemethepicture.“IthinkBork’sbackinthefold,”hesaid,“butweneedtorelievehimofthatwarehouse.Weneedto transfer all warehouse operations up here.” Moreover, he added, weneeded to hireWoodell’smother to run it. She’dworked for years in thewarehouseatJantzen,thelegendaryOregonoutfitter,soitwasn’tnepotism,hesaid.MaWoodellwasperfectforthejob.

Iwasn’t sure I cared. IfWoodellwas goodwith it, Iwas goodwith it.Plus,thewayIsawit:ThemoreWoodellsthebetter.

1970

I had to fly to Japan again, and this time twoweeks beforeChristmas. I

didn’t like leaving Penny alone with Matthew, especially around theholidays, but it couldn’t be avoided. I needed to sign a new deal withOnitsuka.Ornot.Kitamiwaskeepingmeinsuspense.Hewouldn’ttellmehisthoughtsaboutrenewingmeuntilIarrived.

YET AGAIN I foundmyself ataconference table surroundedbyOnitsukaexecutives.Thistime,Mr.Onitsukadidn’tmakehistrademarklateentrance,nordidheabsenthimselfpointedly.Hewastherefromthestart,presiding.

HeopenedthemeetingbysayingthatheintendedtorenewBlueRibbonforanotherthreeyears.Ismiledforthefirsttimeinweeks.ThenIpressedmyadvantage.Iaskedforalongerdeal.Yes,1973seemedlight-yearsaway,butitwouldbehereinablink.Ineededmoretimeandsecurity.Mybankersneededmore.“Fiveyears?”Isaid.

Mr.Onitsukasmiled.“Three.”Hethengaveastrangespeech.Notwithstandingseveralyearsofsluggish

worldwidesales,hesaid,plussomestrategicmissteps,theoutlookwasrosyfor Onitsuka. Through cost-cutting and reorganization his company hadregained its edge. Sales for the upcoming fiscal yearwere expected to top$22million,agoodportionofwhichwouldcomefromtheUnitedStates.Arecentsurveyshowedthat70percentofallAmericanrunnersownedapairofTigers.

Iknewthat.MaybeI’dhadalittlesomethingtodowiththat,Iwantedtosay.That’swhyIwantedalongercontract.

ButMr.OnitsukasaidthatonemajorreasonforOnitsuka’ssolidnumberswas . . . Kitami.He looked down the table, bestowed a fatherly smile onKitami. Therefore, Mr. Onitsuka said, Kitami was being promoted.Henceforth he’d be the company’s operations manager. He’d now beOnitsuka’sWoodell,thoughIrememberthinkingthatIwouldn’ttradeoneWoodellforathousandKitamis.

WithabowofmyheadIcongratulatedMr.Onitsukaonhiscompany’sgoodfortune.IturnedandbowedmyheadatKitami,congratulatinghimonhispromotion.ButwhenIraisedmyheadandmadeeyecontactwithKitamiIsawinhisgazesomethingcold.Somethingthatstayedwithmefordays.

Wedrewuptheagreement.Itwasfourorfiveparagraphs,aflimsything.Thethoughtcrossedmymindthatitshouldbemoresubstantive,andthatitwouldbenicetohavealawyervetit.Buttherewasn’ttime.Weallsignedit,thenmovedontoothertopics.

I WAS RELIEVEDtohaveanewcontract,butIreturnedtoOregonfeelingtroubled,anxious,moresothanatanytimeinthelasteightyears.Sure,mybriefcaseheldaguaranteethatOnitsukawouldsupplymewithshoesforthenextthreeyears—butwhyweretheyrefusingtoextendbeyondthree?Moretothepoint,theextensionwasmisleading.Onitsukawasguaranteeingmeasupply,buttheirsupplywaschronically,dangerouslylate.Aboutwhichtheystill had a maddeningly blasé attitude. Little more days. With Wallacecontinually actingmore like a loan shark than abanker, a littlemoredayscouldmeandisaster.

And when the shipments fromOnitsuka did finally arrive? They oftencontained the wrong number of shoes.Often the wrong sizes. Sometimesthewrongmodels.Thiskindofdisarraycloggedourwarehouseandrankledoursalesreps.BeforeIleftJapanMr.OnitsukaandKitamiassuredmethattheywerebuildingnewstate-of-the-art factories.Deliveryproblemswouldsoonbeathingofthepast,theysaid.Iwasskeptical,buttherewasnothingIcoulddo.Iwasattheirmercy.

Johnson,meanwhile,waslosinghismind.Hisletters,oncemumblywithangst, were becoming shrill with hysteria. The main problem wasBowerman’sCortez,hesaid.Itwassimplytoopopular.We’dgottenpeoplehookedonthething,turnedthemintofull-blownCortezaddicts,andnowwecouldn’tmeetthedemand,whichcreatedangerandresentmentupanddownthesupplychain.

“God,wearereallyscrewingourcustomers,”Johnsonwrote.“Happinessis a boatload of Cortez; reality is a boatload of Bostons with steel wooluppers,tonguesmadeoutofoldrazorblades,sizes6to6½.”

Hewasexaggerating,butnotmuch.Ithappenedallthetime.I’dsecurealoan fromWallace, thenhang firewaiting forOnitsuka to send the shoes,and when the boat finally docked it wouldn’t contain any Cortezes. Sixweekslater,we’dgettoomanyCortezes,andbythenitwastoolate.

Why?Itcouldn’tjustbeOnitsuka’sdecrepitfactories,weallagreed,andsureenoughWoodelleventuallyfiguredoutthatOnitsukawassatisfyingitslocalcustomersinJapanfirst,thenworryingaboutforeignexports.Terriblyunfair,butagainwhatcouldIdo?Ihadnoleverage.

EvenifOnitsuka’snewfactoriesendedalldeliveryproblems,evenifeveryshipmentofshoeshitthewaterrightontime,withallthecorrectquantitiesofsize10s,andnosize5s,I’dstillfaceproblemswithWallace.Biggerorderswouldrequirebiggerloans,andbiggerloanswouldbehardertopayoff,andin 1970Wallace was telling me that he wasn’t interested in playing thatgameanymore.

I recall one day, sitting in Wallace’s office. Both he and White wereworking me over pretty good. Wallace seemed to be enjoying himself,thoughWhitekeptgivingmelooksthatsaid,“Sorry,pal,thisismyjob.”Asalways I politely took the abuse they dished out, playing the role ofmeeksmallbusinessowner.Longoncontrition, shortoncredit. Iknewtherolebackwardandforward,butIrememberfeelingthatatanymomentImightcut loose a bloodcurdling scream. Here I’d built this dynamic company,fromnothing,andbyallmeasuresitwasabeast—salesdoublingeveryyear,

likeclockwork—andthiswasthethanksIgot?Twobankerstreatingmelikeadeadbeat?

White,tryingtocoolthingsoff,saidafewnominalthingsinsupportofBlueRibbon.IwatchedhiswordshavenoeffectwhatsoeveronWallace. Itookabreath,startedtospeak,thenstopped.Ididn’ttrustmyvoice.I justsatupstraighterandhuggedmyself.Thiswasmynewnervoustic,mynewhabit. Rubber bands were no longer cutting it.Whenever I felt stressed,whenever I wanted to choke someone, I’d wrap my arms good and tightaroundmy torso. That day the habit wasmore pronounced. I must havelookedasifIwaspracticingsomeexoticyogaposeI’dlearnedinThailand.

Atissuewasmorethantheoldphilosophicaldisagreementaboutgrowth.BlueRibbonwasapproachingsixhundredthousanddollarsinsales,andthatdayI’dgoneintoaskforaloanof$1.2million,anumberthathadsymbolicmeaning for Wallace. It was the first time I’d broken the million-dollarbarrier.Inhismindthiswaslikethefour-minutemile.Veryfewpeopleweremeanttobreakit.Hewaswearyofthiswholething,hesaid,wearyofme.Fortheumpteenthtimeheexplainedthathelivedoncashbalances,andfortheumpteenthtimeIsuggestedeversopolitelythatifmysalesandearningsweregoingup,up,up,Wallaceshouldbehappytohavemybusiness.

Wallacerappedhispenonthetable.Mycreditwasmaxedout,hesaid.Officially, irrevocably, immediately.He wasn’t authorizing onemore centuntilIputsomecashinmyaccountandleftitthere.Meanwhile,henceforth,he’dbeimposingstrictsalesquotasformetomeet.Missonequota,hesaid,by even one day, and, well . . . He didn’t finish the sentence. His voicetrailedoff,andIwaslefttofillthesilencewithworst-casescenarios.

IturnedtoWhite,whogavemealook.WhatcanIdo,pal?

DAYSLATERWOODELLshowedmeatelexfromOnitsuka.Thebigspringshipment was ready to hit the water and they wanted twenty thousanddollars.Great,wesaid.Foroncethey’reshippingtheshoesontime.

Justonehitch.Wedidn’thavetwentythousanddollars.AnditwasclearIcouldn’tgotoWallace.Icouldn’taskWallaceforchangeofafive.

SoItelexedOnitsukaandaskedthemtoholdtheshoes,please,untilwebroughtinsomemorerevenuefromoursalesforce.“Pleasedon’tthinkweare in financial difficulty,” I wrote. It wasn’t a lie, per se. As I toldBowerman,weweren’tbroke,wejusthadnomoney.Lotsofassets,nocash.Wesimplyneededmoretime.Nowitwasmyturntosay:Littlemoredays.

While awaitingOnitsuka’s response, I realized that there was only onewaytosolvethiscashflowproblemonceandforall.Asmallpublicoffering.Ifwecouldsell30percentofBlueRibbon,at twobucksashare,wecouldraisethreehundredthousanddollarsovernight.

The timing for such an offering seemed ideal. In 1970 the first-everventure capital firms were starting to sprout up. The whole concept ofventurecapitalwasbeinginventedbeforeoureyes,thoughtheideaofwhatconstituted a sound investment for venture capitalists wasn’t very broad.MostofthenewventurecapitalfirmswereinNorthernCalifornia,sotheywere mainly attracted to high-tech and electronics companies. SiliconValley, almost exclusively. Since most of those companies had futuristic-soundingnames,IformedaholdingcompanyforBlueRibbonandgaveitanamedesignedtoattracttech-happyinvestors:Sports-TekInc.

WoodellandIsentout fliersadvertisingtheoffering, thensatbackandbracedfortheclamorousresponse.

Silence.Amonthpassed.Deafeningsilence.Noonephoned.Notoneperson.That is,almostnoone.Wedidmanage tosell threehundredshares,at

onedollarper.ToWoodellandhismother.Ultimatelywewithdrewtheoffering.Itwasahumiliation,andinitswake

Ihadmanyheatedconversationswithmyself.Iblamedtheshakyeconomy.I

blamedVietnam.ButfirstandforemostIblamedmyself.I’dovervaluedBlueRibbon.I’dovervaluedmylife’swork.

More than once, over my first cup of coffee in the morning, or whiletrying to fallasleepatnight, I’d tellmyself:MaybeI’ma fool?Maybe thiswholedamnshoethingisafool’serrand?

Maybe,Ithought.Maybe.

I SCRAPEDTOGETHERthetwentythousanddollarsfromourreceivables,paid off the bank, and took delivery of the order fromOnitsuka. Anothersighof relief.Followedbya tightening in thechest.Whatwould Ido thenexttime?Andthenext?

I needed cash. That summer was unusually warm. Languorous days ofgoldensunshine,clearblueskies,theworldaparadise.Itallseemedtomockme andmymood. If 1967 had been the Summer of Love, 1970 was theSummer ofLiquidity, and I hadnone. I spentmost of every day thinkingaboutliquidity,talkingaboutliquidity,lookingtotheheavensandpleadingforliquidity.Mykingdomforliquidity.Anevenmoreloathsomewordthan“equity.”

EventuallyIdidwhatIdidn’twanttodo,whatI’dvowednevertodo.Iputthetouchonanybodywithears.Friends,family,casualacquaintances.Ieven went with my hand out to former teammates, guys I’d sweated andtrainedandracedalongside.Includingmyformerarchrival,Grelle.

I’dheardthatGrellehadinheritedapilefromhisgrandmother.Ontopofthat,hewasinvolvedinallsortsoflucrativebusinessventures.Heworkedasasalesmanfortwogrocerystorechains,whilesellingcapsandgownstograduatesontheside,andbothventuresweresaidtobehummingalong.HealsoownedagreatbigchunkoflandatLakeArrowhead,someonesaid,andlivedthereinaramblinghouse.Themanwasborntowin.(Hewasevenstillrunningcompetitively,oneyearawayfrombecomingthebestintheworld.)

Therewasanall-comersroadrace inPortlandthatsummer,andPennyandIinvitedagroupofpeopletothehouseafterward,foracocktailparty.Imade sure to inviteGrelle, thenwaited for just the rightmoment.Wheneveryonewasrested,acoupleofbeerstothegood,IaskedGrelleforawordinprivate.Itookhimintomydenandmademypitchshortandsweet.Newcompany, cash flow problems, considerable upside, yadda yadda. He wasgracious,courteous,andsmiledpleasantly.“I’mjustnotinterested,Buck.”

Withnowhereelsetoturn,withnootheroptions,Iwassittingatmydeskone day, staring out the window. Woodell knocked. He rolled into theoffice, closed thedoor.He saidhe andhisparentswanted to loanme fivethousand dollars, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. They alsowouldn’t tolerate any mention of interest. In fact they wouldn’t evenformalizetheloanwithanysortofpapers.HewasgoingtoLosAngelestoseeBork, butwhile hewas gone, he said, I should drive to his house andcollectthecheckfromhisfolks.

Days later I did somethingbeyond imagining, something I didn’t thinkmyselfcapableofdoing.IdrovetoWoodell’shouseandaskedforthecheck.

I knew the Woodells weren’t well off. I knew that, with their son’smedicalbills,theywerescufflingmorethanI.Thisfivethousanddollarswastheirlifesavings.Iknewthat.

But Iwaswrong.His parents had a little bitmore, and they asked if Ineededthat,too.AndIsaidyes.Andtheygavemetheirlastthreethousanddollars,drainingtheirsavingsdowntozero.

HowIwishedIcouldputthatcheckinmydeskdrawerandnotcashit.ButIcouldn’t.Iwouldn’t.

Onmywayout thedoor I stopped. I asked them:“Whyareyoudoingthis?”

“Because,”Woodell’smother said, “ifyoucan’t trust thecompanyyoursonisworkingfor,thenwhocanyoutrust?”

PENNYWASCONTINUINGtofindcreativewaysofstretchinghertwenty-five-dollar grocery allowance, which meant fifty kinds of beef Stroganoff,whichmeantmyweightballooned.Bythemiddleof1970Iwasaround190,anall-timehigh.Onemorning,gettingdressedforwork,Iputononeofmybaggier suits and itwasn’t baggy.Standingbefore themirror I said tomyreflection:“Uh-oh.”

But it was more than the Stroganoff. Somehow, I’d gotten out of therunning habit. Blue Ribbon, marriage, fatherhood—there was never time.Also,I’dfeltburnedout.ThoughI’dlovedrunningforBowerman,I’dhatedit, too. The same thing happens to all kinds of college athletes. Years oftrainingandcompetingatahigh level taketheir toll.Youneedarest.Butnowtherestwasover.Ineededtogetbackoutthere.Ididn’twanttobethefat,flabby,sedentaryheadofarunning-shoecompany.

Andiftightsuitsandthespecterofhypocrisyweren’tenoughincentive,anothermotivationsooncamealong.

Shortlyafterthatall-comersrace,afterGrellerefusedmetheloan,heandIwentforaprivaterun.Fourmilesin,IsawGrellelookingbackatmesadlyas Ihuffedandpuffed tokeepup. Itwasone thing tohavehimrefusememoney,itwasanothertohavehimgivemepity.HeknewIwasembarrassed,sohechallengedme.“Thisfall,”hesaid,“let’syouandmerace—onemile.I’llgiveyouafullminutehandicap,andifyoubeatmeI’llpayyouabuckforeverysecondofdifferenceinourtimes.”

Itrainedhardthatsummer.Igotintothehabitofrunningsixmileseverynightafterwork. Inno timeIwasback in shape,myweightdownto160.Andwhenthedayofthebigracecame—withWoodellonthestopwatch—Itookthirty-sixdollarsfromGrelle.(ThevictorywasmadeallthesweeterthefollowingweekwhenGrellejumpedintoanall-comersmeetandran4:07.)AsIdrovehomethatdayIfeltimmenselyproud.Keepgoing,Itoldmyself.Don’tstop.

AT ALMOST THEhalfwaymarkof theyear—June15,1970—IpulledmySportsIllustratedfrommymailboxandgotashock.OnthecoverwasaManofOregon.AndnotjustanyManofOregon,butperhapsthegreatestofalltime, greater even thanGrelle. His name was Steve Prefontaine, and thephoto showed him sprinting up the side of Olympus, aka BowermanMountain.

The article inside described Pre as an astonishing, once-a-generationphenom.He’dalreadymadeabig splash inhigh school, settinganationalrecord(8:41)attwomiles,butnow,inhisfirstyearatOregon,runningtwomiles, he’d beaten Gerry Lindgren, who’d previously been consideredunbeatable.And he’d beaten himby 27 seconds. Pre posted 8:40.0, third-fastest time in the nation that year.He’d also run threemiles in 13:12.8,whichin1970wasfasterthananyone,anywhere,onearth.

Bowermantoldthewriter fromSports IllustratedthatPrewas the fastestmiddle-distance runner alive. I’d never heard such unbridled enthusiasmfrom my stolid coach. In the days ahead, in other articles I clipped,Bowerman was evenmore effusive, calling Pre “the best runner I’ve everhad.”Bowerman’sassistant,BillDellinger,saidPre’ssecretweaponwashisconfidence,whichwasasfreakishashis lungcapacity.“Usually,”Dellingersaid,“it takesourguys twelveyears tobuildconfidence inthemselves,andhere’sayoungmanwhohastherightattitudenaturally.”

Yes,Ithought.Confidence.Morethanequity,morethanliquidity,that’swhatamanneeds.

IwishedIhadmore.IwishedIcouldborrowsome.Butconfidencewascash.Youhadtohavesometogetsome.Andpeoplewereloathtogiveittoyou.

Another revelation came that summer via another magazine. FlippingthroughFortune I spotted a story aboutmy former boss inHawaii. In theyears since I’d worked for Bernie Cornfeld and his Investors OverseasServices, he’d become even richer. He’d abandoned Dreyfus Funds andbegun selling shares in his ownmutual funds, alongwith goldmines, realestate, and sundry other things. He’d built an empire, and as all empires

eventuallydoitwasnowcrumbling.IwassostartledbynewsofhisdownfallthatIdazedlyturnedthepageandhappenedonanotherarticle,afairlydryanalysis of Japan’s newfound economic power. Twenty-five years afterHiroshima, the article said, Japan was reborn. The world’s third-largesteconomy, it was taking aggressive steps to become even larger, toconsolidateitspositionandextenditsreach.Besidessimplyoutthinkingandoutworkingothercountries,Japanwasadoptingruthlesstradepolicies.Thearticlethensketchedthemainvehicleforthesetradepolicies,Japan’shyper-aggressivesosashoga.

Tradingcompanies.It’shardtosayexactlywhatthosefirstJapanesetradingcompanieswere.

Sometimes they were importers, scouring the globe and acquiring rawmaterials for companies that didn’t have themeans to do so.Other timesthey were exporters, representing those same companies overseas.Sometimes theywereprivatebanks, providing all kindsof companieswitheasy terms of credit. Other times they were an arm of the Japanesegovernment.

Ifiledawayallthisinformation.Forafewdays.AndthenexttimeIwentdown toFirstNational, thenext timeWallacemademe feel likeabum, IwalkedoutandsawthesignforBankofTokyo.I’dseenthatsignahundredtimesbefore,ofcourse,butnowitmeantsomethingdifferent.Hugepiecesof the puzzle fell into place. Dizzy, I walked directly across the street,straightintotheBankofTokyo,andpresentedmyselftothewomanatthefrontdesk.IsaidIownedashoecompany,whichwasimportingshoesfromJapan, and I wanted to speak with someone about doing a deal. Like themadamof a brothel, thewoman instantly and discreetly ledme to a backroom.Andleftme.

Aftertwominutesamanwalkedinandsatdownveryquietlyatthetable.He waited. I waited. He continued waiting. Finally I spoke. “I have acompany,”Isaid.“Yes?”hesaid.“Ashoecompany,”Isaid.“Yes?”hesaid.Iopenedmybriefcase. “These aremy financial statements. I’m in a terriblebind. Ineedcredit. I just readanarticle inFortune about Japanese trading

companies,andthearticlesaidthesecompaniesarelooserwithcredit—and,well,doyouknowofanysuchcompaniesthatyoumightintroducemeto?”

Themansmiled.He’dreadthesamearticle.Hesaiditjustsohappenedthat Japan’s sixth-largest trading company had an office right above ourheads, on the top floor of that building. All the major Japanese tradingcompanieshadoffices inPortland,he said, but thisparticularone,NisshoIwai,was the only one inPortlandwith its own commodities department.“It’sa$100billioncompany,”thebankersaid,eyeswidening.“Oh,boy,”Isaid.“Pleasewait,”hesaid.Helefttheroom.

MinuteslaterhereturnedwithanexecutivefromNisshoIwai.HisnamewasCamMurakami.We shook hands and chatted, strictly hypothetically,aboutthepossibilityofNisshofinancingmyfutureimports.Iwasintrigued.Hewasquiteintrigued.Heofferedmeadealonthespot,andextendedhishand,butIcouldn’tshakeit.Notyet.FirstIhadtoclearitwithOnitsuka.

IsentawirethatdaytoKitami,askingifhe’dhaveanyobjectionstomydoing side business with Nissho. Days passed. Weeks. With Onitsuka,silencemeantsomething.Nonewswasbadnews,nonewswasgoodnews—butnonewswasalwayssomesortofnews.

WHILE WAITING TOhearback,Igotatroublingcall.AshoedistributorontheEastCoast saidhe’dbeenapproachedbyOnitsukaaboutbecomingitsnewU.S.distributor.Imadehimsayitagain,slower.Hedid.Hesaidhewasn’ttryingtomakemeangry.Norwashetryingtohelpmeoutorgivemeaheads-up.Hejustwantedtoknowthestatusofmydeal.

I began to shake.My heart was pounding.Months after signing a newcontractwithme,Onitsukawasplottingtobreakit?HadtheybeenspookedwhenIwaslatetakingdeliveryofthespringshipment?HadKitamisimplydecidedhedidn’tcareforme?

Myonlyhopewas that thisdistributoron theEastCoastwas lying.Ormistaken. Maybe he’d misunderstood Onitsuka. Maybe it was a languagething?

I wrote to Fujimoto. I said I hoped he was still enjoying the bicycle Iboughthim.(Subtle.)Iaskedhimtofindoutanythinghecould.

Hewrotebackrightaway.Thedistributorwastellingthetruth.Onitsukawas considering a cleanbreakwithBlueRibbon, andKitamiwas in touchwith several distributors in theUnited States. There was no firm plan tobreakmy contract, Fujimoto added, but candidateswere being vetted andscouted.

I triedto focusonthegood.Therewasnofirmplan.Thismeant therewasstillhope.IcouldstillrestoreOnitsuka’sfaith,changeKitami’smind.IwouldjustneedtoremindKitamiofwhatBlueRibbonwas,andwhoIwas.WhichwouldmeaninvitinghimtotheUnitedStatesforafriendlyvisit.

1971

“Guesswho’scomingtodinner,”Woodellsaid.

Hewheeledintomyofficeandhandedmethetelex.Ki-tamihadacceptedmyinvitation.HewascomingtoPortlandtospendafewdays.ThenhewasgoingtomakeawidertouroftheUnitedStates,forreasonshedeclinedtoshare.“Visitingotherpotentialdistributors,”IsaidtoWoodell.Henodded.

ItwasMarch1971.WevowedthatKitamiwasgoingtohavethetimeofhis life, that he would return home feeling love in his heart for America,Oregon, Blue Ribbon—and me. When we were done with him he’d beincapable of doing businesswith anyone else.And so,we agreed, the visitshouldcloseonahighnote,withagaladinneratthehomeofourprizeasset—Bowerman.

IN MOUNTING THIS charm offensive, naturally I enlisted Penny.TogetherwemetKitami’s flight, and togetherwewhiskedhimstraight totheOregoncoast,toherparents’oceanfrontcottage,wherewe’dspentourweddingnight.

Kitami had a companion with him, a sort of bag carrier, personalassistant, amanuensis, named Hiraku Iwano. He was just a kid, naïve,innocent, inhis early twenties, andPennyhadhimeatingoutofherhandbeforewehitSunsetHighway.

We both slaved to give the two men an idyllic Pacific Northwestweekend.Wesaton theporchwith themandbreathed in the seaair.Wetookthemforlongwalksonthebeach.Wefedthemworld-classsalmonandpouredthemglassafterglassofgoodFrenchwine.Wetriedtofocusmost

ofourattentiononKitami,butbothPennyandI founditeasiertotalktoIwano,whoreadbooksandseemedguileless.Kitamiseemedlikeamanwhowasimportingguilebytheboatload.

Monday, bright and early, I drove Kitami back to Portland, to FirstNationalBank.JustasIwasdeterminedtocharmhimonthistrip,IthoughtthathecouldbehelpfulincharmingWallace,thathecouldvouchforBlueRibbonandmakecrediteasiertoget.

White met us in the lobby and walked us into a conference room. Ilookedaround.“Where’sWallace?”Iasked.“Ah,”Whitesaid,“hewon’tbeabletojoinustoday.”

What?Thatwasthewholepointofvisitingthebank.IwantedWallacetohearKitami’sringingendorsement.Ohwell,Ithought—goodcopwill justhavetorelaytheendorsementtobadcop.

I said a few preliminarywords, expressed confidence thatKitami couldbolsterFirstNational’s faith inBlueRibbon, thenturnedthefloorovertoKitami, who scowled and did the one thing guaranteed to make my lifeharder.“Whydoyounotgivemyfriendsmoremoney?”hesaidtoWhite.

“W-w-what?”Whitesaid.“Why do you refuse to extend credit to Blue Ribbon?” Kitami said,

poundinghisfistonthetable.“Wellnow—”Whitesaid.Kitami cut him off. “What kind of bank is this? I do not understand!

MaybeBlueRibbonwouldbebetteroffwithoutyou!”White turnedwhite. I tried to jump in. I tried to rephrasewhatKitami

was saying, tried toblame the languagebarrier,but themeetingwasover.Whitestormedout,andIstaredinastonishmentatKitami,whowaswearinganexpressionthatsaid,Jobwelldone.

I DROVE KITAMIto our newoffices inTigard and showedhim around,introducedhimtothegang.Iwasfightinghardtomaintainmycomposure,toremainpleasant,toblockoutallthoughtsaboutwhathadjusthappened.I

wasafraidthatatanysecondImightloseit.ButwhenIsettledKitamiintoachairacrossfrommydesk,itwashewholostit—atme.“BlueRibbonsalesaredisappointing!”hesaid.“Youshouldbedoingmuchbetter.”

Stunned, I said that our sales were doubling every year. Not goodenough, he snapped. “Should be triple some people say,” he said. “Whatpeople?”Iasked.“Nevermind,”hesaid.

He took a folder fromhis briefcase, flipped it open, read it, snapped itshut.Herepeated thathedidn’t likeournumbers, thathedidn’t thinkweweredoingenough.Heopenedthefolderagain,shutitagain,shoveditbackintohisbriefcase.Itriedtodefendmyself,buthewavedhishandindisgust.Backandforthwewent,forquiteawhile,civilbuttense.

Afternearly anhourof thishe stoodandasked touse themen’s room.Downthehall,Isaid.

ThemomenthewasoutofsightIjumpedfrombehindmydesk.Iopenedhis briefcase and rummaged through and took out what looked like thefolderhe’dbeen referring to. I slid itundermydeskblotter, then jumpedbehindmydeskandputmyelbowsontheblotter.

Waiting forKitami to return, Ihad the strangest thought. I recalledallthetimesI’dvolunteeredwiththeBoyScouts,allthetimesI’dsatonEagleScoutreviewboards,handingoutmeritbadgesforhonorandintegrity.TwoorthreeweekendsayearI’dquestionpink-cheekedboysabouttheirprobity,their honesty, and now I was stealing documents from another man’sbriefcase? Iwasheadeddownadarkpath.No tellingwhere itmight lead.Wherever, therewasnogettingaroundone immediateconsequenceofmyactions.I’dhavetorecusemyselffromthenextreviewboard.

HowI longedtostudythecontentsofthatfolder,andphotocopyeveryscrapofpaper in it,andgoover itallwithWoodell.ButKitamiwas soonback. I let him resume scolding me about sluggish numbers, let him talkhimselfout,andwhenhestoppedIsummedupmyposition.CalmlyIsaidthatBlueRibbonmightincreaseitssalesifwecouldordermoreshoes,andwemightordermoreshoes ifwehadmore financing,andourbankmight

giveusmorefinancing ifwehadmoresecurity,meaninga longercontractwithOnitsuka.Againhewavedhishand.“Excuses,”hesaid.

I raised the idea of funding our orders through a Japanese tradingcompany, like Nissho Iwai, as I’d mentioned in my wire months before.“Baah,” he said, “trading companies. They send money first—men later.Takeover!Workwayintoyourcompany,thentakeover.”

Translation:Onitsukawasonlymanufacturingaquarterofitsownshoes,subcontracting the other three-quarters. Kitami was afraid that Nisshowould findOnitsuka’snetworkof factories, thengorightaroundOnitsukaandbecomeamanufacturerandputOnitsukaoutofbusiness.

Kitami stood.Heneeded togoback tohishotel,he said,havea rest. IsaidI’dhavesomeonedrivehim,andI’dmeethimforacocktaillaterathishotelbar.

The instanthewasgone Iwent and foundWoodell and toldhimwhathadhappened. Iheldupthe folder.“I stole this fromhisbriefcase,”Isaid.“Youdidwhat?”Woodellsaid.Hestartedtoactappalled,buthewasjustascuriousasIwasaboutthefolder’scontents.Togetherweopeneditandlaidit on his desk and found that it contained, among other things, a list ofeighteenathleticshoedistributorsacrosstheUnitedStatesandascheduleofappointmentswithhalfofthem.

Sothereitwas.Inblackandwhite.Somepeoplesay.The“somepeople”damningBlueRibbon,poisoningKitami againstus,wereour competitors.Andhewasonhiswaytovisitthem.KilloneMarlboroMan,twentymoreriseuptotakehisplace.

Iwasoutraged,ofcourse.Butmostlyhurt.Forsevenyearswe’ddevotedourselves to Tiger shoes. We’d introduced them to America, we’dreinvented the line. Bowerman and Johnson had shownOnitsuka how tomake abetter shoe, and theirdesignswerenow foundational, setting salesrecords, changing the face of the industry—and this was how we wererepaid? “And now,” I said toWoodell, “I have to gomeet this Judas forcocktails.”

FirstIwentforasix-milerun.Idon’tknowwhenI’verunharder,orbeenlesspresentinmybody.WitheachstrideIyelledatthetrees,screamedatthecobwebshanging in thebranches. Ithelped.By the time I’d showeredanddressedanddriventomeetKitamiathishotel,Iwasalmostserene.OrmaybeIwas inshock.WhatKitamisaidduringthathourtogether,whatIsaid—no memory. The next thing I remember is this. The followingmorning,whenKitamicametotheoffice,WoodellandIranasortofshellgame. While someone whisked Kitami into the coffee room, WoodellblockedthedoortomyofficewithhiswheelchairandIslidthefolderbackintothebriefcase.

ON THE LASTdayofKitami’s visit, hours before the big dinner party, IhurrieddowntoEugenetoconferwithBowermanandhis lawyer,Jaqua.IleftPennytodriveKitamidownlaterintheday,thinking:What’stheworstthatcouldhappen?

Cut toPenny,hairdisheveled,dress smearedwithgrease,pullingup toBowerman’shouse.AsshestumbledoutofthecarIthoughtforamomentthat Kitami had attacked her, but she took me aside and explained thatthey’dhadaflat.“Thatsonofabitch,”shewhispered,“stayedinthecar—onthehighway—andletmefixthetireallbymyself!”

Isteeredherinside.Webothneededsomethingstrongtodrink.This wasn’t a simple matter, however. Mrs. Bowerman, a devout

Christian Scientist, didn’t normally allow alcohol in her home. She wasmakinganexceptiononthisspecialnight,butshe’daskedmeaheadoftimetopleasebesure thateveryonebehavedandnooneoverdid it.So, thoughmywifeandIbothneededastiffone,Iwasforcedtomakeitasmallone.

Mrs.Bowermannowgatheredusallinthelivingroom.“Inhonorofourdistinguishedguests,”sheannounced,“tonightweareserving...maitais!”

Applause.KitamiandIstillhadat leastonethingincommon.Webothlikedmai

tais.Verymuch.SomethingaboutthemremindedeachofusofHawaii,that

wonderful layover between the West Coast and Japan, where you couldunwindbeforegoingbackintothelongworkdays.Still,heandIstoppedatone that evening. Mindful of Mrs. Bowerman, so did everyone else.Everyone but Bowerman. He’d never been much of a drinker, and he’dcertainly never tasted a mai tai before, and we all watched in dread anddismayasthedrinkstookeffect.Andthensome.Somethingaboutthattangycombination of curaçao and lime juice, pineapple and rum, hit Bowermanrightonthescrews.Aftertwomaitaishewasadifferentperson.

Ashe tried to fixhis thirdmai taihebellowed, “We’reoutof ice!”Nooneanswered.Soheansweredhimself.“Noproblem.”Hemarchedouttothe garage, to the large meat freezer, and grabbed a bag of frozenblueberries. He tore it open, scattering blueberries everywhere. He thentossedahugehandfuloffrozenblueberriesintohisdrink.“Tastesbetterthisway,”heannounced, returning to the livingroom.Nowhewalkedaroundtheroom,sloppinghandfulsoffrozenblueberriesintoeveryone’sglass.

Sitting, he began to tell a story, which seemed in highly questionabletaste.Itbuilt toacrescendoI fearedwe’dallrememberforyears tocome.Thatis,ifwecouldunderstandthecrescendo.Bowerman’swords,normallysocrisp,soprecise,weregrowingsquishyaroundtheedges.

Mrs. Bowerman glared at me. But what could I do? I shrugged myshouldersandthought:Youmarriedhim.AndthenIthought:Oh,wait,sodidI.

Backwhen the Bowermans attended the 1964Olympics in Japan,Mrs.Bowerman had fallen in lovewith nashi pears, which are like small greenapples,onlysweeter.Theydon’tgrowintheUnitedStates,soshesmuggleda fewseedshome inherpurseandplanted them inhergarden.Every fewyears,shetoldKitami,whenthenashisbloomed,theyrefreshedherloveofall things Japanese. He seemed quite beguiled by this story. “Och!”Bowermansaid,exasperated.“Japples!”

Iputahandovermyeyes.Finally came themoment when I thought the partymight spin out of

control,whenIwonderedifwemightactuallyneedtocallthecops.Ilooked

acrosstheroomandspottedJaqua,sittingbesidehiswife,glaringatKitami.IknewthatJaquahadbeenafighterpilotinthewar,thathiswingman,oneofhisclosestfriends,hadbeenshotoutoftheskybyaJapaneseZero.InfactJaquaandhiswifehadnamedtheirfirstchildafterthatdeadwingman,andIsuddenly regretted telling Jaqua about Kitami’s Folder of Betrayal. Iperceived something bubbling inside Jaqua, and rising to his throat, and Isensed the real possibility that Bowerman’s lawyer and best friend andneighbormight stand andmarch across the room and sockKitami in thejaw.

TheonepersonwhoseemedtobehavinganuncomplicatedlywonderfultimewasKitami.GonewastheangryKitamifromthebank.GonewasthescoldingKitamifrommyoffice.Talking,laughing,slappinghisknee,hewassopersonablethatIwonderedwhatmighthavehappenedifI’dgivenhimamaitaibeforedrivinghimovertoFirstNational.

Late in theeveninghe spotted somethingacross the room—aguitar. ItbelongedtooneofBowerman’sthreesons.Kitamiwalkedover,pickeditup,andbegantofingerthestrings.Thenstrumthem.Hecarriedtheguitartoashort flight of steps that led from the Bowermans’ sunken living room totheirdiningroomand,standingonthetopstep,startedtoplay.Andsing.

Allheadsturned.Conversationceased.Itwasacountry-westernsong,ofsomesort,butKitamiperformeditlikeatraditionalJapanesefolksong.Hesounded like Buck Owens on a koto harp. Then without any segue heswitched to “O SoleMio.” I recall thinking: Is he really singing “O SoleMio”?

Hesangitlouder.Osolemio,stanfronteate!Osole,osolemio,stanfronteate!

AJapanesebusinessman,strummingaWesternguitar,singinganItalianballad, in the voice of an Irish tenor. Itwas surreal, then a fewmiles pastsurreal,anditdidn’tstop.I’dneverknownthereweresomanyversesto“OSoleMio.”I’dneverknownaroomfulofactive,restlessOregonianscouldsitsostillandquietforsolong.Whenhesetdowntheguitar,wealltriednottomakeeyecontactwitheachotheraswegavehimabighand. I clapped

andclappedanditallmadesense.ForKitami,thistriptotheUnitedStates—the visit to the bank, the meetings with me, the dinner with theBowermans—wasn’t about Blue Ribbon.Nor was it aboutOnitsuka. Likeeverythingelse,itwasallaboutKitami.

KITAMI LEFT PORTLANDthenextdayonhisnot-so-secretmission,hisGive-Blue-Ribbon-the-Brush-Off tour ofAmerica. I asked again about hisdestination,andagainhedidn’tanswer.Yoitabidearimasyohni,Isaid.Safetravels.

I’drecentlycommissionedHayes,myoldbossfromPriceWaterhouse,todosomeconsultingworkforBlueRibbon,andnowIhuddledwithhimandtried to decidemy nextmove beforeKitami’s return.We agreed that thebestthingtodowaskeepthepeace,trytoconvinceKitaminottoleaveus,nottoabandonus.AsangryandwoundedasIwas,IneededtoacceptthatBlueRibbonwouldbelostwithoutOnitsuka.Ineeded,Hayessaid,tostickwiththedevilIknew,andpersuadehimtostickwiththedevilheknew.

Laterthatweek,whenthedevilreturned,IinvitedhimouttoTigardforonemore visit before his flight home. Again I tried to rise above it all. IbroughthimintotheconferenceroomandwithWoodellandIononesideofthetable,andKitamiandhisassistant,Iwano,ontheother,Iscrewedabigsmileontomyfaceandsaidthatwehopedhe’denjoyedhisvisittoourcountry.

He said yet again that hewas disappointed in the performance of BlueRibbon.

Thistime,however,hesaidhehadasolution.“Shoot,”Isaid.“Sellusyourcompany.”Hesaiditsoverysoftly.Thethoughtcrossedmymindthatsomeofthe

hardestthingseversaidinourlifetimesaresaidsoftly.“Excuseme?”Isaid.

“OnitsukaCo.Ltd.willbuycontrollinginterestinBlueRibbon,fifty-onepercent. It is best deal for your company.Andyou.Youwouldbewise toaccept.”

Atakeover.Ahostilefreakingtakeover.Ilookedattheceiling.Yougottabekidding,Ithought.Ofallthearrogant,underhanded,ungrateful,bullying—

“Andifwedonot?”“Wewillhavenochoicebuttosetupsuperiordistributors.”“Superior.Uh-huh.Isee.Andwhataboutourwrittenagreement?”Heshrugged.Somuchforagreements.I couldn’t letmymind go to any of those places it was trying to go. I

couldn’t tell Kitami what I thought of him, or where to stick his offer,becauseHayeswasright,Istillneededhim.Ihadnobackup,noplanB,noexitstrategy.IfIwasgoingtosaveBlueRibbon,Ineededtodoitslowly,onmyownschedule,soasnottospookcustomersandretailers.Ineededtime,and therefore I neededOnitsuka to keep sendingme shoes for as long aspossible.

“Well,”Isaid,fightingtocontrolmyvoice,“Ihaveapartner,ofcourse.CoachBowerman.I’llhavetodiscussyourofferwithhim.”

IwascertainKitamiwouldseethroughthisamateurishstall.Butherose,hitchedhispants,andsmiled.“TalkitoverwithDr.Bowerman.Getbacktome.”

Iwantedtohithim.InsteadIshookhishand.HeandIwanowalkedout.InthesuddenlyKitami-lessconferenceroom,WoodellandIstaredinto

thegrainoftheconferencetableandletthestillnesssettleoverus.

I SENTMYbudgetandforecastforthecomingyeartoFirstNational,withmy standard credit request. I wanted to send a note of apology, beggingforgivenessfortheKitamidebacle,butIknewWhitewouldrollwithit.Andbesides,Wallace hadn’t been there.Days afterWhite gotmy budget andforecasthetoldmetocomeondown,hewasreadytotalkthingsover.

I wasn’t in the hard little chair across from his desk more than twoseconds before he delivered thenews. “Phil, I’m afraidFirstNationalwillnotbeable todobusiness any longerwithBlueRibbon.Wewill issuenomore letters of credit on yourbehalf.Wewill payoff your last remainingshipments as they come inwithwhat remains in your account—butwhenthatlastbillispaid,ourrelationshipwillbeterminated.”

IcouldseebyWhite’swaxypallorthathewasstricken.He’dhadnopartinthis.Thiswascomingfromonhigh.Thustherewasnopointinarguing.Ispreadmyarms.“WhatdoIdo,Harry?”

“Findanotherbank.”“AndifIcan’t?I’moutofbusiness,right?”Helookeddownathispapers,stackedthem,fastenedthemwithapaper

clip.He toldme that the questionofBlueRibbonhaddeeply divided thebank officers. Some were for us, some were against. Ultimately it wasWallacewho’dcastthedecidingvote.“I’msickaboutthis,”Whitesaid.“SosickthatI’mtakingasickday.”

I didn’t have that option. I staggered out of First National and drovestraighttoU.S.Bank.Ipleadedwiththemtotakemein.

Sorry,theysaid.TheyhadnodesiretobuyFirstNational’ssecondhandproblems.

THREEWEEKS PASSED.Thecompany,mycompany,bornfromnothing,and now finishing 1971 with sales of $1.3 million, was on life support. Italked with Hayes. I talked with my father. I talked with every otheraccountant Iknew,oneofwhommentioned thatBankofCaliforniahadacharterallowingittodobusinessinthreewesternstates,includingOregon.Plus,BankofCalhadabranchinPortland.Ihurriedoverand,indeed,theywelcomedme,gavemeshelterfromthestorm.Andasmalllineofcredit.

Still, itwasonlya short-termsolution.Theywereabank, afterall, andbanks were, by definition, risk-averse. Regardless of my sales, Bank of

Californiawould soonviewmyzerocashbalanceswithalarm. Ineeded tostartpreparingforthatrainyday.

My thoughts kept returning to that Japanese trading company.Nissho.LateatnightI’dthink,“Theyhave$100billioninsales. . .andtheywantdesperatelytohelpme.Why?”

Forstarters,Nisshodidhugevolumesonlownetmargins,andthereforeit lovedgrowthcompanieswithbigupsides.Thatwasus.Inspades.Intheeyes ofWallace and FirstNational we’d been a landmine; toNissho wewereapotentialgoldmine.

So I went back. I met with the man sent from Japan to run the newGeneral CommoditiesDepartment, Tom Sumeragi. A graduate of TokyoUniversity, theHarvardofJapan,Sumeragi lookedstrikingly likethegreatfilmactorToshiroMifune,whowas famousforhisportrayalofMiyamotoMusashi,theepicsamuraiduelistandauthorofatimelessmanualoncombatand inner strength,The Book of Five Rings. Sumeragi lookedmost like theactorwhenlippingaLuckyStrike.Andhelippedthemalot.Twiceasmuchwhenhedrank.UnlikeHayes,however,whodrankbecausehelikedthewayboozemade him feel, Sumeragi drank because he was lonely in America.Almost every evening afterworkhe’d head to theBlueHouse, a Japanesebar-restaurant,andtalk inhisnativetonguewiththemama-san,which justmadehimlonelier.

HetoldmethatNisshowaswillingtotakeasecondpositiontothebankontheirloans.Thatwouldcertainlyquellmybankers.Healsoofferedthisnuggetofinformation:NisshohadrecentlydispatchedadelegationtoKobe,toinvestigatefinancingshoesforus,andtoconvinceOnitsukatoletsuchadeal go through. But Onitsuka had thrown theNissho delegation out ontheir asses.A$25million company throwingout a $100billion company?Nisshowasembarrassed,andangry.“WecanintroduceyoutomanyqualitysportsshoemanufacturersinJapan,”Sumeragisaid,smiling.

Ipondered. I stillheldout somehope thatOnitsukawould come to itssenses. And I worried about a paragraph in our written agreement that

forbademe from importingother brandsof track-and-field shoes. “Maybedowntheroad,”Isaid.

Sumeraginodded.Allingoodtime.

REELINGFROMALLthisdrama,IwasdeeplytiredwhenIreturnedhomeeachnight.ButI’dalwaysgetasecondwindaftermysix-milerun,followedbyahotshowerandaquickdinner,alone.(PennyandMatthewatearoundfour.) I’d always try to find time to tellMatthew a bedtime story, and I’dalways try to find a bedtime story thatwould be educational. I invented acharacter called Matt History, who looked and acted a lot like MatthewKnight,andIinsertedhimintothecenterofeveryyarn.MattHistorywasthereatValleyForgewithGeorgeWashington.MattHistorywasthereinMassachusettswithJohnAdams.MattHistorywastherewhenPaulRevererodethroughthedarkofnightonaborrowedhorse,warningJohnHancockthat the British were coming.Hard on Revere’s heels was a precocious younghorsemanfromthesuburbsofPortland,Oregon...

Matthewwouldalwayslaugh,delightedtofindhimselfcaughtupintheseadventures.He’dsitupstraighterinbed.He’dbegformore,more.

WhenMatthewwasasleep,PennyandIwouldtalkabouttheday.She’doftenaskwhatweweregoingtodoifitallwentsouth.I’dsay,“Icanalwaysfallbackonaccounting.”Ididnotsoundsincere,becauseIwasn’t.Iwasnotdelightedtobecaughtupintheseadventures.

EventuallyPennywould lookaway,watchTV, resumeherneedlepoint,orread,andI’dretreattomyrecliner,whereI’dadministerthenightlyself-catechism.

Whatdoyouknow?IknowOnitsukacan’tbetrusted.Whatelsedoyouknow?IknowmyrelationshipwithKitamican’tbesalvaged.Whatdoesthefuturehold?

Onewayoranother,BlueRibbonandOnitsukaaregoingtobreakup.Ijustneed to stay together as long as possiblewhile I developother supplysources,soIcanmanagethebreakup.

What’sStepOne?I need to scare off all the other distributors Onitsuka has lined up to

replaceme.Blastthemrightoutofthewater,byfiringofflettersthreateningtosueiftheybreachmycontract.

What’sStepTwo?FindmyownreplacementforOnitsuka.I flashed on a factory I’d heard about, in Guadalajara, the one where

Adidashadmanufacturedshoesduringthe1968Olympics,allegedlytoskirtMexican tariffs.The shoesweregood, as I recalled.So I setup ameetingwiththefactorymanagers.

EVEN THOUGH ITwasincentralMexico,thefactorywascalledCanada.Right away I asked the managers why. They chose the name, they said,becauseitsoundedforeign,exotic.I laughed.Canada?Exotic?Itwasmorecomicthanexotic,nottomentionconfusing.Afactorysouthofthebordernamedforacountrynorthoftheborder.

Ohwell.Ididn’tcare.Afterlookingtheplaceover,aftertakinginventoryof their present line of shoes, after surveying their leather room, I wasimpressed. The factory was big, clean, well run. Plus, it was Adidas-endorsed. I told them I’d like to place an order.Three thousand pairs ofleather soccer shoes,which Iplanned to sell as football shoes.The factoryownersaskedmeabout thenameofmybrand.I toldthemI’dhavetogetbacktothemonthat.

Theyhandedmethecontract.Ilookedatthedottedlineabovemyname.Pen inhand, I paused.Thequestionwasnowofficially on the table.WasthisaviolationofmydealwithOnitsuka?

Technically, no.My deal said I could import only Onitsuka track andfieldshoes,noothers;itsaidnothingaboutimportingsomeoneelse’sfootball

shoes.SoIknewthiscontractwithCanadawouldn’tviolatetheletterofmyOnitsukadeal.Butthespirit?

Six months previously I would never have done this. Things weredifferentnow.Onitsukahad alreadybroken the spirit of ourdeal, andmyspirit, so Ipulled thecapoffmypenandsigned thecontract. I signed theheckoutofthatCanadacontract.ThenIwentoutforMexicanfood.

Now about that logo. My new soccer-qua-football shoe would needsomethingtosetitapartfromthestripesofAdidasandOnitsuka.Irecalledthat young artist I’dmet atPortlandState.Whatwashername?Oh, yes,Carolyn Davidson. She’d been in the office a number of times, doingbrochures and ad slicks.When I got back toOregon I invited her to theofficeagainandtoldherweneededalogo.“Whatkind?”sheasked.“Idon’tknow,” I said. “That givesme a lot to go on,” she said. “Something thatevokesasenseofmotion,”Isaid.“Motion,”shesaid,dubious.

She looked confused. Of course she did, I was babbling. I wasn’t sureexactlywhat Iwanted. Iwasn’t an artist. I showed her the soccer-footballshoeandsaid,unhelpfully:This.Weneedsomethingforthis.

Shesaidshe’dgiveitatry.Motion,shemumbled,leavingmyoffice.Motion.Twoweekslatershecamebackwithaportfolioofroughsketches.They

were all variationsona single theme, and the theme seemed tobe . . . fatlightning bolts? Chubby check marks? Morbidly obese squiggles? Herdesignsdidevokemotion,ofakind,butalsomotionsickness.Nonespoketome. I singledouta fewthatheldout somepromiseandaskedher toworkwiththose.

Days later—or was it weeks?—Carolyn returned and spread a secondseries of sketches across the conference table. She also hung a few on thewall. She’ddone several dozenmore variationson theoriginal theme, butwithafreerhand.Thesewerebetter.Closer.

WoodellandIandafewotherslookedthemover.IrememberJohnsonbeingthere, too, thoughwhyhe’dcomeout fromWellesley,Ican’trecall.

Graduallyweinchedtowardaconsensus.Weliked. . .thisone.. .slightlymorethantheothers.

Itlookslikeawing,oneofussaid.Itlookslikeawhooshofair,anothersaid.Itlookslikesomethingarunnermightleaveinhisorherwake.Weallagreeditlookednew,fresh,andyetsomehow—ancient.Timeless.Forhermanyhoursofwork,wegaveCarolynourdeepestthanksanda

checkforthirty-fivedollars,thensentheronherway.Aftershe leftwecontinuedtositandstareat thisone logo,whichwe’d

sortofselected,andsortofsettledonbydefault.“Somethingeye-catchingabout it,” Johnson said.Woodell agreed. I frowned, scratched my cheek.“YouguyslikeitmorethanIdo,”Isaid.“Butwe’reoutoftime.It’llhavetodo.”

“Youdon’tlikeit?”Woodellsaid.Isighed.“Idon’tloveit.Maybeitwillgrowonme.”WesentittoCanada.NowwejustneededanametogowiththislogoIdidn’tlove.Overthe

nextfewdayswekickedarounddozensofideas,untiltwoleadingcandidatesemerged.

Falcon.AndDimensionSix.Iwas partial to the latter, because Iwas the onewho came upwith it.

Woodellandeveryoneelsetoldmethat itwasgod-awful.Itwasn’tcatchy,theysaid,anditdidn’tmeananything.

Wetookapollofallouremployees.Secretaries,accountants,salesreps,retailclerks,fileclerks,warehouseworkers—wedemandedthateachpersonjump in, make at least one suggestion. Ford had just paid a top-flightconsultingfirm$2milliontocomeupwiththenameofitsnewMaverick,Iannounced to everyone. “We haven’t got $2 million—but we’ve got fiftysmartpeople,andwecan’tdoanyworsethan...Maverick.”

Also,unlikeFord,wehadadeadline.CanadawasstartingproductionontheshoethatFriday.

Hourafterhourwasspentarguingandyelling,debatingthevirtueofthisnameorthat.Someone likedBork’ssuggestion,Bengal.SomeoneelsesaidtheonlypossiblenamewasCondor.Ihuffedandgroused.“Animalnames,”I said. “Animal names! We’ve considered the name of just about everyanimalintheforest.Mustitbeananimal?”

AgainandagainIlobbiedforDimensionSix.AgainandagainIwastoldbymyemployeesthatitwasunspeakablybad.

Someone, I forget who, summed up the situation neatly. “All thesenames . . . suck.” I thought it might have been Johnson, but all thedocumentationsayshe’dleftandgonebacktoWellesleybythen.

Onenight,late,wewerealltired,runningoutofpatience.IfIheardonemoreanimalnameIwasgoingtojumpoutawindow.Tomorrow’sanotherday,wesaid,driftingoutoftheoffice,headedouttoourcars.

Iwenthomeandsatinmyrecliner.Mymindwentbackandforth,backandforth.Falcon?Bengal?DimensionSix?Somethingelse?Anythingelse?

THE DAY OFdecision arrived.Canada had already started producing theshoes,andsampleswerereadytogoinJapan,butbeforeanythingcouldbeshipped,weneededtochooseaname.Also,wehadmagazineadsslatedtorun,tocoincidewiththeshipments,andweneededtotellthegraphicartistswhatnametoputintheads.Finally,weneededtofilepaperworkwiththeU.S.PatentOffice.

Woodellwheeledintomyoffice.“Time’sup,”hesaid.Irubbedmyeyes.“Iknow.”“What’sitgoingtobe?”“Idon’tknow.”Myheadwas splitting.Bynowthenameshadall run together intoone

mind-meltingglob.Falconbengaldimensionsix.“Thereis...onemoresuggestion,”Woodellsaid.“Fromwho?”

“Johnson phoned first thing thismorning,” he said. “Apparently a newnamecametohiminadreamlastnight.”

Irolledmyeyes.“Adream?”“He’sserious,”Woodellsaid.“He’salwaysserious.”“Hesayshesatboltuprightinbedinthemiddleofthenightandsawthe

namebeforehim,”Woodellsaid.“Whatisit?”Iasked,bracingmyself.“Nike.”“Huh?”“Nike.”“Spellit.”“N-I-K-E,”Woodellsaid.Iwroteitonayellowlegalpad.The Greek goddess of victory. The Acropolis. The Parthenon. The

Temple.Ithoughtback.Briefly.Fleetingly.“We’reoutoftime,”Isaid.“Nike.Falcon.OrDimensionSix.”“EveryonehatesDimensionSix.”“Everyonebutme.”Hefrowned.“It’syourcall.”He leftme. Imadedoodlesonmypad. Imade lists, crossed themout.

Tick,tock,tick,tock.Ineededtotelexthefactory—now.Ihatedmakingdecisionsinahurry,andthat’sallIseemedtodointhose

days. I lookedto theceiling. Igavemyself twomoreminutes tomulloverthedifferentoptions,thenwalkeddownthehalltothetelexmachine.Isatbeforeit,gavemyselfthreemoreminutes.

Reluctantly,Ipunchedoutthemessage.Nameofnewbrandis...A lot of things were rolling around in my head, consciously,

unconsciously. First, Johnson had pointed out that seemingly all iconicbrands—Clorox,Kleenex,Xerox—have shortnames.Twosyllablesor less.

Andtheyalwayshaveastrongsoundinthename,aletterlike“K”or“X,”thatsticksinthemind.Thatallmadesense.AndthatalldescribedNike.

Also, I liked that Nike was the goddess of victory. What’s moreimportant,Ithought,thanvictory?

Imighthaveheard,inthefarrecessesofmymind,Churchill’svoice.Youask, What is our aim? I can answer in one word. It is victory. I might haverecalledthevictorymedalawardedtoallveteransofWorldWarII,abronzemedallionwithAthenaNikeonthefront,breakingaswordintwo.Imighthave.SometimesIbelievethatIdid.ButintheendIdon’treallyknowwhatledmetomydecision.Luck?Instinct?Someinnerspirit?

Yes.“What’dyoudecide?”Woodellaskedmeattheendoftheday.“Nike,”I

mumbled.“Hm,”hesaid.“Yeah,Iknow,”Isaid.“Maybeit’llgrowonus,”hesaid.

Maybe.

MY BRAND-NEWRELATIONSHIPwithNisshowaspromising,butitwasbrandnew,andwhowoulddarepredicthow itmightevolve?I’donce feltthe relationshipwithOnitsukawas promising, and lookwhere that stood.Nissho was infusing me with cash, but I couldn’t let that make mecomplacent.Ineededtodevelopasmanysourcesofcashaspossible.

Whichbroughtmebacktotheideaofapublicoffering.Ididn’tthinkIcouldwithstandthedisappointmentofasecondfailedoffering,soIplottedwithHayes to ensure that this onewouldwork.Wedecided that the firstofferinghadn’tbeenaggressiveenough.Wehadn’tsoldourselves.Thistimewehiredahard-drivingsalesman.

Also,thistimewedecidednottosellstocks,butconvertibledebentures.If business truly iswarwithout bullets, then debentures arewar bonds.

Thepublicloansyoumoney,andinexchangeyougivethemquasi-stockinyour . . . cause.The stock is quasi becausedebentureholders are stronglyencouraged,andincentivized,toholdtheirsharesforfiveyears.Afterthat,

theycanconvertthesharestocommonstockorgettheirmoneybackwithinterest.

With our new plan, and our gung-ho salesman, we announced in June1971 thatBlueRibbonwouldbeoffering twohundred thousand sharesofdebentures,atonedollarper,andthistimethesharessoldfast.Oneofthefirst tobuywasmy friendCale,whodidn’thesitate tocut a check for tenthousanddollars,aprincelysum.

“Buck,”hesaid,“Iwasthereatthestart,I’llbethereatthebitterend.”

CANADAWASA letdown.Thefactory’sleatherfootballshoewaspretty,butincoldweatheritssolesplitandcracked.Ironyuponirony—ashoemadeinafactorycalledCanada,whichcouldn’ttakethecold.Thenagain,maybeitwasourfault.Usingasoccershoeforfootball.Maybewewereaskingforit.

Thequarterback forNotreDamewore a pair that season, and itwas athrilltoseehimtrotontothathallowedgridironatSouthBendinapairofNikes.UntilthoseNikesdisintegrated.(JustliketheIrishdidthatyear.)JobOne, therefore, was finding a factory that could make sturdier, moreweather-resistantshoes.

Nissho said they could help. They were only too happy to help. Theywerebeefinguptheircommoditiesdepartment,soSumeragihadawealthofinformation about factories around the world. He’d also recently hired aconsultant,abonafideshoewizard,who’dbeenadiscipleofJonasSenter.

I’d never heard of Senter, but Sumeragi assured me the man was agenuine,head-to-toeshoedog.I’dheardthisphraseafewtimes.Shoedogswerepeoplewhodevotedthemselveswhollytothemaking,selling,buying,or designing of shoes. Lifers used the phrase cheerfully to describe otherlifers,menandwomenwhohadtoiledso longandhard in theshoe trade,theythoughtandtalkedaboutnothingelse.Itwasanall-consumingmania,arecognizable psychological disorder, to care so much about insoles andoutsoles,liningsandwelts,rivetsandvamps.ButIunderstood.Theaverageperson takes seventy-five hundred steps a day, 274million steps over the

course of a long life, the equivalent of six times around the globe—shoedogs,itseemedtome,simplywantedtobepartofthatjourney.Shoesweretheirwayofconnectingwithhumanity.Whatbetterwayofconnecting,shoedogs thought, than by refining the hinge that joins each person to theworld’ssurface?

I felt an unusual sympathy for such sad cases. I wondered howmany Imighthavemetinmytravels.

TheshoemarketjustthenwasfloodedwithknockoffAdidas,anditwasSenterwho’dunleashedtheflood.Hewastheknockoffking,apparently.Healso knew everything worth knowing about Asia’s legitimate shoe trade—factories, importing, exporting. He’d helped set up a shoe division forMitsubishi, Japan’s largest trading company. Nissho couldn’t hire Senterhimself,forvariousreasons,sothey’dhiredSenter’sprotégé,amannamedSole.

“Really?”Isaid.“AshoeguynamedSole?”BeforemeetingSole,beforegoinganyfurtherwithNissho,Iconsidered

if Iwaswalking into another trap. If IpartneredwithNissho, I’d soonbeinto them for a lot of money. If they also became the source of all ourfootwear,IwouldthenbeevenmorevulnerabletothemthanIhadbeentoOnitsuka.AndiftheyturnedouttobeasaggressiveasOnitsuka,itwouldbelightsout.

At Bowerman’s suggestion I talked it over with Jaqua, and he saw theconundrum.Quiteapickle,hesaid.Hedidn’tknowwhattoadvise.Butheknewsomeonewhowould.Hisbrother-in-law,ChuckRobinson,wasCEOofMarconaMining,whichhadjointventuresallovertheworld.Eachofthebig eight Japanese trading companies was a partner in at least one ofMarcona’smines,soChuckwasarguablytheWest’sleadingexpertondoingbusinesswiththeseguys.

IfinagledameetingwithChuckathisofficeinSanFranciscoandfoundmyselfwildlyintimidatedfromthemomentIwalkedinthedoor.Iwasagogat his office’s size—bigger than my house. And at its view—windowsoverlookingallofSanFranciscoBay,withenormoustankersglidingslowly

toandfromtheworld’sgreatports.AndliningthewallswerescalemodelsofMarcona’s tanker fleet,which suppliedcoal andotherminerals toeverycorner of the globe. Only a man of enormous power, and brains, couldcommandsucharedoubt.

I stammered through my presentation, but Chuck still managed toquickly get the drift. He boiled my complicated situation down to acompellingprécis. “If the Japanese trading companyunderstands the rulesfromthefirstday,”hesaid,“theywillbethebestpartnersyou’lleverhave.”

Reassured,emboldened,IwentbacktoSumeragiandtoldhimtherules.“Noequityinmycompany.Ever.”

He went away and consulted with a few people in his office. Uponreturninghesaid,“Noproblem.Buthere’sourdeal.Wetakefourpercentoff the top, as amarkup on product. Andmarket interest rates on top ofthat.”

Inodded.DayslaterSumeragisentSoletomeetme.Giventheman’sreputation,I

wasexpectingsomekindofgodlikefigurewithfifteenarms,eachonewavingawandmadeoutof shoe trees.ButSolewasaplain,ordinary,middle-agebusinessman,withaNewYorkaccentandasharkskinsuit.Notmykindofguy, and I wasn’t his kind, either. And yet we had no trouble findingcommonground.Shoes,sports—plusanabidingdistasteforKitami.WhenImentionedKitami’sname,Solescoffed.“Theman’sanass.”

We’regoingtobefastfriends,Ithought.Solepromised tohelpmebeatKitami, get freeof him. “I can solve all

your problems,” he said. “I know factories.” “Factories that can makeNikes?”Iasked,handinghimmynewfootballshoe.“Icanthinkoffiveoffthetopofmyhead!”hesaid.

He was adamant. He seemed to have two mental states—adamant anddismissive.Irealizedthathewassellingme,thathewantedmybusiness,butIwaswillingtobesold,andmorethanreadytobewanted.

The five factoriesSolementionedwere all in Japan.SoSumeragi and IdecidedtogothereandlookthemoverinSeptember1971.Soleagreedto

beourguide.

A WEEK BEFOREwe were to leave, Sumeragi phoned. “Mr. Sole hassufferedaheartattack,”hesaid.“Ohno,”Isaid.“He’sexpectedtorecover,”Sumeragisaid,“buttravelingatthistimeisimpossible.Hisson,whoisverycapable,willtakehisplace.”

Sumeragisoundedasifhewastryingtoconvincehimself,morethanme.IflewalonetoJapan,andmetSumeragiandSoleJr.atNissho’sofficein

Tokyo.IwastakenabackwhenSoleJr.steppedforward,handoutstretched.Iassumedhe’dbeyoung,buthelookedlikeateenager.Ihadahunchhe’dbedressed in sharkskin, like his father, andhewas.But his suitwas threesizestoobig.Wasitinfacthisfather’s?

Andlikesomanyteens,hestartedeverysentencewith“I.”Ithinkthis.Ithinkthat.I,I,I.

IshotaglanceatSumeragi.Helookedgravelyconcerned.

THE FIRST OFthefactorieswewantedtoseewasoutsideHiroshima.Allthreeofuswenttherebytrain,arrivingmidday.Acool,overcastafternoon.Weweren’tdueatthefactoryuntilthenextmorning,soIfeltitimportanttotaketheextratimeandvisitthemuseum.AndIwantedtogobymyself.Itold Sumeragi and Sole Jr. I would meet them in the hotel lobby thefollowingmorning.

Walking through those museum rooms . . . I couldn’t take it all in. Icouldn’t process it. Mannequins dressed in singed clothes. Clumps ofscorched, irradiated—jewelry?Cookware? I couldn’t tell. Photos that tookmetoaplacefarbeyondemotion.Istoodinhorrorbeforeachild’sliquefiedtricycle.Istood,open-mouthed,beforetheblackenedskeletonofabuilding,wherepeoplehad lovedandworkedand laughed,until. I tried to feel andhearthemomentofimpact.

I felt sickatheartas I turnedacornerandcameupona scorchedshoe,underglass,thefootprintofitsownerstillvisible.

The next morning, these ghastly images still fresh in my head, I wassomber, heavily subdued as I drove with Sumeragi and Sole Jr. into thecountryside, and I was almost startled by the good cheer of the factoryofficials.Theyweredelightedtomeetus,toshowustheirwares.Also,theysaid forthrightly, they were most eager to do a deal. They’d long beenhopingtocracktheU.S.market.

I showed them theCortez, asked how long itmight take to produce asizableorderofthisshoe.

Sixmonths,theysaid.SoleJr.steppedforward.“You’lldoitinthree,”hebarked.I gasped.With the exception of Kitami, I’d always found the Japanese

unfailinglypolite, even in theheatofdisagreementor intensenegotiation,andI’dalwaysstrivedtoreciprocate.ButinHiroshimaofallplacesIfeltthatpoliteness was that much more essential. Here, if nowhere else on earth,humansshouldbegentleandkindwithoneanother.SoleJr.wasanythingbut.TheugliestofAmericans.

Itgotworse.AswemadeourwayacrossJapanhewasbrusque,boorish,strutting, swaggering, condescending toeveryonewemet.Heembarrassedme, embarrassed all Americans.Now and then Sumeragi and I exchangedpainedlooks.WewanteddesperatelytoscoldSoleJr.,toleavehim—butweneededhis father’scontacts.Weneeded thishorridbrat to showuswherethefactorieswere.

In Kurume, just outside Beppu, in the southern islands, we visited afactorythatwaspartofavastindustrialcomplexrunbytheBridgestoneTireCompany.The factorywas calledNipponRubber. Itwas thebiggest shoefactoryI’deverseen,akindofShoeOz,capableofhandlinganyorder,nomatter how big or complicated. We sat with factory officials in theirconference room, just afterbreakfast, and this time,whenSole Jr. tried tospeak,Ididn’tlethim.EachtimeheopenedhismouthIspokeup,cuthimoff.

Itoldofficialsthekindofshoewewanted,showedthemtheCortez.Theynoddedgravely.Iwasn’tsuretheyunderstood.

Afterlunchwereturnedtotheconferenceroomandtherebeforemeonthe table was a brand-new Cortez, Nike side stripe and all, hot off thefactoryfloor.Magic.

I spent the restof theafternoondescribing the shoes Iwanted.Tennis,basketball, high top, low top, plus severalmoremodels of running shoes.The officials insisted they would have no trouble making any of thesedesigns.

Fine, I said, but before placing an order I’ll need to see samples. Thefactoryofficialsassuredmethattheycouldblastoutsamplesandshipthemwithindays toNissho’soffices inTokyo.Webowedtoeachother. IwentbacktoTokyoandwaited.

Days and days of crisp fall weather. I walked around the city, drankSapporoand sake, ateyakitori, anddreamedof shoes. I revisited theMeijigardens, and sat beneath the ginkgos beside the torii gate. Portal to thesacred.

OnSundayIgotanoticeatmyhotel.Theshoeshadarrived.IwentdowntotheofficesofNissho,buttheywereclosed.Theyhadtrustedmeenoughtogivemeapass,however, so I letmyself in,andsat inabigroom,amidrows and rowsof emptydesks, inspecting the samples. I held them to thelight,turnedthemthiswayandthat.Iranmyfingersalongthesoles,alongthe check orwing orwhatever our new side stripewould be called.Theywerenotperfect.Thelogoonthisshoewasn’tquitestraight,themidsoleonthatshoewasabittoothin.Thereshouldbemoreliftonthisotherone.

Imadenotesforthefactoryofficials.Butminorimperfectionsaside,theywereverygood.Atlasttheonlythingtodowasthinkupnamesforthedifferentmodels.I

waspanicked.I’ddonesuchapoorjobthinkingupanameformynewbrand—

DimensionSix?EveryoneatBlueRibbonstillmockedme.I’donlygonewith Nike because I was out of time, and because I’d trusted Johnson’ssavant-like nature.Now Iwas onmy own, in an empty office building indowntownTokyo.I’dhavetotrustmyself.

Iheldupthetennisshoe.Idecidedtocallit...theWimbledon.Well.Thatwaseasy.Iheldupanothertennisshoe.Idecidedtocallit...theForestHill.After

all,thatwasthesettingforthefirstU.S.Open.I held up a basketball shoe. I called it the Blazer, after my hometown

NBAteam.Iheldupanotherbasketballshoe.InamedittheBruin,becausethebest

college basketball team of all time was John Wooden’s Bruins. Not toocreative,but.

Now the running shoes.Cortez, of course.AndMarathon.AndObori.AndBostonandFinland.Iwasfeelingit.Iwasinthezone.Istarteddancingaroundtheroom.Iheardasecretmusic.Ihelduparunningshoe.InamedittheWet-Flyte.Boom,Isaid.

TothisdayIdon’tknowwherethatnamecamefrom.Ittookahalfhourtonamethemall.IfeltlikeColeridge,writing“Kubla

Khan”inanopiumdaze.Ithenmailedmynamesofftothefactory.ItwasdarkasIwalkedoutoftheofficebuilding,intothecrowdedTokyo

street.A feelingcameoverme,unlikeanything I’deverexperienced. I feltspent, but proud. I felt drained, but exhilarated. I felt everything I everhopedtofeelafteraday’swork.Ifeltlikeanartist,acreator.Ilookedbackovermyshoulder,tookonelastlookatNissho’soffices.UndermybreathIsaid,“Wemadethis.”

I ’D BEEN INJapanthreeweeks, longerthanIexpected,whichposedtwoproblems. The world was large, but the shoe world was small, and ifOnitsukagotwind that Iwas in their “neighborhood,” anddidn’t stopby,they’dknowIwasuptosomething.Itwouldn’ttakemuchforthemtofindout,orfigureout,thatIwaslininguptheirreplacement.SoIneededtogodowntoKobe,makeanappearanceatOnitsuka’soffices.Butextendingmytrip, beinggone fromhome anotherweek,wasunacceptable.Penny and Ihadneverbeenapartthatlong.

Iphonedherandaskedhertoflyoverandjoinmeforthislastleg.Pennyjumpedatthechance.She’dneverseenAsia,andthismightbeher

lastchancebeforewewereoutofbusinessandoutofmoney.Itmightalsobeherlastchancetousethatmatchingpinkluggage.AndDotwasavailableforbabysitting.

Theflightwaslong,though,andPennydidn’tlikeplanes.WhenIwenttotheTokyoairporttomeether,IknewI’dbecollectingafragilewoman.Iforgot,however,how intimidatingHanedaAirportcouldbe. Itwasa solidmassofbodiesandbaggage.Icouldn’tmove,couldn’tfindPenny.Suddenlysheappearedat the slidingglassdoorsof customs.Shewas trying topushforward, trying to get through.Therewere toomany people—and armedpolice—oneverysideofher.Shewastrapped.

Thedoors slidopen, thecrowdsurged forward,andPenny fell intomyarms. I’d never seen her so exhausted, not even after she gave birth toMatthew.Iaskediftheplanehadaflattireandshe’dgottenouttochangeit.Joke?Kitami?Remember?Shedidn’tlaugh.ShesaidtheplanehitturbulencetwohoursoutsideTokyoandtheflightwasarollercoaster.

She was wearing her best lime-green suit, now badly wrinkled andstained,andshewasthesameshadeoflime-green.Sheneededahotshower,andalongrest,andsomefreshclothes.ItoldherwehadasuitewaitingatthewonderfulImperialHotel,designedbyFrankLloydWright.

Ahalfhourlater,whenwepulleduptothehotel,shesaidshewasgoingtousetheladies’roomwhileIcheckedusin.Ihurriedtothefrontdesk,gotourroomkeys,andsatononeofthelobbysofastowait.

Tenminutes.Fifteenminutes.Iwenttothedooroftheladies’roomandcrackeditopen.“Penny?”“I’mfrozen,”shesaid.“What?”“I’montheflooroftheladies’room...andIamfrozen.”Iwentinandfoundheronthecoldtiles,lyingonherside,ladiesstepping

overandaroundher.Shewashavingapanicattack.Andseverelegcramps.

Thelongflight,thechaosattheairport,themonthsofstressaboutKitami—itwastoomuchforher.Ispokecalmly,toldhereverythingwouldbefine,andgraduallysheunclenched.Ihelpedhertoherfeet,guidedherupstairs,andaskedthehoteltosendupamasseuse.

Asshe layonthebed,acoldwashclothonher forehead,Iwasworried,butalittlebitgrateful.I’dbeenontheedgeofpanicforweeks.Months.ThesightofPennyinthisstategavemeashotofadrenaline.Oneofushadtokeepittogether,forthesakeofMatthew.Thistimeitwouldhavetobeme.

THE NEXT MORNINGI phonedOnitsuka and told themmywife and Iwere in Japan.Comeondown, they said.Withinanhourwewereon thetrainforKobe.

Everyonecameout tomeetus, includingKitamiandFujimotoandMr.Onitsuka.WhatbringsyoutoJapan?Itoldthemwewerevacationing.Spur-of-the-momentthing.“Verygood,verygood,”Mr.Onitsukasaid.HemadeabigfussoverPenny,andwesatdowntoahastilyarrangedteaceremony.For amoment, amid all the small talk, all the laughter andpleasantries, itwaspossibletoforgetthatwewereontheedgeofwar.

Mr.OnitsukaevenofferedacaranddrivertotakePennyandmearoundandshowusKobe.Iaccepted.ThenKitamiinvitedustodinnerthatnight.AgainIreluctantlysaidyes.

Fujimotocamealong,whichaddedanextralayerofcomplexity.Ilookedaround the table and thought: my bride, my enemy, my spy. Some life.Though the tonewas friendly, cordial, I could feel the tangled subtext ofevery remark. It was like a loose wire buzzing and sparking in thebackground.IkeptwaitingforKitamitocomeoutwithit,pressmeforananswertohisoffertobuyBlueRibbon.Oddly,heneverbroughtitup.

Aroundnineo’clockhesaidheneededtobegettinghome.Fujimotosaidhe’d stay and have a nightcap with us. The moment Kitami was gone,FujimototolduseverythingheknewoftheplantocutoffBlueRibbon.Itwasn’tmuchmore than I’d gleaned from the folder inKitami’s briefcase.

Still, itwasnice to sitwithanally, sowehadseveralnightcaps, anda fewlaughs,untilFujimotolookedathiswatchandletoutascream.“Ohno!Itisaftereleven.Thetrainstoprunning!”

“Ah,noproblem,”Isaid.“Comestaywithus.”“Wehaveabigtatamiinourroom,”Pennysaid.“Youcansleeponthat.”Fujimoto accepted, withmany bows.He thankedme yet again for the

bicycle.Anhour later, therewewere, in one small room, pretending therewas

nothingoutoftheordinaryaboutthethreeofusbeddingdowntogether.At sunrise IheardFujimotogetup, cough,and stretch.Hewent to the

bathroom,ranthewater,brushedhisteeth.Thenheputonhisclothesfromthenight before and slipped out. I fell back asleep but a shortwhile laterPenny went to the bathroom and when she came back to bed she was—laughing?Irolledover.Nope,shewascrying.She lookedas if shewasonthevergeofanotherpanicattack.“Heused...,”sherasped.“What?”Isaid.Sheburiedherheadinthepillows.“Heused...mytoothbrush.”

AS SOON AS IgotbacktoOregonI invitedBowermanuptoPortlandtomeetwithmeandWoodell,talkaboutthestateofthebusiness.

Itseemedlikeanyoldmeeting.Atsomepoint,inthecourseofconversation,WoodellandIpointedout

that the outer sole of the training shoehadn’t changed in fifty years.Thetread was still just waves or grooves across the bottom of the foot. TheCortez and Boston were breakthroughs in cushioning and nylon,revolutionary in upper construction, but there hadn’t been a singleinnovation in outer soles since before the Great Depression. Bowermannodded.Hemadeanote.Hedidn’tseemallthatinterested.

As I recall, once we’d covered all the new business on the agenda,BowermantoldusthatawealthyalumhadjustdonatedamilliondollarstoOregon, earmarked for a new track—the world’s finest. His voice rising,Bowerman described the surface he’d created with that windfall. It was

polyurethane,thesamespongysurfacethatwastobeusedinMunichinthe1972Olympics,whereBowermanwasontaptobeheadcoachofthetrackteam.

Hewaspleased.Andyet,hesaid,hewas far fromsatisfied.Hisrunnersstill weren’t getting the full benefit of this new surface. Their shoes stillweren’tgrippingitright.

Onthetwo-hourdrivebacktoEugene,BowermanmulledwhatWoodelland Ihad said, andmulledhisproblemwith thenew track, and these twoproblemssimmeredandcongealedinhisthoughts.

The followingSunday, sittingover breakfastwithhiswife,Bowerman’sgazedriftedtoherwaffleiron.Henotedthewaffleiron’sgriddedpattern.Itconformed with a certain pattern in his mind’s eye, a pattern he’d beenseeing,orseeking,formonths,ifnotyears.HeaskedMrs.Bowermanifhecouldborrowit.

Hehadavatofurethaneinhisgarage, leftoverfromtheinstallationofthe track. He carried the waffle iron out to the garage, filled it withurethane,heateditup—andpromptlyruinedit.Theurethanesealeditshut,becauseBowermanhadn’taddedachemicalreleasingagent.Hedidn’tknowfromchemicalreleasingagents.

Another personwouldhave quit right then.ButBowerman’s brain alsodidn’thaveareleasingagent.Heboughtanotherwaffleiron,andthistimefilled itwithplaster, andwhen theplasterhardened the jawsof thewaffleironopened,noproblem.HetooktheresultingmoldtotheOregonRubberCompany,andpaidthemtopourliquidrubberintoit.

Anotherfailure.Therubbermoldwastoorigid,toobrittle.Itbrokerightaway.

ButBowermanfelthewasgettingcloser.Hegaveupthewaffleironaltogether.Insteadhetookasheetofstainless

steelandpunched itwithholes,creatingawaffle-like surface,andbroughtthisbacktotherubbercompany.Themoldtheymadefromthatsteelsheetwas pliable, workable, and Bowerman now had two foot-sized squares ofhardrubbernubs,whichhebroughthomeandsewedtothesoleofapairof

runningshoes.Hegavethesetooneofhisrunners.Therunnerlacedthemonandranlikearabbit.

Bowerman phonedme, excited, and toldme about his experiment.Hewanted me to send a sample of his waffle-soled shoes to one of my newfactories.Ofcourse,Isaid.I’dsenditrightaway—toNipponRubber.

I lookbackover thedecades and seehim toiling inhisworkshop,Mrs.Bowerman carefully helping, and I get goosebumps. He was Edison inMenloPark,DaVinciinFlorence,TeslainWardenclyffe.Divinelyinspired.Iwonderifheknew,ifhehadanyclue,thathewastheDaedalusofsneakers,that he was making history, remaking an industry, transforming the wayathleteswouldrunandstopandjumpforgenerations.Iwonderifhecouldconceiveinthatmomentallthathe’ddone.Allthatwouldfollow.

IknowIcouldn’t.

1972

Everything depended on Chicago. Our every thought, our every

conversation at the start of 1972, began and endedwithChicago, becauseChicagowasthesiteoftheNationalSportingGoodsAssociationShow.

Chicagowas importanteveryyear.Thesportinggoodsshowwaswheresales reps fromacross thenationgot their first lookat all thenewathleticproducts, from all the different companies, and voted upor down, via thesizes of their orders. But this 1972 show was going to be more thanimportant.ItwasgoingtobeourSuperBowlandourOlympicsandourBarMitzvah,becauseitwaswherewe’ddecidedtointroducetheworldtoNike.If sales reps liked our new shoe, we’d live to see another year. If not, wewouldn’tbebackforthe1973show.

Onitsuka,meanwhile,waseyeingChicago, too.Daysbefore the startofthe show, without a word to me, Onitsuka gave the Japanese press anannouncement trumpeting their “acquisition” of Blue Ribbon. Theannouncement set off shock waves everywhere, but especially at Nissho.Sumeragiwroteme,asking,inessence,“Whatthe—?”

Inmy impassioned two-page reply I told him that I had nothing to dowithOnitsuka’s announcement. I assuredhim thatOnitsukawas trying tobullyusintoselling,buttheywereourpast,andNissho,likeNike,wasourfuture.InclosingIconfessedtoSumeragithatIhadn’tyetmentionedanyofthis to Onitsuka, so mum’s the word. “I ask that you keep the aboveinformation in strict confidence for obvious reasons. In order tomaintainourpresentdistributionsystemforfutureNikesales,it’simportantthatwe

have about one or twomoremonths of shipments fromOnitsuka, and iftheseshipmentswerecutoffitwouldbeveryharmful.”

Ifeltlikeamarriedmancaughtinatawdrylovetriangle.Iwasassuringmy lover,Nissho, that it was only amatter of time before I divorcedmyspouse,Onitsuka.Meanwhile,IwasencouragingOnitsukatothinkofmeasalovinganddevotedhusband.“Idonotlikethiswayofdoingbusiness,”Iwrote Sumeragi, “but I feel it was thrust upon us by a companywith theworstpossibleintentions.”We’llbetogethersoon,darling.Justhavepatience.

Right before we all left for Chicago, a wire came from Kitami. He’dthoughtupanamefor“our”newcompany.TheTigerShoeCompany.HewantedmetounveilitinChicago.Iwiredbackthatthenamewasbeautiful,lyrical,sheerpoetry—butalasitwastoolatetounveilanythingattheshow.Allthesignsandpromotionalliteraturehadbeenprintedalready.

ON DAY ONEof theshowIwalked into theconventioncenterand foundJohnsonandWoodellalreadybusyarrangingourbooth.They’dstackedthenew Tigers in neat rows, and now they were stacking the new Nikes inpyramidsoforangeshoeboxes.Inthosedaysshoeboxeswereeitherwhiteorblue,period,butI’dwantedsomethingthatwouldstandout,thatwouldpopontheshelvesofsportinggoodsstores.SoI’daskedNipponRubberforboxesofbrightneonorange,figuringitwastheboldestcolorintherainbow.Johnson and Woodell loved the orange, and loved the lowercase “nike,”lettered inwhiteonthesideof thebox.Butas theyopenedtheboxesandexaminedtheshoesthemselves,bothmenwereshakenup.

Theseshoes,thefirstwaveproducedbyNipponRubber,didn’thavethequality of Tigers, nor of the samples we’d seen earlier. The leather wasshiny, and not in a good way. The Wet-Flyte looked literally wet, as ifcoveredwithcheappaintorlacquerthathadn’tdried.Theupperwascoatedwith polyurethane, but apparently Nippon was no more proficient thanBowermanatworkingwiththattricky,mercurialsubstance.Thelogoonthe

side, Carolyn’s wing-whoosh thingamajig, which we’d taken to calling aswoosh,wascrooked.

I sat down and put my head in my hands. I looked at our orangepyramids.MymindwenttothepyramidsofGiza.OnlytenyearsbeforeI’dbeenthere,ridingacamellikeLawrenceofArabiaacrossthesands,freeasamancouldbe.NowIwasinChicago,saddledwithdebt,headofateeteringshoe company, rolling out a new brand with shoddy workmanship andcrookedswooshes.Allisvanity.

I gazed around the convention center, at the thousands of sales repsswarmingthebooths,theotherbooths.Iheardthemoohingandaahingatallthe other shoes being introduced for the first time. I was that boy at thescience fairwho didn’twork hard enough on his project,who didn’t startuntil the night before. The other kids had built erupting volcanoes, andlightningmachines,andallIhadwasamobileofthesolarsystemmadewithmothballsstucktomymother’scoathangers.

Darnit,thiswasnotimetobeintroducingflawedshoes.Worse,wehadtopushtheseflawedshoesonpeoplewhoweren’tourkindofpeople.Theywere salesmen. They talked like salesmen, walked like salesmen, and theydressed like salesmen—tight polyester shirts, Sansabelt slacks. They wereextroverts,wewere introverts.Theydidn’tgetus,wedidn’tget them,andyet our future depended on them. And now we’d have to persuade themsomehowthatthisNikethingwasworththeirtimeandtrust—andmoney.

I was on the verge of losing it, right on the verge. Then I saw thatJohnsonandWoodellwere already losing it, and I realized that I couldn’tafford to. Like Penny, they beatme to the panic attack punch. “Look,” Isaid,“fellas,thisistheworsttheshoeswilleverbe.They’llgetbetter.Soifwecanjustsellthese...we’llbeonourway.”

Eachgavearesignedshakeofthehead.Whatchoicedowehave?We looked out, and here they came, a mob of salesmen, walking like

zombies toward our booth. They picked up the Nikes, held them to thelight. They touched the swoosh.One said to another, “The hell is this?”“HellifIknow,”saidtheother.

Theystartedtobarrageuswithquestions.Hey—whatISthis?That’saNike.Thehell’saNike?It’stheGreekgoddessofvictory.Greekwhatnow?Goddessofvic—Andwhat’sTHIS?That’saswoosh.Thehell’saswoosh?Theanswerflewoutofme:It’sthesoundofsomeonegoingpastyou.Theylikedthat.Oh,theylikeditawholelot.Theygaveusbusiness.Theyactuallyplacedorderswithus.Bytheendof

thedaywe’dexceededourgrandestexpectations.Wewereoneofthesmashhitsoftheshow.Atleast,that’showIsawit.

Johnson, as usual, wasn’t happy. Ever the perfectionist. “Theirregularitiesofthiswholesituation,”hesaid, lefthimdumbfounded.Thatwashisphrase,theirregularitiesofthiswholesituation.Ibeggedhimtotakehisdumbfoundedness and irregularityelsewhere, leavewell enoughalone.Buthe just couldn’t. He walked over and button-holed one of his biggestaccountsanddemandedtoknowwhatwasgoingon.“Whaddyamean?”themansaid.“Imean,”Johnsonsaid,“weshowupwiththisnewNike,andit’stotally untested, and frankly it’s not even all that good—and you guys arebuyingit.Whatgives?”

The man laughed. “We’ve been doing business with you Blue Ribbonguysforyears,”hesaid,“andweknowthatyouguystellthetruth.Everyoneelsebullshits,youguysalwaysshootstraight.Soifyousaythisnewshoe,thisNike,isworthashot,webelieve.”

Johnsoncamebacktothebooth,scratchinghishead.“Tellingthetruth,”hesaid.“Whoknew?”

Woodell laughed. Johnson laughed. I laughed and tried not to thinkaboutmymanyhalftruthsanduntruthswithOnitsuka.

GOOD NEWS TRAVELS fast. Bad news travels faster than Grelle andPrefontaine.Onarocket.TwoweeksafterChicago,Kitamiwalkedintomyoffice.Noadvancenotice.Noheads-up.Andhecutrighttothecarchase.“Whatisthis,this...thing,”hedemanded,“this...NEE-kay?”

I made my face blank. “Nike? Oh. It’s nothing. It’s a sideline we’vedeveloped,tohedgeourbets,incaseOnitsukadoesasthreatenedandyankstherugoutfromunderus.”

Theanswerdisarmedhim.Asitshouldhave.I’drehearseditforweeks.ItwassoreasonableandlogicalthatKitamididn’tknowhowtorespond.He’dcomespoilingforafight,andI’dcounteredhisbullrushwitharope-a-dope.

Hedemanded to knowwhomade the new shoes. I told him theyweremade by different factories in Japan. He demanded to know how manyNikeswe’dordered.Afewthousand,Isaid.

Hegavean“Ooh.”Iwasn’tsurewhatthatmeant.I didn’tmention that twomembers ofmy scrappy hometownPortland

TrailBlazershad justwornNikesduring a routof theNewYorkKnicks,133–86.TheOregonianhadrecentlyrunaphotoofGeoffPetriedrivingpastaKnick(PhilJackson,byname),andvisibleonPetrie’sshoeswasaswoosh.(We’djustmadeadealwithacoupleofotherBlazerstosupplythemwithshoes, too.) Good thing the Oregonian didn’t have a wide circulation inKobe.

Kitami asked if the newNike was in stores. Of course not, I lied. Orfibbed. He asked when I was going to sign his papers and sell him mycompany.Itoldhimmypartnerstillhadn’tdecided.

Endofmeeting.HebuttonedandunbuttonedthecoatofhissuitandsaidhehadotherbusinessinCalifornia.Buthe’dbeback.HemarchedoutofmyofficeandI immediatelyreached for thephone. Idialedourretail store inLos Angeles. Bork answered. “John, our old friend Kitami is coming totown!I’msurehe’llcomebyyourstore!HidetheNikes!”

“Huh?”“HeknowsaboutNike,butItoldhimitisn’tinstores!”“Whatyou’reaskingofme,”Borksaid,“Idon’tknow.”

He sounded frightened. And irritated. He didn’t want to do anythingdishonest, he said. “I’m asking you to stash a few pairs of shoes,” I cried,thenslammeddownthephone.

Sure enough, Kitami showed up that afternoon. He confronted Bork,badgered him with questions, shook him down like a cop with a shakywitness.Borkplayeddumb—orsohetoldmelater.

Kitami asked to use the bathroom. A ploy, of course. He knew thebathroomwas somewhere in the back, and he needed an excuse to snoopbackthere.Borkdidn’tseetheploy,ordidn’tcareto.MomentslaterKitamiwas standing in the stockroom, under a bare lightbulb, glowering athundredsoforangeshoeboxes.Nike,Nike,everywhere,andnotadroptodrink.

BorkphonedmeafterKitamileft.“Jig’sup,”hesaid.“Whathappened?”Iasked.“Kitamiforcedhiswayintothestockroom—it’sover,Phil.”

Ihungup, slumped inmychair. “Well,” I said,out loud, tonoone, “Iguesswe’regoingtofindoutifwecanexistwithoutTiger.”

Wefoundoutsomethingelse,too.Soonafter thatday,Borkquit.Actually, Idon’t remember ifhequitor

Woodellfiredhim.Eitherway,notlongafterthat,weheardBorkhadanewjob.

WorkingforKitami.

I SPENTDAYSanddaysstaringintospace,gazingoutwindows,waitingforKitami to play his next card. I alsowatched a lot ofTV.The nation, theworld, was agog at the sudden opening of relations between the UnitedStatesandChina.PresidentNixonwasinBeijing,shakinghandswithMaoZedong,aneventnearlyonaparwiththemoonlanding.IneverthoughtI’dsee it inmy lifetime,aU.S.president in theForbiddenCity, touching theGreatWall.IthoughtofmytimeinHongKong.I’dbeensoclosetoChina,andyetsofar.IthoughtI’dneverhaveanotherchance.ButnowIthought,Oneday?Maybe?

Maybe.At lastKitamimade hismove.He returned toOregon and asked for a

meeting, at which he requested that Bowerman be present.Tomake thateasierforBowerman,IsuggestedJaqua’sofficedowninEugeneasthesite.

Whenthedaycame,aswewereallfilingintotheconferenceroom,Jaquagrabbed my arm and whispered, “Whatever he says, you say nothing.” Inodded.

OnonesideoftheconferencetablewereJaqua,Bowerman,andI.OntheothersidewereKitamiandhis lawyer,a localguy,whodidn’t looklikehewanted to be there. Plus, Iwano was back. I thought hemight have half-smiledatme,beforerememberingthatthiswasn’tasocialcall.

Jaqua’sconferenceroomwasbiggerthanours inTigard,butthatday itfelt likeadollhouse.Kitamihadaskedforthemeeting,sohekicked itoff.And he didn’t beat around the bonsai tree. He handed Jaqua a letter.Effective immediately, our contract with Onitsuka was null and void. Helookedatme,thenbacktoJaqua.“Veryveryregret,”hesaid.

Furthermore,insulttoinjury,hewasbillingus$17,000,whichheclaimedweowedforshoesdelivered.Tobeexact,hedemanded$16,637.13.

JaquapushedtheletterasideandsaidthatifKitamidaredtopursuethisrecklesscourse,ifheinsistedoncuttingusoff,we’dsue.

“Youcausethis,”Kitamisaid.BlueRibbonhadbreacheditscontractwithOnitsukabymakingNikeshoes,hesaid,andhewasatalosstounderstandwhywe’druinedsuchaprofitablerelationship,whywe’dlaunchedthis,this,this—Nike.ThatwasmorethanIcouldbear.“I’lltellyouwhy—”Iblurted.Jaquaturnedonmeandshouted:“Shutup,Buck!”

Jaqua then told Kitami that he hoped something could still be workedout. A lawsuit would be highly damaging to both companies. Peace wasprosperity.ButKitamiwasinnomoodforpeace.Hestood,motionedtohislawyerandIwanotofollow.Whenhegottothedoor,hestopped.Hisfacechanged.Hewasabouttosaysomethingconciliatory.Hewaspreparingtoofferanolivebranch.Ifeltmyselfsofteningtowardhim.“Onitsuka,”hesaid,“liketocontinueuseMr.Bowerman...asconsultant.”

Ipulledonmyear.SurelyIhadn’theardhimcorrectly.Bowermanshookhis head and turned to Jaqua, who said that Bowermanwould henceforthconsiderKitamiacompetitor,akaaswornenemy,andwouldhelphiminnowaywhatsoever.

Kitaminodded.HeaskedifsomeonecouldpleasedrivehimandIwanototheairport.

I TOLD JOHNSONto get on a plane. “What plane?” he said. “Thenextplane,”Isaid.

He arrived the following morning. We went for a run, during whichneither of us said anything. Then we drove to the office and gatheredeveryoneintotheconferenceroom.Therewereaboutthirtypeoplethere.Iexpectedtobenervous.Theyexpectedmetobenervous.Onanydifferentday, under any other circumstances, Iwould have been. For some reason,however,Ifeltweirdlyatpeace.

I laid out the situation we faced. “We’ve come, folks, to a crossroads.Yesterday,ourmainsupplier,Onitsuka,cutusoff.”

Iletthatsinkin.Iwatchedeveryone’sjawdrop.“We’ve threatened to sue them for damages,” I said, “and of course

they’vethreatenedtofilealawsuitoftheirown.Breachofcontract.Iftheysueusfirst,inJapan,we’llhavenochoicebuttosuethemhereinAmerica,andsuefast.We’renotgoingtowinalawsuitinJapan,sowe’llhavetobeatthem to the courthouse, get a quick verdict here, to pressure them intowithdrawing.

“Meanwhile,untilitallsortsout,we’recompletelyonourown.We’resetadrift.Wehave thisnew line,Nike,which the reps inChicago seemed tolike.But,well, frankly, that’s allwe’vegot.Andasweknow, there arebigproblemswith the quality. It’s not what we hoped.Communications withNipponRubberaregood,andNisshoisthereatthefactoryatleastonceaweek,tryingtogetitallfixed,butwedon’tknowhowsoontheycandoit.It

betterbesoon,though,becausewehavenotimeandsuddenlynomarginforerror.”

I looked down the table. Everyone was sinking, slumping forward. IlookedatJohnson.Hewasstaringatthepapersbeforehim,andtherewassomething inhishandsome face, somequality I’dnever seen therebefore.Surrender.Likeeveryoneelse intheroom,hewasgivingup.Thenation’seconomy was in the tank, a recession was under way. Gas lines, politicalgridlock, rising unemployment, Nixon being Nixon—Vietnam. It seemedliketheendtimes.Everyoneintheroomhadalreadybeenworryingabouthowtheyweregoingtomaketherent,paythelightbill.Nowthis.

Iclearedmythroat.“So. . . inotherwords,”Isaid.Iclearedmythroatagain,pushedasidemyyellow legalpad.“WhatI’mtrying tosay is,we’vegotthemrightwherewewantthem.”

Johnsonliftedhiseyes.Everyonearoundthetableliftedtheireyes.Theysatupstraighter.

“This is—themoment,”Isaid.“This is themomentwe’vebeenwaitingfor.Ourmoment.Nomoresellingsomeoneelse’sbrand.Nomoreworkingforsomeoneelse.Onitsukahasbeenholdingusdownforyears.Their latedeliveries, theirmixed-up orders, their refusal to hear and implement ourdesignideas—whoamongusisn’tsickofdealingwithallthat?It’stimewefaced facts: Ifwe’regoing to succeed,or fail,we shoulddo soonourownterms,withourownideas—ourownbrand.Wepostedtwomillioninsaleslastyear...noneofwhichhadanythingtodowithOnitsuka.Thatnumberwasatestamenttoouringenuityandhardwork.Let’snot lookatthisasacrisis.Let’slookatthisasourliberation.OurIndependenceDay.

“Yes,it’sgoingtoberough.Iwon’tlietoyou.We’redefinitelygoingtowar,people.Butweknowtheterrain.WeknowourwayaroundJapannow.Andthat’sonereasonIfeelinmyheartthisisawarwecanwin.Andifwewinit,whenwewinit,Iseegreatthingsforusontheothersideofvictory.Wearestillalive,people.Wearestill.Alive.”

AsIstoppedspeakingIcouldseeawaveofreliefswirlaroundthetablelike a coolbreeze.Everyone felt it. Itwas as real as thewind thatused to

swirlaroundtheofficenexttothePinkBucket.Therewerenods,murmurs,nervous chuckles. We spent the next hour brainstorming about how toproceed, how to hire contract factories, how to play them against oneanotherforthebestqualityandprice.AndhowwerewegoingtofixthesenewNikes?Anyone?

Weadjournedwithajovial,jittery,elatedfeeling.Johnsonsaidhewantedtobuymeacupofcoffee.“Yourfinesthour,”he

said.“Ach,”Isaid.“Thanks.”ButIremindedhim:Ijusttoldthetruth.Ashe

hadinChicago.Tellingthetruth,Isaid.Whoknew?

JOHNSON WENT BACKtoWellesley for the time being, andwe turnedourattentiontotheOlympictrack-and-fieldtrials,whichin1972werebeingheld, for the first time ever, in our backyard:Eugene.Weneeded to ownthose trials, so we sent an advance team down to give shoes to anycompetitorwillingto take them,andwesetupastagingarea inourstore,which was now being ably run by Hollister. As the trials opened wedescended onEugene and set up a silk-screenmachine in the back of thestore.WecrankedoutscoresofNikeT-shirts,whichPennyhandedoutlikeHalloweencandy.

Withallthatwork,howcouldwenotbreakthrough?And,indeed,DaveDavis, a shot-putter from USC, dropped by the store the first day tocomplain that hewasn’t getting free stuff from eitherAdidas orPuma, sohe’d gladly take our shoes and wear them. And then he finished fourth.Hooray!Betteryet,hedidn’tjustwearourshoes,hewaltzedaroundinoneofPenny’sT-shirts,hisnamestenciledontheback.(Thetroublewas,Davewasn’ttheidealmodel.Hehadabitofagut.AndourT-shirtsweren’tbigenough.Whichaccentuatedhisgut.Wemadeanote.Buysmallerathletes,ormakebiggershirts.)

We also had a couple of semifinalists wear our spikes, including anemployee,JimGorman,whocompetedinthe1,500.ItoldGormanhewas

taking corporate loyalty too far. Our spikes weren’t that great. But heinsistedthathewasin“alltheway.”AndtheninthemarathonwehadNike-shod runners finish fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh.Nonemade the team,butstill.Nottooshabby.

Themaineventof the trials, of course,would comeon the finalday, aduelbetweenPrefontaineandthegreatOlympianGeorgeYoung.BythenPrefontaine was universally known as Pre, and he was far more than aphenom;hewasanoutright superstar.Hewas thebiggest thing tohit theworld of American track and field since Jesse Owens. Sportswritersfrequently compared him to James Dean, and Mick Jagger, and Runner’sWorldsaidthemostaptcomparisonmightbeMuhammadAli.Hewasthatkindofswaggery,transformativefigure.

Tomythinking,however,theseandallothercomparisonsfellshort.Prewasunlikeanyathletethiscountryhadeverseen,thoughitwashardtosayexactlywhy. I’d spent a lot of time studying him, admiring him, puzzlingabouthisappeal.I’daskedmyself,timeandagain,whatitwasaboutPrethattriggered suchvisceral responses fromsomanypeople, includingmyself. Ineverdidcomeupwithatotallysatisfactoryanswer.

It wasmore than his talent—therewere other talented runners. And itwasmorethanhisswagger—therewereplentyofswaggeringrunners.

Somesaid itwashis look.Prewas so fluid, sopoetic,with that flowingmop of hair. And he had the broadest, deepest chest imaginable, set onslenderlegsthatwereallmuscleandneverstoppedchurning.

Also, most runners are introverts, but Pre was an obvious, joyousextrovert.Itwasneversimplyrunningforhim.Hewasalwaysputtingonashow,alwaysconsciousofthespotlight.

SometimesIthoughtthesecrettoPre’sappealwashispassion.Hedidn’tcareifhediedcrossingthefinishline,solongashecrossedfirst.NomatterwhatBowermantoldhim,nomatterwhathisbodytoldhim,Prerefusedtoslowdown,easeoff.Hepushedhimselftothebrinkandbeyond.Thiswasoftenacounterproductivestrategy,andsometimesitwasplainlystupid,andoccasionally it was suicidal. But it was always uplifting for the crowd.No

matter the sport—nomatter the human endeavor, really—total effort willwinpeople’shearts.

Ofcourse,allOregonianslovedPrebecausehewas“ours.”Hewasborninourmidst,raisedinourrainyforests,andwe’dcheeredhimsincehewasapup.We’dwatchedhimbreakthenationaltwo-milerecordasaneighteen-year-old,andwewerewithhim,stepbystep,througheachgloriousNCAAchampionship.EveryOregonianfeltemotionallyinvestedinhiscareer.

And at Blue Ribbon, of course, we were preparing to put our moneywhere our emotions were.We understood that Pre couldn’t switch shoesright before the trials. He was used to his Adidas. But in time, we werecertain,he’dbeaNikeathlete,andperhapstheparadigmaticNikeathlete.

With these thoughts in mind, walking down Agate Street towardHayward Field, I wasn’t surprised to find the place shaking, rocking,tremblingwithcheers—theColiseuminRomecouldnothavebeenlouderwhenthegladiatorsandlionswereturnedloose.Wefoundourseatsjustintime to see Pre doing his warm-ups. Every move he made caused a newrippleofexcitement.Everytimehejoggeddownonesideoftheoval,oruptheother,thefansalonghisroutestoodandwentwild.HalfofthemwerewearingT-shirtsthatread:LEGEND.

Allofasuddenweheardachorusofdeep,gutturalboos.GerryLindgren,arguablytheworld’sbestdistancerunneratthetime,appearedonthetrack—wearingaT-shirtthatread:STOPPRE.LindgrenhadbeatenPrewhenhewasaseniorandPreafreshman,andhewantedeveryone,especiallyPre,toremember.ButwhenPresawLindgren,andsawtheshirt,hejustshookhishead.Andgrinned.Nopressure.Onlymoreincentive.

Therunnerstooktheirmarks.Anunearthlysilencefell.Then,bang.ThestartinggunsoundedlikeaNapoléoncannon.

Pre took the lead right away.Young tucked in rightbehindhim. Innotime they pulled well ahead of the field and it became a two-man affair.(Lindgren was far behind, a nonfactor.) Each man’s strategy was clear.YoungmeanttostaywithPreuntilthefinallap,thenusehissuperiorsprintto go by andwin. Pre,meanwhile, intended to set such a fast pace at the

outset that by the time they got to that final lap, Young’s legs would begone.

Forelevenlapstheyranahalfstrideapart.Withthecrowdnowroaring,frothing, shrieking, the twomenentered the final lap. It felt like aboxingmatch.It felt likea joust. It felt likeabullfight,andweweredowntothatmoment of truth—death hanging in the air. Pre reached down, foundanotherlevel—wesawhimdoit.Heopenedupayardlead,thentwo,thenfive.WesawYounggrimacingandweknewthathecouldnot,wouldnot,catchPre.Itoldmyself,Don’tforgetthis.Donotforget.Itoldmyselftherewasmuch tobe learned from such adisplayofpassion,whether youwererunningamileoracompany.

AstheycrossedthetapewealllookedupattheclockandsawthatbothmenhadbrokentheAmericanrecord.Prehadbroken itbya shademore.Buthewasn’tdone.HespottedsomeonewavingaSTOPPRET-shirtandhewentoverandsnatcheditandwhippeditincirclesabovehishead,likeascalp.What followedwasoneof thegreatestovations I’veeverheard,andI’vespentmylifeinstadiums.

I’d never witnessed anything quite like that race. And yet I didn’t justwitnessit.Itookpartinit.DayslaterIfeltsoreinmyhamsandquads.This,Idecided,thisiswhatsportsare,whattheycando.Likebooks,sportsgivepeople a sense of having lived other lives, of taking part in other people’svictories. And defeats.When sports are at their best, the spirit of the fanmerges with the spirit of the athlete, and in that convergence, in thattransference,istheonenessthatthemysticstalkabout.

WalkingbackdownAgateStreetIknewthatracewaspartofme,wouldforeverbepartofme,andIvoweditwouldalsobepartofBlueRibbon.Inourcomingbattles,withOnitsuka,withwhomever,we’dbelikePre.We’dcompeteasifourlivesdependedonit.

Becausetheydid.

NEXT,WITH SAUCEReyes,welookedtotheOlympics.Notonlywasourman Bowerman going to be the head coach of the track team, but ourhomeboyPrewasgoing tobe thestar.Afterhisperformanceat the trials?Whocoulddoubtit?

Certainly not Pre. “Sure therewill be a lot of pressure,” he toldSportsIllustrated.“Andalotofuswillbefacingmoreexperiencedcompetitors,andmaybewedon’thaveanyrighttowin.ButallIknowisifIgooutandbustmygutuntilIblackoutandsomebodystillbeatsme,andifIhavemadethatguyreachdownanduseeverythinghehasandthenmore,whythenit justprovesthatonthatdayhe’sabettermanthanI.”

RightbeforePreandBowermanleftforGermany,IfiledforapatentonBowerman’swaffle shoe.Applicationno. 284,736described the “improvedsole having integral polygon shaped studs . . . of square, rectangular ortrianglecrosssection...[and]apluralityofflatsideswhichprovidegrippingedgesthatgivegreatlyimprovedtraction.”

Aproudmomentforbothofus.Agoldenmomentofmylife.Sales of Nike were steady, my son was healthy, I was able to pay my

mortgageontime.Allthingsconsidered,IwasinadamnedfinemoodthatAugust.

Andthenitbegan.InthesecondweekoftheOlympicGames,asquadofeight masked gunmen scaled a back wall of the Olympic village andkidnappedelevenIsraeliathletes.InourTigardofficewesetupaTVandnoonedidalickofwork.Wewatchedandwatched,dayafterday,sayinglittle,oftenholdingourhands over ourmouths.When the terrible denouementcame, when the news broke that all the athletes were dead, their bodiesstrewnonablood-spattered tarmacat theairport, it recalled thedeathsofboth Kennedys, and of Dr. King, and of the students at Kent StateUniversity,andofallthetensofthousandsofboysinVietnam.Ourswasadifficult,death-drenchedage,andatleastonceeverydayyouwereforcedtoaskyourself:What’sthepoint?

WhenBowermanreturnedIdrovestraightdowntoEugenetoseehim.Helookedasthoughhehadn’tsleptinadecade.HetoldmethatheandPrehad beenwithin a hair of the attack. In the firstminutes, as the terroriststookcontrolofthebuilding,manyIsraeliathleteswereabletoflee,slippingoutsidedoors,jumpingoutwindows.Onemadehiswaytothenextbuildingover, where Bowerman and Pre were staying. Bowerman heard a knock,openedthedoorofhisroom,andfoundthisman,aracewalker, shiveringwithfear,babblingaboutmaskedgunmen.BowermanpulledthemaninsideandphonedtheU.S.consul.“Sendthemarines!”heshoutedintothephone.

Theydid.MarinesquicklysecuredthebuildingwhereBowermanandtheU.S.teamwerestaying.

Forthis“overreaction,”BowermanwasseverelyreprimandedbyOlympicofficials.He’dexceededhisauthority,theysaid.Intheheatofthecrisistheymade time to summon Bowerman to their headquarters. Thank goodnessJesseOwens, the hero of the lastGermanOlympics, themanwho “beat”Hitler,wentwithBowermanandvoicedhissupportforBowerman’sactions.Thatforcedthebureaucratstobackoff.

BowermanandIsatandstaredattheriverforalongwhile,sayinglittle.Then, his voice scratchy, Bowerman told me that those 1972 Olympicsmarked the lowpointofhis life. I’dneverheardhimsaya thing like that,andI’dneverseenhimlooklikethat.Defeated.

Icouldn’tbelieveit.Thecowardsneverstartedandtheweakdiedalongtheway—thatleavesus.Soon after that day Bowerman announced that he was retiring from

coaching.

A GRIM TIME.Skiesweregrayer thanusual, and low.Therewasno fall.Wejustwokeupandwinterwasuponus.Thetreeswentovernightfromfulltobare.Rainfellwithoutstop.

Atlast,aneededboon.Wegotwordthatafewhoursnorth,inSeattle,atthe Rainier International Classic, a fiery Romanian tennis player was

destroyingeveryopponent inhispath,anddoingit inabrand-newpairofNikeMatchPoints.TheRomanianwasIlieNastase,aka“Nasty,”andeverytimehehithispatentedoverheadsmash,everytimehewentuponhistoesandstrokedanotherunreturnableserve,theworldwasseeingourswoosh.

We’dknownforsometimethatathleteendorsementswereimportant.Ifwewere going to competewithAdidas—not tomention Puma andGola,andDiadoraandHead,andWilsonandSpalding,andKarhuandEtonicandNewBalanceandalltheotherbrandspoppingupinthe1970s—we’dneedtop athletes wearing and talking up our brand. But we still didn’t havemoneytopaytopathletes. (Wehadlessmoneythaneverbefore.)Nordidwe know the first thing about getting to them, persuading them that ourshoewasgood,thatitwouldsoonbebetter,thattheyshouldendorseusatadiscounted price. Now here was a top athlete alreadywearing Nike, andwinninginit.Howhardcoulditbetosignhim?

IfoundthenumberforNastase’sagent.Iphonedandofferedhimadeal.IsaidI’dgivehim$5,000—IgaggedasIsaidit—ifhisboywouldwearourstuff.Hecounteredwith$15,000.HowIhatednegotiating.

Wesettledon$10,000.IfeltthatIwasbeingrobbed.NastasewasplayingatourneythatweekendinOmaha,theagentsaid.He

suggestedIflyoutwiththepapers.I met Nasty and his wife, Dominique, a stunning woman, that Friday

night,atasteakhouseindowntownOmaha.AfterIgothimtosignonthedotted line, after I locked the papers in my briefcase, we ordered acelebratorydinner.Abottleofwine,anotherbottleofwine.Atsomepoint,for some reason, I started speakingwithaRomanianaccent, and for somereasonNastystartedcallingmeNasty,andfornoreasonIcouldthinkofhissupermodel wife started making goo-goo eyes at everyone, including me,andbynight’send,stumblinguptomyroom,Ifeltlikeatennischampion,andatycoon,andakingmaker.Ilayinbedandstaredatthecontract.Tenthousanddollars,Isaidaloud.Ten.Thousand.Dollars.

Itwasafortune.ButNikehadacelebrityathleteendorser.

Iclosedmyeyes,tostoptheroomfromspinning.ThenIopenedthem,becauseIdidn’twanttheroomtostopspinning.

Takethat,Kitami,Isaidtotheceiling,toallofOmaha.Takethat.

BACK THEN, THEhistoric football rivalry between my University ofOregonDucksandthedreadedOregonStateBeaverswaslopsided,atbest.MyDucksusually lost.And theyusually lost by a lot.And theyoften lostwitha lotonthe line.Example: In1957,withthetwoteamsvyingfor theconference crown, Oregon’s Jim Shanley was going in for the winningtouchdownwhenhefumbledontheone-yardline.Oregonlost10–7.

In1972,myDuckshad lost to theBeaverseightstraight times, sendingme,eightstraighttimes,intoasourfunk.Butnow,inthistopsy-turvyyear,myDucksweregoingtowearNikes.HollisterhadpersuadedOregon’sheadcoach,DickEnright, todonournewwaffle-soledshoesfortheBigGame,theCivilWar.

The settingwas their place, down inCorvallis. Scattered rainhadbeenfallingallmorning,anditwascomingdowninsheetsbygametime.PennyandIstoodinthestands,shiveringinsideoursoppingponchos,peeringintotheraindropsastheopeningkickoffspunintotheair.Onthefirstplayfromscrimmage,Oregon’sburlyquarterback, a sharpshooternamedDanFouts,handedtheballtoDonnyReynolds,whomadeonecutonhisNikewafflesand...tookittothehouse.Ducks7,Nike7,Beavers0.

Fouts, closing out a brilliant college career, was out of his mind thatnight.Hepassedforthreehundredyards,includingasixty-yardtouchdownbombthat landed likea feather inhis receiver’shands.Theroutwas soonon.AtthefinalgunmyDuckswereontopoftheBucktooths,30–3.Ialwayscalled themmyDucks, but now they reallywere.Theywere inmy shoes.Everysteptheytook,everycuttheymade,waspartlymine.It’sonethingtowatchasportingeventandputyourselfintheplayers’shoes.Everyfandoesthat.It’sanotherthingwhentheathletesareactuallyinyourshoes.

I laughedaswewalkedtothecar.I laughedlikeamaniac.I laughedallthewaybacktoPortland.This,IkepttellingPenny,thisishow1972neededto end.With a victory.Any victorywouldhavebeenhealing, but this, ohboy—this.

1973

Likehis coach,Pre justwasn’t himself after the 1972Olympics.Hewas

haunted andenragedby the terrorist attacks.Andbyhisperformance.Hefelthe’dleteveryonedown.He’dfinishedfourth.

Noshameinbeingtheworld’sfourth-bestatyourdistance,wetoldhim.ButPreknewhewasbetterthanthat.Andheknewhe’dhavedonebetterifhehadn’tbeensostubborn.Heshowednopatience,noguile.Hecouldhaveslipped behind the front runner, coasted in his wake, stolen silver. That,however, would have gone against Pre’s religion. So he’d run all out, asalways, holding nothing back, and in the final hundred yards he tired.Worse, themanheconsideredhisarchrival,LasseViren,ofFinland,oncemoretookthegold.

WetriedtoliftPre’sspirits.WeassuredhimthatOregonstilllovedhim.City officials in Eugene were even planning to name a street after him.“Great,” Pre said, “what’re they gonna call it—Fourth Street?”He lockedhimself in hismetal trailer on the banks of theWillamette and he didn’tcomeoutforweeks.

Intime,afterpacingalot,afterplayingwithhisGermanshepherdpuppy,Lobo,andafterlargequantitiesofcoldbeer,Preemerged.OnedayIheardthathe’dbeenseenagainaroundtown,atdawn,doinghisdaily tenmiles,Lobotrottingathisheels.

Ittookafullsixmonths,butthefireinPre’sbellycameback.Inhisfinalraces for Oregon he shone. He won the NCAA three-mile for a fourthstraight year, posting a gaudy 13:05.3. He also went to Scandinavia andcrushed the field in the5,000, setting anAmerican record: 13:22.4.Better

yet, he did it in Nikes. Bowerman finally had him wearing our shoes.(Monthsintohisretirement,BowermanwasstillcoachingPre,stillpolishingthe finaldesigns for thewaffle shoe,whichwasabout togoon sale to thegeneralpublic.He’dneverbeenbusier.)Andourshoeswerefinallyworthyof Pre. Itwas a perfect symbioticmatch.Hewas generating thousands ofdollarsofpublicity,makingourbrandasymbolofrebellionandiconoclasm—andwewerehelpinghisrecovery.

Pre began to talk warily with Bowerman about the 1976 Olympics inMontreal. He told Bowerman, and a few close friends, that he wantedredemption.HewasdeterminedtocapturethatgoldmedalthateludedhiminMunich.

Several scary stumblingblocks stood inhispath,however.Vietnam, forone.Pre,whose life, likemine, like everyone’s,wasgovernedbynumbers,drew a horrible number in the draft lottery.He was going to be drafted,there was little doubt, as soon as he graduated. In a year’s time he’d besittinginsomefetid jungle,takingheavymachine-gunfire.Hemighthavehislegs,hisgodlikelegs,blownoutfromunderhim.

Also, therewasBowerman.Preand thecoachwereclashingconstantly,two headstrong guys with different ideas about training methods andrunningstyles.Bowermantookthelongview:adistancerunnerpeaksinhislate twenties.HethereforewantedPre torest,preservehimself forcertainselect races. Save something, Bowerman kept pleading. But of course Prerefused.I’mall-out,allthetime,hesaid.IntheirrelationshipIsawamirrorofmyrelationshipwithbanks.Predidn’tseethesenseingoingslow—ever.Gofastordie.Icouldn’tfaulthim.Iwasonhisside.Evenagainstourcoach.

Above all, however, Pre was broke. The know-nothings and oligarchswhogovernedAmericanamateurathleticsatthattimedecreedthatOlympicathletescouldn’tcollectendorsementmoney,orgovernmentmoney,whichmeantourfinestrunnersandswimmersandboxerswerereducedtopaupers.TostayalivePresometimestendedbarinEugene,andsometimesheraninEurope,takingillicitcashfromracepromoters.Ofcoursethoseextraraces

werestartingtocauseissues.Hisbody—inparticularhisback—wasbreakingdown.

At Blue Ribbon we worried about Pre. We talked about him often,formally and informally, around the office. Eventuallywe came upwith aplan.Tokeephimfrominjuringhimself, toavoidtheshameofhimgoingaroundwithabeggingbowl,wehiredhim.In1973wegavehima“job,”amodest salaryof five thousanddollars a year, and access to abeach condoCale owned in Los Angeles.We also gave him a business card that saidNationalDirectorofPublicAffairs.Peopleoftennarrowedtheireyesandaskedmewhat thatmeant. Inarrowedmyeyesrightback.“Itmeanshecanrunfast,”Isaid.

Italsomeanthewasoursecondcelebrityathleteendorser.The first thingPre didwith hiswindfallwas go out and buy himself a

butterscotchMG.Hedroveiteverywhere—fast.ItlookedlikemyoldMG.Irememberfeelingenormously,vicariouslyproud.Irememberthinking:Weboughtthat.IrememberthinkingPrewastheliving,breathingembodimentof what we were trying to create.Whenever people saw Pre going at hisbreakneckpace—on a track, inhisMG—Iwanted them to seeNike.AndwhentheyboughtapairofNikes,IwantedthemtoseePre.

IfeltthisstronglyaboutPreeventhoughI’donlyhadafewconversationswith theman.And you could hardly call them conversations.Whenever Isawhimatatrack,oraroundtheBlueRibbonoffices,Ibecamemute.Itriedto conmyself;more than once I toldmyself that Prewas just a kid fromCoosBay,ashort,shaggy-hairedjockwithapornstarmustache.ButIknewbetter.Andafewminutesinhispresencewouldproveit.AfewminuteswasallIcouldtake.

Theworld’smost famousOregonianat the timewasKenKesey,whoseblockbuster novel,One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, appeared in 1962, theexact moment I left on my trip around the world. I knew Kesey at theUniversityofOregon.Hewrestled,andIrantrack,andonrainydayswe’ddoindoorworkoutsatthesamefacility.WhenhisfirstnovelcameoutIwasstunnedbyhowgooditwas,especiallysincetheplayshe’dwritteninschool

hadbeendreck.Suddenlyhewasaliterarylion,thetoastofNewYork,andyetIneverfeltstarstruckinhispresence,asIdidinPre’s.In1973IdecidedthatPrewaseverybittheartistthatKeseywas,andmore.Presaidasmuchhimself.“Araceisaworkofart,”hetoldareporter,“thatpeoplecanlookatandbeaffectedinasmanywaysasthey’recapableofunderstanding.”

Each time Pre came into the office, I noted, I wasn’t alone in myswooning.Everyonebecamemute.Everyonebecame shy.Men,women, itdidn’tmatter,everyone turned intoBuckKnight.EvenPennyKnight. If IwasthefirsttomakePennycareabouttrackandfield,Prewastheonewhomadeherarealfan.

Hollister was the exception to this rule. He and Pre had an easy wayaroundeachother.Theywerelikebrothers.IneveroncesawHollisteractanydifferentlywithPrethanhedidwith,say,me.SoitmadesensetohaveHollister,thePreWhisperer,bringPrein,helpusgettoknowhim,andviceversa.Wearrangedalunchintheconferenceroom.

Whenthedaycame,itwasn’twise,butitwastypicalofWoodellandme—wechosethatmomenttotellHollisterthatweweretweakinghisduties.Infact,wetoldhimthesecondhisbutthitthechairintheconferenceroom.Thechangewouldaffecthowhegotpaid.Nothowmuch,justhow.Beforewecouldfullyexplain,hethrewdownhisnapkinandstormedout.NowwehadnobodytohelpusbreaktheicewithPre.Weallstaredsilentlyintooursandwiches.

Prespokefirst.“IsGeoffcomingback?”“Idon’tthinkso,”Isaid.Longpause.“Inthatcase,”Presaid,“canIeathissandwich?”We all laughed, and Pre seemed suddenly mortal, and the luncheon

ultimatelyprovedinvaluable.Shortlyafterthatday,wesoothedHollister,andtweakedhisdutiesagain.

From now on, we said, you’re Pre’s full-time liaison. You’re in charge ofhandling Pre, taking Pre out on the road, introducing Pre to the fans. Infact,wetoldHollister,taketheboyonacross-countrytour.Hitallthetrack

meets, state fairs, high schools, and colleges you can.Go everywhere, andnowhere.Doeverything,andnothing.

Sometimes Pre would conduct a running clinic, answering questionsabout training and injuries. Sometimes he’d just sign autographs and posefor photos.Nomatter what he did, nomatter whereHollister took him,worshipfulcrowdswouldappeararoundtheirbrightblueVolkswagenbus.

ThoughPre’sjobtitlewasintentionallyimprecise,hisrolewasreal,andhisbeliefinNikewasauthenticaswell.HeworeNikeT-shirtseverywherehe went, and he allowed his foot to be Bowerman’s last for all shoeexperiments. Pre preachedNike as gospel, and brought thousands of newpeople into our revival tent. He urged everyone to give this groovy newbranda try—evenhis competitors.He’doften sendapairofNike flatsorspikestoafellowrunnerwithanote:Trythese.You’lllovethem.

Among those most inspired by Pre was Johnson.While continuing tobuildupourEastCoastoperation,Johnsonhadspentmuchof1972slavingonsomethingthathechristenedthePreMontreal,ashoethatwouldbeanhomage to Pre, and to the upcoming Olympics, and to the AmericanBicentennial.Withabluesuedetoe,arednylonback,andawhiteswoosh,itwas our jazziest shoe yet, and also our best spike.We knew thatweweregoingtoliveordiebasedonquality,andthusfarourqualityonspikeshadbeenspotty.Johnsonwasgoingtofixthatwiththisdesign.

ButhewasgoingtodoitinOregon,Idecided,notBoston.I’dbeengivingalotofthoughttoJohnson,formonths.Hewasturning

intoatrulyfinedesigner,andweneededtotakefulladvantageofhistalent.The East Coast was running smoothly, but it now involved too muchadministrationforhim.Thewholethingneededreorganizing,streamlining,andthatwasn’tthebestuseofJohnson’stimeorcreativity.Thatwasajobtailor-madeforsomeonelike...Woodell.

Nightafternight,duringmysix-milerun,I’dwrestlewiththissituation.Ihadtwoguys in thewrong jobs,onthewrongcoasts,andneitheronewasgoingtoliketheobvioussolution.Eachguylovedwherehelived.Andeachirritatedtheother,thoughtheybothdeniedit.WhenI’dpromotedWoodell

to operations manager, I’d also bequeathed him Johnson. I’d put him incharge of overseeing Johnson, answering Johnson’s letters, and Woodellmade the mistake of reading them thoroughly and trying to keep up.Consequentlythetwohaddevelopedachippy,deeplysarcasticrapport.

Forinstance.Woodellwheeledintomyofficeonedayandsaid,“Thisisdepressing. Jeff complains constantly about inventory, expensereimbursements,lackofcommunications.Hesayshe’sworkinghisbuttoffwhilewe’re lolling around.Hedoesn’t listen to any reason, including thatoursalesaredoublingeveryyear.”

WoodelltoldmehewantedtotakeadifferentapproachtoJohnson.Byallmeans,Isaid.Haveatit.So he wrote Johnson a long letter “admitting” that we’d all been

colludingagainsthim,tryingtomakehimunhappy.Hewrote,“I’msureyourealizewedon’tworkquiteashardouthereasyoudo;withonlythreehoursin theworkingday it ishard toget everythingdone.Still, Imake time toplace you in all sorts of embarrassing situations with customers and thebusinesscommunity.Wheneveryouneedmoneydesperatelytopaybills, Isendonlyatinyfractionofwhatyouneedsothatyou’llhavetodealwithbillcollectors and lawsuits. I take the destruction of your reputation as apersonalcompliment.”

Andsoon.Johnsonansweredback:“Finallysomeoneoutthereunderstandsme.”WhatIwasgettingreadytoproposewasn’tgoingtohelp.IapproachedJohnsonfirst.Ichosemymomentcarefully—atripwemade

toJapan,tovisitNipponRubberanddiscussthePreMontreal.OverdinnerIlaiditalloutforhim.Wewereinaferociousbattle,asiege.Daybyday,weweredoingeverythingwecouldtokeepthetroopsfedandtheenemyatbay.Forthesakeofvictory,forthesakeofsurvival,everythingelseneededto be sacrificed, subordinated. “And so, at this crucial moment in theevolutionofBlueRibbon,intherolloutofNike...I’msorry,but,well...youtwodummiesneedtoswitchcities.”

Hegroaned.Ofcourse.ItwasSantaMonicaalloveragain.

Butslowly,agonizingly,hecamearound.AsdidWoodell.Aroundthecloseof1972eachmanhandedhishousekeystotheother,

andnowinearly1973theyswitchedplaces.Talkaboutteamplayers.Itwasan enormous sacrifice, and I was deeply grateful. But in keepingwithmypersonality,andBlueRibbontradition,Iexpressednogratitude.Ispokenotawordofthanksorpraise.Infact,inseveralofficememosIreferredtotheswitchas“OperationDummyReversal.”

INTHELATEspringof1973Imetwithourrecentinvestors,thedebentureholders,forasecondtime.Thefirsttimethey’dlovedme.Howcouldtheynot?Saleswerebooming,celebrityathleteswerepromotingourshoes.Sure,we’dlostOnitsuka,andwewerefacingalegalfightdowntheroad,butwewereontherighttrack.

Thistime,however,itwasmydutytoinformtheinvestorsthat,oneyearafterlaunchingNike,forthefirsttimeinBlueRibbonhistory...we’dlostmoney.

ThemeetingtookplaceattheValleyRiverInninEugene.Itwasthirtymenandwomencrammedintotheconferenceroom,withmeattheheadofa long conference table. I wore a dark suit and tried to project an air ofconfidence as I delivered the bad news. I gave them the same speech I’dgivenBlueRibbonemployees a yearbefore.We’ve got them rightwherewewantthem.Butthisgroupwasn’tbuyinganypeptalks.Thesewerewidowsand widowers, retirees and pensioners. Also, the previous year I’d beenflankedbyJaquaandBowerman;thisyearbothmenwerebusy.

Iwasalone.Half an hour intomy pitch, with thirty horrified faces staring atme, I

suggested we break for lunch. The previous year I’d handed out BlueRibbon’sfinancialstatementsbeforelunch.ThisyearIdecidedtowaituntilafter.Itdidn’thelp.Evenonafullstomach,withachocolatechipcookie,the

numberslookedbad.Despite$3.2millioninsales,weshowedanetlossof$57,000.

SeveralclustersofinvestorsnowbeganprivateconversationswhileIwastryingtotalk.Theywerepointingatthistroublingnumber—$57,000—andrepeating it,over andover.At somepoint Imentioned thatAnneCaris, ayoung runner, had justmade the cover ofSports IllustratedwearingNikes.We’rebreakingthrough,people!Nooneheard.Noonecared.Theycaredonlyaboutthebottomline.Noteventhebottomline,buttheirbottomline.

Icameto theendofmypresentation. Iasked ifanyonehadaquestion.Thirtyhandswentup.“I’mverydisappointedinthis,”saidoneolderman,rising to his feet. “Any more questions?” Twenty-nine hands went up.Anothermancalledout,“I’mnothappy.”

IsaidIsympathized.Mysympathyonlyservedtoannoythem.Theyhadeveryright.They’dputtheirconfidenceinBowermanandme,

and we’d failed. We never could have anticipated Tiger’s betrayal, butnonetheless,thesepeoplewerehurting,Isawitintheirfaces,andIneededto take responsibility.Tomake it right. I decided itwas only fair to offerthemaconcession.

Theirstockhadaconversionrate,whichwentupeveryyear.Inthefirstyeartheratewas$1.00ashare,inthesecondyearitwas$1.50,andsoon.Inlightofallthisbadnews,Itoldthem,I’llkeeptheconversionratethesameforthefullfiveyearsyouownyourstock.

Theywereplacated,mildly.ButIleftEugenethatdayknowingtheyhadalowopinionofme,andNike.IalsoleftthinkingI’dnever,ever,evertakethiscompanypublic.Ifthirtypeoplecouldcausethiskindofacidstomach,Icouldn’timaginebeinganswerabletothousandsofstockholders.

WewerebetterofffinancingthroughNisshoandthebank.

THAT IS , IF therewas anything to finance.As feared,Onitsukahad filedsuitagainstus in Japan.Sonowwehad to filequicklyagainst them in theUnitedStates,forbreachofcontractandtrademarkinfringement.

I put the case in the hands of Cousin Houser. It wasn’t a tough call.Therewasthetrustfactor,ofcourse.Kinship,blood,soon.Also,therewastheconfidencefactor.Thoughhewasonlytwoyearsolder,CousinHouserseemedvastlymoremature.Hecarriedhimselfwithremarkableassurance.Especially before a judge and jury.His father had been a salesman, and agoodone,andCousinHouserlearnedfromhimhowtosellhisclient.

Better yet, he was a tenacious competitor.When we were kids CousinHouser and I used to play vicious, marathon games of badminton in hisbackyard. One summer we played exactly 116 games.Why 116? BecauseCousinHouserbeatme115straight times. I refusedtoquituntil I’dwon.Andhehadnotroubleunderstandingmyposition.

ButthemainreasonIchoseCousinHouserwaspoverty.Ihadnomoneyfor legal fees, and CousinHouser talked his firm into takingmy case oncontingency.

Muchof1973was spent inCousinHouser’soffice, readingdocuments,reviewingmemos,cringingatmyownwordsandactions.Mymemoabouthiring a spy—the court would take a dim view of this, Cousin Houserwarned.Andmy“borrowing”Kitami’sfolderfromhisbriefcase?Howcoulda judgeviewthatasanythingbut theft?MacArthurcametomind.You arerememberedfortherulesyoubreak.

I contemplated hiding these painful facts from the court. In the end,however, therewasonlyone thing todo.Play it straight. Itwas the smartthing, the right thing. I’d simply have to hope the court would see thestealingofKitami’sfolderasakindofself-defense.

When I wasn’t with Cousin Houser, studying the case, I was beingstudied. In other words, deposed. For allmy belief that business was warwithoutbullets,I’dneverfeltthefullfuryofconference-roomcombatuntilIfoundmyselfatatablesurroundedbyfivelawyers.Theytriedeverythingtoget me to say I’d violated my contract with Onitsuka. They tried trickquestions, hostile questions, squirrelly questions, loaded questions.Whenquestionsdidn’twork,theytwistedmyanswers.Adepositionisstrenuousforanyone, but for a shy person it’s an ordeal. Badgered, baited, harassed,

mocked,Iwasashellofmyselfbytheend.Myconditionwasworsenedbythe sense that Ihadn’tdoneverywell—a senseCousinHouser reluctantlyconfirmed.

At the close of those difficult days, it wasmy nightly six-mile run thatsavedmylife.AndthenitwasmybrieftimewithMatthewandPennythatpreserved my sanity. I’d always try to find the time and energy to tellMatthew his bedtime story. Thomas Jefferson was toiling to write theDeclarationofIndependence,yousee,strugglingtofindthewords,whenlittleMattHistorybroughthimanewquillpenandthewordsseemedtomagicallyflow...

Matthew almost always laughed atmybedtime stories.Hehad a liquidlaugh, which I loved to hear, because at other times he could bemoody,sullen.Causeforconcern.He’dbeenverylatelearningtotalk,andnowhewasshowingaworrisomerebelliousstreak.Iblamedmyself.IfIwerehomemore,Itoldmyself,he’dbelessrebellious.

BowermanspentquiteabitoftimewithMatthew,andhetoldmenottoworry.Ilikehisspirit,hesaid.Theworldneedsmorerebels.

That spring, Penny and I had the added worry of how our little rebelwouldhandleasibling.Shewaspregnantagain.Secretly,Iwonderedmoreabouthowweweregoing tohandle it.By the endof 1973, I thought, it’sverypossibleI’llhavetwokidsandnojob.

AFTERTURNINGOUTthelightnexttoMatthew’sbed,I’dusuallygoandsit in the living roomwithPenny.We’d talk about theday.Whichmeantthe looming trial.Growing up, Penny hadwatched several of her father’strials, and it gave her an avid fondness for courtroom drama. She nevermissedalegalshowonTV.PerryMasonwasher favorite,andIsometimescalledherDellaStreet,afterMason’sintrepidsecretary.Ikiddedheraboutherenthusiasm,butIalsofedoffit.

Thefinalactofeveryeveningwasmyphonecalltomyfather.Timeformy own bedtime story. By then he’d left the newspaper, and in hisretirementhehadloadsoftimetoresearcholdcasesandprecedents,tospin

outargumentsthatmightbeusefultoCousinHouser.Hisinvolvement,plushis sense of fair play, plus his bedrock belief in the rightness of BlueRibbon’scause,wasrestorative.

Itwasalwaysthesame.MyfatherwouldaskaboutMatthewandPenny,andthenI’daskaboutMom,andthenhe’dtellmewhathe’dfoundinthelaw books. I’d take careful notes on a yellow legal pad.Before signing offhe’d always say that he liked our chances.We’re going to win, Buck.Thatmagical pronoun, “we”—he’d always use it, and it would alwaysmakemefeel better. It’s possible that we were never closer, maybe because ourrelationshiphadbeenreducedto itsprimalessence.Hewasmydad, Iwashisson,andIwasinthefightofmylife.

Looking back, I see that something else was going on. My trial wasproviding my father with a healthier outlet for his inner chaos.My legaltroubles, my nightly phone calls, were keeping him on high alert, and athome.Therewerefewerlatenightsatthebaroftheclub.

“I ’M BRINGING SOMEONEelseontotheteam,”CousinHousertoldmeoneday.“Younglawyer.RobStrasser.You’lllikehim.”

HewasfreshoutofUCBerkeleySchoolofLaw,CousinHousersaid,andhedidn’tknowadamnthing.Yet.ButCousinHouserhadaninstinctaboutthe kid. Thought he showed tremendous promise. Plus, Strasser had apersonalitythatwassuretomeshwithourcompany.“ThemomentStrasserreadourbrief,”CousinHousertoldme,“hesawthiscaseasaholycrusade.”

Well,Ilikedthesoundofthat.SothenexttimeIwasatCousinHouser’sfirm I walked down the hall and poked my head into the office of thisStrasser fellow.Hewasn’t there.Theofficewaspitch-dark.Shadesdrawn,lights off. I turned to leave. Then I heard . . . Hello? I turned back.Somewherewithin thedarkness,behindabigwalnutdesk,a shapemoved.Theshapegrew,amountainrisingfromadarksea.

Itslidtowardme.NowIsawtheroughcontoursofaman.Six-three,280pounds,withanextrahelpingofshoulders.Andfire-logarms.Thiswasone

partSasquatch,onepartSnuffleupagus, thoughsomehow lightonhis feet.He minced toward me and thrust one of his fire logs in my direction. Ireached,weshook.

NowIcouldmakeouttheface—brickred,coveredbyafullstrawberry-blond beard—and glazed with sweat. (Hence the darkness. He requireddimly lit, cool spaces. He also couldn’t bear wearing a suit.) Everythingaboutthismanwasdifferentfromme,fromeveryoneIknew,andyetIfeltastrange,instantkinship.

He said that he was thrilled to be working on my case. Honored. HebelievedthatBlueRibbonhadbeenthevictimofaterribleinjustice.Kinshipbecamelove.“Yes,”Isaid.“Yes,wehave.”

DAYS LATER STRASSERcameouttoTigardforameeting.Pennywasintheofficeat the timeandwhenStrasserglimpsedherwalkingdownahallhis eyes bulged. He tugged on his beard. “MyGod!” he said. “Was thatPennyParks?!”

“She’sPennyKnightnow,”Isaid.“Shedatedmybestfriend!”“Smallworld.”“Smallerwhenyou’remysize.”OverthecomingdaysandweeksStrasserandIdiscoveredmoreandmore

ways our lives and psyches intersected. He was a native Oregonian, andproudofit,inthattypical,truculentway.He’dgrownupwithabugaboutSeattle,andSanFrancisco,andallthenearbyplacesthatoutsiderssawasourbetters. His geographical inferiority complex was exacerbated by hisungainlysize,andhomeliness.He’dalwaysfearedthathewouldn’tfindhisplace in the world, that he was doomed to be an outcast. I got that. Hecompensated, at times,bybeing loud, andprofane,butmostlyhekepthismouth shut and downplayed his intelligence, rather than risk alienatingpeople.Igotthat,too.

IntelligencelikeStrasser’s,however,couldn’tbehiddenforlong.HewasoneofthegreatestthinkersIevermet.Debater,negotiator,talker,seeker—hismindwasalwayswhirring,tryingtounderstand.Andtoconquer.Hesawlifeasabattleand foundconfirmation for thisview inbooks.Likeme,hereadcompulsivelyaboutwar.

Also, like me, he lived and died with the local teams. Especially theDucks.Wehad ahuge laughover the fact thatOregon’sbasketball coachthatyearwasDickHarter,while the footballcoachwasstillDickEnright.ThepopularcheeratOregonStategameswas:“Ifyoucan’tgetyourDickEnright,getyourDickHarter!”Afterwestoppedlaughing,Strasserstartedupagain. Iwas amazedby thepitchofhis laughter.High,giggly, twee, itwasstartlingfromamanhissize.

Morethananythingelsewebondedoverfathers.Strasserwasthesonofasuccessfulbusinessman,andhe,too,fearedthathe’dneverliveuptohisoldman’s expectations. His father, however, was an exceptionally hard case.Strasser told me many stories. One stayed with me. When Strasser wasseventeen his parents went away for the weekend, and Strasser seized themomenttothrowaparty.Itturnedintoariot.Neighborscalledthepolice,and just as the patrol cars arrived, so did Strasser’s parents.They’d comehomeearlyfromtheirtrip.Strassertoldmethathisfatherlookedaround—house in shambles, son inhandcuffs—andcoldly told thecops, “Takehimaway.”

IaskedStrasserearlyonhowhegaugedourchancesagainstOnitsuka.Hesaidwewere going towin.He said it straight out, no hesitation, as if I’daskedhimwhathe’dhadforbreakfast.Hesaiditthewayasportsfanwouldtalk about “next year,”withuncompromising faith.He said it thewaymyfathersaiditeverynight,andthereandthenIdecidedthatStrasserwasoneofthechosen,oneof thebrethren.LikeJohnsonandWoodellandHayes.LikeBowermanandHollister andPre.HewasBlueRibbon, through andthrough.

WHENI WASN’Tobsessingaboutthetrial,Iwasfixatedonsales.EverydayI’dgetatelexfromourwarehouseswitha“paircount,”meaningtheexactnumber of pairs shipped that day to all customers—schools, retailers,coaches, individualmail-order clients.On general accounting principles, apair shippedwasapair sold, so thedailypaircountdeterminedmymood,mydigestion,mybloodpressure,because it largelydetermined the fateofBlueRibbon.Ifwedidn’t“sellthrough,”sellalltheshoesinourmostrecentorder, and quickly convert that product into cash, we’d be in big trouble.Thedailypaircounttoldmeifwewereonourwaytosellingthrough.

“So,” I’d say toWoodell on a typicalmorning, “Massachusetts is good,Eugenelooksgood—whathappenedinMemphis?”

“Icestorm,”hemightsay.Or:“Truckbrokedown.”Hehad a superb talent for underplaying the bad, andunderplaying the

good, for simply being in the moment. For instance, after the dummyreversal,Woodelloccupiedanofficethatwashardlydeluxe.Itsatonthetopfloorofanoldshoefactory,andawatertowerdirectlyoverheadwascakedwithacentury’sworthofpigeonpoop.Plus,theceilingbeamsweregapped,andthebuildingshookeverytimethediecuttersstampedouttheuppers.Inotherwords,throughoutthedayasteadyrainofpigeonpoopwouldfallonWoodell’shair,shoulders,desktop.ButWoodellwouldsimplydusthimselfoff,casuallyclearhisdeskwith thesideofhishand,andcontinuewithhiswork.

He also kept a piece of company stationery carefully draped over hiscoffeecupatalltimes,toensureitwasonlycreaminhisjoe.

I tried often to copy Woodell’s Zen monk demeanor. Most days,however,itwasbeyondme.Iboiledwithfrustration,knowingthatourpaircountcouldhavebeensomuchhigherifnotforourconstantproblemswithsupply.Peoplewerecryingoutforourshoes,butwejustcouldn’tgetthemout on time. We’d traded Onitsuka’s capricious delays for a new set ofdelays,causedbydemand.ThefactoriesandNisshoweredoingtheir jobs,wewerenowgettingwhatweordered,ontimeandintact,butthebooming

marketplacecreatednewpressures,makingitharderandhardertocorrectlyallocatewhatwegot.

Supplyanddemandisalwaystherootprobleminbusiness.It’sbeentruesincePhoenician traders raced tobringRome the covetedpurpledye thatcolored the clothing of royals and rich people; there was never enoughpurpletogoaround.It’shardenoughtoinventandmanufactureandmarketaproduct,butthenthelogistics,themechanics,thehydraulicsofgettingitto thepeoplewhowant it,when theywant it—this ishowcompaniesdie,howulcersareborn.

In 1973 the supply-and-demand problems facing the running-shoeindustrywereunusuallyknotty, seemingly insoluble.Thewholeworldwassuddenly demanding running shoes, and the supply wasn’t simplyinconsistent,itwasslowingtoasputter.Therewereneverenoughshoesinthepipeline.

Wehadmany smartpeopleworkingon theproblem,butnoonecouldfigure out how to significantly boost supply without taking on hugeinventoryrisks.TherewassomeconsolationinthefactthatAdidasandPumawerehavingthesameproblems—butnotmuch.Ourproblemscouldtipusintobankruptcy.Wewere leveraged to thehilt, and likemostpeoplewholive from paycheck to paycheck,wewerewalking the edge of a precipice.Whenashipmentofshoeswas late,ourpaircountplummeted.Whenourpaircountplummeted,weweren’tabletogenerateenoughrevenuetorepayNisshoandtheBankofCaliforniaontime.Whenwecouldn’trepayNisshoand the Bank ofCalifornia on time, we couldn’t borrowmore.Whenwecouldn’tborrowmorewewerelateplacingournextorder.

Roundandrounditwent.Then came the last thing we needed. A dockworkers’ strike. Ourman

wentdown toBostonHarbor topickupa shipmentof shoesand found itlockedtight.Hecouldsee it throughthe locked fence:boxesandboxesofwhattheworldwasclamoringfor.Andnowaytogetatit.

We scrambled and arranged for Nippon to send a new shipment—110,000pairs,ona chartered707.Wesplit thecostof jet fuelwith them.

Anythingwaspreferabletonotbringingproducttomarketontime.Our sales for 1973 rose 50 percent, to $4.8 million, a number that

staggered me the first time I saw it on a piece of paper.Wasn’t it onlyyesterdaythatwe’ddone$8,000?Andyettherewasnocelebration.Betweenour legal troubles and our supply woes, wemight be out of business anyminute.Late at night I’d sitwithPenny and she’d ask, for the umpteenthtime,whatweweregoingtodoifBlueRibbonwentunder.Whatwastheplan?AndfortheumpteenthtimeI’dreassureherwithoptimisticwordsthatIdidn’twhollybelieve.

Then,that fall, Ihadanidea.Whynotgotoallofourbiggestretailersandtellthemthatifthey’dsignironcladcommitments,ifthey’dgiveuslargeand nonrefundable orders, six months in advance, we’d give them heftydiscounts,upto7percent?Thiswaywe’dhavelongerleadtimes,andfewershipments,andmorecertainty,andthereforeabetterchanceofkeepingcashbalancesinthebank.Also,wecouldusetheselong-termcommitmentsfromheavyweights like Nordstrom, Kinney, Athlete’s Foot, United SportingGoods, andothers, to squeezemore credit out ofNissho and theBankofCalifornia.EspeciallyNissho.

The retailers were skeptical, of course. But I begged. And when thatdidn’twork Imadeboldpredictions. I told themthat thisprogram,whichwewerecalling“Futures,”wasthefuture,forusandeveryoneelse,sothey’dbettergetonboard.Soonerratherthanlater.

IwaspersuasivebecauseIwasdesperate.Ifwecouldjusttakethelidoffourannual growth limits. But retailers continued to resist. Over and over weheard:“YounewbiesatNikedon’tunderstandtheshoeindustry.Thisnewideawillneverfly.”

My bargaining position was suddenly improved when we rolled outseveraleye-poppingnewshoes,whichcustomersweresuretodemand.TheBruinwasalreadypopular,withitsoutsolesandupperscookedtogethertogiveamorestableride.Nowwedebutedanenhancedversion,withbrightgreensuedeuppers. (PaulSilasof theBostonCelticshadagreed toweara

pair.)Plus,twonewCortezes,aLeatherandaNylon,bothofwhichfiguredtobeourbestsellingshoesyet.

At last, a few retailers signedon.Theprogram started togain traction.Beforelong,thestragglersandholdoutsweredesperatetobeincluded.

SEPTEMBER 13 , 1973 .My fifthwedding anniversary.Once again Pennywokemeinthemiddleofthenighttosayshewasn’t feelingwell.Butthistime,onthedrivetothehospital,Ihadmoreonmymindthanjustthebaby.Futuresprogram.Paircount.Pendingtrial.SoofcourseIgotlost.

Icircledback,retracedmysteps.Mybrowbeginningtobeadwithsweat,Iturneddownastreetandsawthehospitalupahead.Thankgoodness.

Once again they wheeled Penny away, and once again I waited, andwilted,inthebullpen.ThistimeItriedtodosomepaperwork,andwhenthedoctorcameandfoundme,andtoldmeIhadanotherson,Ithought:Twosons.Apairofsons.

Theultimatepaircount.Iwent toPenny’s roomandmetmynewboy,whomwenamedTravis.

ThenIdidabadthing.Smiling, Penny said the doctors told her she could go home after two

days,insteadofthethreethey’drequiredafterMatthew.Whoa,Isaid,holdon there, the insurance iswilling to pay for another day in the hospital—what’syourhurry?Mightaswellkickback,relax.Takeadvantage.

Sheloweredherhead,cockedaneyebrow.“Who’splayingandwhereisit?”shesaid.

“Oregon,”Iwhispered.“ArizonaState.”Shesighed.“Okay,”shesaid.“Okay,Phil.Go.”

1974

I sat in the federal courthouse in downtown Portland, at a little wooden

table, alongside Strasser andCousinHouser, staring at the high ceiling. Itried to take deep breaths. I tried not to look tomy left, at the opposingtable,at the five raptor-eyed lawyers representingOnitsukaand fourotherdistributors,allofwhomwantedtoseemeruined.

ItwasApril14,1974.We’dtriedonelasttimetoavoidthisnightmare.Inthemomentsbefore

the trial began we’d offered to settle. We’d told Onitsuka: Pay us eighthundred thousand dollars in damages, withdraw your suit in Japan, we’llwithdrawours,andwe’llallwalkaway.Ididn’tthinktherewasmuchchanceofacceptance,butCousinHouserthoughtitworthatry.

Onitsuka rejected theoffer instantly.Andmadeno counter.Theywereoutforblood.

Nowthebailiff shouted, “Court is in session!”The judge swooped intothecourtroomandbangedhisgavelandmyheartjumped.Thisisit,Itoldmyself.

Thehead lawyer forOnitsuka’s side,WayneHilliard, gavehis openingstatementfirst.Hewasamanwhoenjoyedhiswork,whoknewhewasgoodat it.“Thesemen . . .haveuncleanhands!”hecried,pointingatour table.“Unclean . . . hands,” he repeated. This was a standard legal term, butHilliardmadeitsoundlurid,almostpornographic.(EverythingHilliardsaidsounded somewhat sinister tome, because he was short and had a pointynoseandlookedlikethePenguin.)BlueRibbon“conned”Onitsukaintothispartnership,hebellowed.PhilKnightwenttoJapanin1962andpretended

there was a company called Blue Ribbon, and thereafter he employedsubterfuge,theft,spies,whatevernecessary,toperpetuatethiscon.

BythetimeHilliardwasdone,bythetimehe’dtakenhisseatnexttohisfour fellow lawyers, Iwasready to find in favorofOnitsuka. I looked intomylapandaskedmyself,HowcouldyouhavedoneallthoseterriblethingstothosepoorJapanesebusinessmen?

Cousin Houser stood. Right away it was clear that he didn’t haveHilliard’s fire. It just wasn’t in his nature. CousinHouser was organized,prepared, but he wasn’t fiery. At first I was disappointed. Then I lookedmore closely at Cousin Houser, and listened to what he was saying, andthoughtabouthis life.Asaboyhe’d suffereda severe speech impediment.Every“r”and“l”hadbeenahurdle.Evenintohisteenshe’dsoundedlikeacartooncharacter.Now,thoughheretainedslighttracesoftheimpediment,he’dlargelyovercomeit,andasheaddressedthepackedcourtroomthatday,Iwas filledwith admiration, and filial loyalty.What a journeyhe’dmade.We’dmade.Iwasproudofhim,proudhewasonourside.

Moreover, he’d taken our case on contingency because he’d thought itwouldcometotrialinmonths.Twoyearslaterhehadn’tseenadime.Andhiscostswereastronomical.Myphotocopyingbillalonewas inthetensofthousands. Now and then Cousin Houser mentioned that he was underintensepressurefromhispartnerstokickustothecurb.Atonepointhe’devenaskedJaquatotakeoverthecase.(Nothanks,Jaquasaid.)Fireorno,CousinHouserwasatruehero.Hefinishedspeaking,seatedhimselfatourtable,andlookedatmeandStrasser.Ipattedhisback.Gameon.

ASTHE PLAINTIFFS ,wepresentedourcasefirst,andthefirstwitnesswecalled was the founder and president of Blue Ribbon, Philip H. Knight.WalkingtothestandIfeltasifitmustbesomeotherPhilipKnightbeingcalled,someotherPhilipKnightnowraisinghishand,swearingtotell thetruth, inacasemarkedbysomuchdeceitandrancor.Iwasfloatingabovemybody,watchingthesceneunfoldfarbelow.

ItoldmyselfasIsettleddeepintothecreakywoodenchairinthewitnessstandandstraightenedmynecktie,Thisisthemostimportantaccountyou’llevergiveofyourself.Don’tblowit.

AndthenIblewit.IwaseverybitasbadasI’dbeeninthedepositions.Iwasevenalittleworse.

CousinHouser tried tohelpme, to leadme.He struckanencouragingtone,gavemeafriendlysmilewitheachquestion,butmymindwasgoinginmultipledirections. I couldn’t concentrate. Ihadn’t slept thenightbefore,hadn’t eaten that morning, and I was running on adrenaline, but theadrenalinewasn’tgivingmeextraenergyorclarity.Itwasonlycloudingmybrain. I found myself entertaining strange, almost hallucinatory thoughts,likehowmuchCousinHouserresembledme.Hewasaboutmyage,aboutmy height, with many of my same features. I’d never noticed the familyresemblance until now. What a Kafkaesque twist, I thought, beinginterrogatedbyyourself.

By the end of his questioning, I had made a slight recovery. Theadrenalinewas gone and Iwas starting tomake sense.Butnow itwas theotherside’sturntohaveagoatme.

Hilliarddrilleddown,down.HewasrelentlessandIwassoonreeling.Ihemmed,hawed,couchedeveryotherwordinstrangequalifiers.Isoundedshady, shifty,even tomyself.WhenI talkedaboutgoing throughKitami’sbriefcase,whenItriedtoexplainthatMr.Fujimotowasn’treallyacorporatespy, I saw the courtroom spectators, and the judge, look skeptical. Even Iwas skeptical. Several times I looked into the distance and squinted andthought,DidIreallydothat?

I scanned the courtroom, looking forhelp, and sawnothingbuthostilefaces.ThemosthostilewasBork’s.HewassittingrightbehindtheOnitsukatable, glaring. Now and then he’d lean into the Onitsuka lawyers,whispering, handing them notes. Traitor, I thought. Benedict Arnold.PromptedbyBork,presumably,Hilliardcameatmefromnewangles,withnewquestions, and I lost trackof theplot. Ioftenhadno ideawhat Iwassaying.

The judge, at one point, scolded me for not making sense, for beingoverly complicated. “Just answer the questions concisely,” he said. “Howconcisely?”Isaid.“Twentywordsorless,”hesaid.

Hilliardaskedhisnextquestion.Iranahandovermyface.“There’snowayIcananswerthatquestionin

twentywordsorless,”Isaid.Thejudgerequiredlawyersonbothsidestostaybehindtheirtableswhile

questioningwitnesses,andtothisdayIthinkthattenyardsofbuffermighthavesavedme.IthinkifHilliardhadbeenabletogetcloser,hemighthavecrackedme,mighthavereducedmetotears.

Toward the end of his two-day cross Iwas numb. I’d hit bottom.Theonlyplacetogowasup.IcouldseeHilliarddecidethathe’dbetterletmegobeforeIstartedtoriseandmakeacomeback.AsIslidoffthestandIgavemyselfagradeofDminus.CousinHouserandStrasserdidn’tdisagree.

THE JUDGE INour case was the Honorable James Burns, a notoriousfigureinOregonjurisprudence.Hehadalong,dourface,andpalegrayeyesthatlookedoutfrombeneathtwoprotrudingblackeyebrows.Eacheyehaditsown little thatchroof.Maybe itwasbecause factorieswere somuchonmymind in thosedays, but I often thought JudgeBurns looked as if he’dbeenbuilt insomefar-offfactorythatmanufacturedhangingjudges.AndIthought he knew it, too. And took pride in it. He called himself, in allseriousness, James the Just. In his operatic basso he’d announce, “You arenowinthecourtroomofJamestheJust!”

Heavenhavemercyonanyonewho,thinkingJamestheJustwasbeingabitdramatic,daredtolaugh.

Portland was still a small town—minuscule, really—and we’d heardthrough the grapevine that someone had recently bumped into James theJustathismen’sclub.Thejudgewashavingamartini,moaningaboutourcase. “Dreadful case,” he was saying to the bartender and anyone who’dlisten,“perfectlydreadful.”Soweknewhedidn’twanttobethereanymore

thanwedid,andheoftentookouthisunhappinessonus,beratingusoversmallpointsoforderanddecorum.

Still, despitemy horrid performance on the stand, CousinHouser andStrasserandIhadasensethatJamestheJustwasincliningtowardourside.Something about his demeanor: He was slightly less ogreish to us. On ahunch, therefore, Cousin Houser told the opposing counsel that, if theywere still considering our original settlement, forget it, the offer was nolongeronthetable.

That sameday, James the Justcalledahalt to the trial andadmonishedbothsides.Hewasperturbed,hesaid,byallhewasreadingaboutthiscasein the localnewspapers.Hewasdamned ifhewasgoing topresideoveramediacircus.Heorderedus toceaseanddesistdiscussingthecaseoutsidethecourthouse.

Wenodded.Yes,YourHonor.Johnsonsatbehindourtable,oftensendingnotestoCousinHouser,and

always reading a novel during sidebars and breaks. After court adjournedeachday,he’dunwindbytakingastrollarounddowntown,visitingdifferentsportinggoodsstores,checkingonoursales.(Healsodidthiseverytimehefoundhimselfinanewcity.)

Early on he reported back thatNikeswere selling like crazy, thanks toBowerman’swaffletrainer.Theshoehadjusthitthemarket,anditwassoldout everywhere, meaning we were outpacing Onitsuka, even Puma. Theshoe was such a hit that we could envision, for the first time, one dayapproachingAdidas’ssalesnumbers.

Johnsongottotalkingwithonestoremanager,anoldfriend,whoknewthetrialwasunderway.“How’s itgoing?”thestoremanagersaid.“Goingwell,”Johnsonsaid.“Sowell,infact,wewithdrewoursettlementoffer.”

Firstthingthenextmorning,aswegatheredinthecourtroom,eachofussippingourcoffee,wenoticedanunfamiliarfaceatthedefensetable.Therewerethefivelawyers...andonenewguy?Johnsonturned,saw,andwentwhite.“Oh...shit,”hesaid.Inafranticwhisperhetoldusthatthenewguywasthestoremanager...withwhomhe’dinadvertentlydiscussedthetrial.

NowCousinHouserandStrasserwentwhite.The three of us looked at each other, and looked at Johnson, and in

unisonweturnedandlookedatJamestheJust.Hewasbanginghisgavelandclearlyabouttoexplode.

He stopped banging. Silence filled the courtroom. Now he startedyelling.Hespentafulltwentyminutestearingintous.Onedayafterhisgagorder, he said, oneday, someone onTeamBlueRibbonhadwalked into alocal store and run his mouth. We stared straight ahead, like naughtychildren, wondering if we were about to be a mistrial. But as the judgewounddownhis tirade, I thought Idetected the tiniest twinkle inhis eye.Maybe,Ithought,justmaybe,JamestheJustismoreperformerthanogre.

Johnsonredeemedhimselfwithhistestimony.Articulate,dazzlinglyanalaboutthetiniestdetails,hedescribedtheBostonandtheCortezbetterthananyone else in the world could, including me. Hilliard tried and tried tobreakhim,andcouldn’t.WhatapleasureitwastowatchHilliardbanghisheadagainstthatcement-likeJohnsonunflappability.Stretchversusthecrabwaslessofamismatch.

Next we called Bowerman to the stand. I had high hopes for my oldcoach,buthejustwasn’thimselfthatday.ItwasthefirsttimeIeversawhimflustered, even a bit intimidated, and the reasons quickly became obvious.He hadn’t prepared. Out of contempt for Onitsuka, and disdain for thewhole sordid business, he’d decided to wing it. I was saddened. CousinHouserwasannoyed.Bowerman’stestimonycouldhaveputusoverthetop.

Ahwell.Weconsoledourselveswiththeknowledgethatatleasthehadn’tdoneanythingtohurtus.

NextCousinHouser read into the record the deposition of Iwano, theyoung assistantwho’d accompaniedKitami onhis two trips to theUnitedStates.Happily,Iwanoprovedtobeasguileless,aspureofheart,ashe’dfirstseemedtomeandPenny.He’dtoldthetruth,thewholetruth,anditflatlycontradictedKitami.Iwanotestifiedthattherewasafirm,fixedplaninplaceto break our contract, to abandon us, to replace us, and that Kitami haddiscusseditopenlymanytimes.

Wethencalledanotedorthopedist,anexpertontheimpactofrunningshoesonfeet,joints,andthespine,whoexplainedthedifferencesamongthemanybrandsandmodelsonthemarket,anddescribedhowtheCortezandBostondifferedfromanythingOnitsukaevermade.Essentially,hesaid,theCortez was the first shoe ever that took pressure off the Achilles.Revolutionary, he said. Game-changing. While testifying, he spread outdozens of shoes, and pulled them apart, and tossed them around, whichagitated James the Just. Apparently the judge was OCD. He liked hiscourtroomneat,always.Repeatedlyheaskedourorthopedisttostopmakingamess, to keep the shoes in orderly pairs, and repeatedly our orthopedistignoredhim.Istartedtohyperventilate, thinkingJamestheJustwasgoingtofindourexpertwitnessincontempt.

Lastlywe calledWoodell. I watched himwheel his chair slowly to thestand.ItwasthefirsttimeI’deverseenhiminacoatandtie.He’drecentlymetawoman,andgottenmarried,andnow,whenhe toldmethathewashappy, Ibelievedhim. I tookamoment toenjoyhow farhe’d come sincewe’d first met at that Beaverton sandwich shop. Then I immediately feltawful,becauseIwasthecauseofhisbeingdraggedthroughthismuck.Helooked more nervous up there than I’d been, more intimidated thanBowerman.JamestheJustaskedhimtospellhisnameandWoodellpausedasifhecouldn’tremember.“Um...W,doubleo,doubled,...”Suddenly,hestartedtogiggle.Hisnamedidn’thaveadoubled.Butsomeladieshaddouble Ds. Oh boy. Now he was really laughing. Nerves, of course. ButJamestheJustthoughtWoodellwasmockingtheproceedings.HeremindedWoodellthathewasinthecourtroomofJamestheJust.WhichonlymadeWoodellgigglemore.

Iputahandovermyeyes.

WHEN ONITSUKA PRESENTEDtheir case, they called as their firstwitness Mr. Onitsuka. He didn’t testify long. He said that he’d knownnothingaboutmyconflictwithKitami,noraboutKitami’splanstostabus

intheback.Kitamiinterviewingotherdistributors?“Ineverinformed,”Mr.Onitsukasaid.Kitamiplanningtocutusout?“Inotknow.”

NextupwasKitami.AshewalkedtothestandtheOnitsukalawyersroseandtold the judgetheywouldneeda translator. Icuppedmyear.Awhat?Kitami spoke perfect English. I recalled him boasting about learning hisEnglishfromarecord.IturnedtoCousinHouser,myeyesbulging,butheonlyextendedhishands,palmsfacingthefloor.Easy.

In two days on the stand Kitami lied, again and again, through histranslator, throughhis teeth.He insisted thathe’dneverplanned tobreakourcontract.He’donlydecidedtodosowhenhediscoveredwe’ddonesobymakingNikes. Yes, he said, he’d been in touchwith other distributorsbefore we manufactured the first Nike, but he was just doing marketresearch.Yes,hesaid,therewassomediscussionofOnitsuka’sbuyingBlueRibbon,buttheideawasinitiatedbyPhilKnight.

AfterHilliard andCousinHouser had given their closing arguments, Iturned and thanked many of the spectators for coming. Then CousinHouserandStrasserandIwenttoabararoundthecornerandloosenedourneckties anddrank several ice-coldbeers.And severalmore.Wediscusseddifferentwaysitmighthavegone,differentthingswemighthavedone.Oh,thethingswemighthavedone,wesaid.

Andthenweallwentbacktowork.

IT WAS WEEKS later. Earlymorning. CousinHouser phonedme at theoffice.“JamestheJustisgoingtoruleateleveno’clock,”hesaid.

I raced to the courthouse and met him and Strasser at our old table.Oddly, the courtroom was empty. No spectators. No opposing counsel,exceptHilliard.Hisfellowlawyershadbeenunabletogethereonsuchshortnotice.

James the Just came barging through the side door and ascended thebench.Heshuffledsomepapersandbeganspeakinginalowmonotone,asiftohimself.Hesaidfavorablethingsaboutbothsides.Ishookmyhead.How

couldhehave favorable things to say aboutOnitsuka?Bad sign.Bad, bad,bad. If only Bowerman had been more prepared. If only I hadn’t meltedunderpressure.Ifonlytheorthopedisthadkepthisshoesinorder!

The judge looked down at us, his protruding eyebrows longer andshaggierthanwhenthetrialbegan.HewouldnotruleonthematterofthecontractbetweenOnitsukaandBlueRibbon,hesaid.

Islumpedforward.Insteadhewouldrulesolelyontheissueoftrademarks.Itseemedclearto

himthatthiswasacaseofhe-said,he-said.“Wehaveheretwoconflictingstories,”hesaid,“andit’stheopinionofthiscourtthatBlueRibbon’sisthemoreconvincing.”

Blue Ribbon has beenmore truthful, he said, not only throughout thedispute,asevidencedbydocuments,butinthiscourtroom.“Truthfulness,”hesaid,“isultimatelyallIhavetogoon,togaugethiscase.”

HenotedIwano’s testimony.Compelling, the judgesaid.ItwouldseemKitami had lied. He then noted Kitami’s use of a translator: During thecourseofMr.Kitami’stestimony,onmorethanoneoccasion,heinterruptedthetranslatortocorrecthim.EachtimeMr.KitamicorrectedhiminperfectEnglish.

Pause. James the Just looked through his papers. So, he declared, it’stherefore my ruling that Blue Ribbon will retain all rights to the namesBostonandCortez.Further,hesaid,thereareclearlydamageshere.Lossofbusiness.Misappropriationof trademark.Thequestion is, how to assign adollar figure for those damages. The normal course is to name a specialmaster to determine what the damages are. This I will do in the comingdays.

Heslammeddownhisgavel.IturnedtoCousinHouserandStrasser.Wewon?Ohmy...wewon.I shook hands with Cousin Houser and Strasser, then clapped their

shoulders, thenhuggedthemboth.Iallowedmyselfonedelicioussidelonglook at Hilliard. But to my disappointment he had no reaction. He was

staring straightahead,perfectly still. Ithadnever reallybeenhis fight.Hewas just amercenary.Coolly, he shut his briefcase, clicked the locks, andwithoutaglanceinourdirectionhestoodandstrolledoutofthecourtroom.

WE WENT STRAIGHTto theLondonGrill at theBensonHotel,not farfromthecourthouse.WeeachorderedadoubleandtoastedJamestheJust.AndIwano.Andourselves.ThenIphonedPennyfromthepayphone.“Wewon!” I cried, not caring that they could hearme in all the rooms of thehotel.“Canyoubelieveit—wewon!”

Icalledmyfatherandyelledthesamething.BothPennyandmyfatheraskedwhatwe’dwon.Icouldn’ttellthem.We

still didn’t know, I said. One dollar? One million? That was tomorrow’sproblem.Todaywasaboutrelishingvictory.

BackinthebarCousinHouserandStrasserandIhadonemorestiffone.ThenIphonedtheofficetofindoutthedailypaircount.

AWEEK LATERwegotasettlementoffer:fourhundredthousanddollars.Onitsukaknewfullwellthataspecialmastermightcomeupwithanykindofnumber,sotheywereseekingtomovepreemptively,containtheirlosses.But four hundred thousand dollars seemed low to me. We haggled forseveraldays.Hilliardwouldn’tbudge.

Weallwantedtobedonewiththis,forever.EspeciallyCousinHouser’soverlords,who now authorized him to take themoney, ofwhich he’d gethalf,thelargestpaymentinthehistoryofhisfirm.Sweetvindication.

Iaskedhimwhathewasgoingtodowithallthatloot.Iforgetwhathesaid.Withours,BlueRibbonwouldsimplyleverageBankofCaliforniaintogreaterborrowing.Moreshoesonthewater.

THE FORMAL SIGNINGwasscheduledtotakeplaceinSanFrancisco,attheofficesofablue-chipfirm,oneofmanyonOnitsuka’sside.Theofficewasonthetopfloorofahigh-risedowntown,andourpartyarrivedthatday

inaloud,raucousmood.Wewerefour—me,CousinHouser,Strasser,andCale, who said he wanted to be present for all the big moments in BlueRibbon history. Present at theCreation, he said, and present now for theLiberation.

MaybeStrasserandIhadreadtoomanywarbooks,butonthewaytoSanFranciscowetalkedaboutfamoussurrendersthroughhistory.Appomattox.Yorktown. Reims. It was always so dramatic, we agreed. The opposinggeneralsmeetinginatraincarorabandonedfarmhouse,oronthedeckofanaircraft carrier.One side contrite, the other stern but gracious. Then thefountainpensscratchingacrossthe“surrenderinstrument.”WetalkedaboutMacArthuracceptingtheJapanesesurrenderontheUSSMissouri,givingthespeechofalifetime.Weweregettingcarriedaway,tobesure,butoursenseofhistory,andmartialtriumph,wasunderscoredbythedate.ItwasJuly4.

A clerk led us into a conference room crammed full of attorneys.Ourmoodabruptlychanged.Minedid, anyway.At thecenterof the roomwasKitami.Asurprise.

I don’t know why I was surprised to see him. He needed to sign thepapers,cutthecheck.Hereachedouthishand.Abiggersurprise.

Ishookit.We all took seats around the table. Before each of us stood a stack of

twenty documents, and each document had dozens of dotted lines. Wesigned until our fingers tingled. It took at least an hour. The mood wastense,thesilenceprofound,exceptforonemoment.IrecallthatStrasserletforthwith a huge sneeze. Like an elephant. And I also recall that he wasbegrudginglywearingabrand-newnavy-blue suit,whichhe’dhad tailoredbyhismother-in-law,whoputalltheextramaterialintothebreastpocket.Strasser, affirming his status as the world’s foremost antisartorialist, nowreachedintohispocketandpulledoutalongstringofextragabardineandusedittoblowhisnose.

At last a clerk collected all thedocuments, andwe all cappedourpens,andHilliardinstructedKitamitohandoverthecheck.

Kitamilookedup,dazed.“Ihavenocheck.”

WhatdidIseeinhisfaceatthatmoment?Wasitspite?Wasitdefeat?Idon’tknow. I lookedaway, scanned the facesaround theconference table.Theywereeasiertoread.Thelawyerswereintotalshock.Amancomestoasettlementconferencewithoutacheck?

Noonespoke.NowKitamilookedashamed;heknewhe’derred.“IwillmailcheckwhenIreturntoJapan,”hesaid.

Hilliardwasgruff. “See that it’smailedas soonaspossible,”he toldhisclient.

IpickedupmybriefcaseandfollowedCousinHouserandStrasseroutoftheconferenceroom.BehindmecameKitamiandtheotherlawyers.Weallstoodandwaited for theelevator.Whenthedoorsopenedweall crowdedon, shoulder to shoulder, Strasser himself taking up half the car.No onespokeaswedroppedtothestreet.Noonebreathed.Awkwarddoesn’tbegintodescribeit.Surely,Ithought,WashingtonandCornwallisweren’tforcedtoridethesamehorseawayfromYorktown.

STRASSER CAMETOtheofficesomedaysaftertheverdict,towindthingsdown, to say good-bye. We steered him into the conference room andeveryonegatheredaroundandgavehimathunderousovation.Hiseyesweretearyasheraisedahandandacknowledgedourcheersandthanks.

“Speech!”someoneyelled.“I’vemadesomanyclosefriendshere,”hesaid,chokingup.“I’mgoingto

missyouall.AndI’mgoingtomissworkingonthiscase.Workingonthesideofright.”

Applause.“I’mgoingtomissdefendingthiswonderfulcompany.”WoodellandHayesandIlookedateachother.Oneofussaid:“Sowhy

don’tyoucomeworkhere?”Strasser turned redand laughed.That laugh—Iwas struckagainby the

incongruousfalsetto.Hewavedhishand,pshaw,asifwewerekidding.

Weweren’tkidding.AshortwhilelaterIinvitedStrassertolunchattheStockpot in Beaverton. I brought alongHayes, who by now was workingfull-time forBlueRibbon,andwemadeahardpitch.Ofall thepitches inmy life, this might have been the most carefully prepared and rehearsed,because I wanted Strasser, and I knew there would be pushback. He hadbeforehimaclearpathtotheverytopofCousinHouser’sfirm,oranyotherfirmhemightchoose.Withoutmuchefforthecouldbecomepartner,securea life of means, privilege, prestige. That was the known, and we wereoffering him The Unknown. So Hayes and I spent days role-playing,polishingourargumentsandcounterarguments,anticipatingwhatobjectionsStrassermightraise.

Iopenedby tellingStrasser that itwasalla foregoneconclusion, really.“You’reoneofus,”Isaid.Oneofus.Heknewwhatthosewordsmeant.Wewere the kind of people who simply couldn’t put up with corporatenonsense.Wewerethekindofpeoplewhowantedourworktobeplay.Butmeaningfulplay.Wewere trying to slayGoliath, and thoughStrasserwasbiggerthantwoGoliaths,athearthewasanutterDavid.Weweretryingtocreate a brand, I said, but also a culture. We were fighting againstconformity,againstboringness,againstdrudgery.More thanaproduct,weweretryingtosellanidea—aspirit.Idon’tknowifIeverfullyunderstoodwhowewereandwhatweweredoinguntilIheardmyselfsayingitallthatdaytoStrasser.

He kept nodding. He never stopped eating, but he kept nodding. Heagreed with me. He said he’d gone directly from our battle royal withOnitsuka to working on several humdrum insurance cases, and everymorning he’d wanted to slit his wrists with a paper clip. “I miss BlueRibbon,”hesaid.“Imisstheclarity.Imissthatfeeling,everyday,ofgettingawin.SoIthankyouforyouroffer.”

Still,hewasn’tsayingyes.“What’sup?”Isaid.“Ineed...toask...mydad,”hesaid.IlookedatHayes.Webothguffawed.“Yourdad!”Hayessaid.

The same dad who’d told the cops to haul Strasser away? I shookmyhead.TheoneargumentHayesandIhadn’tpreparedfor.Theeternalpulloftheoldman.

“Okay,”Isaid.“Talktoyourfather.Getbacktous.”Days later, with his old man’s blessing, Strasser agreed to become the

first-everin-housecounselforBlueRibbon.

WE HAD ABOUTtwoweekstorelaxandenjoyourlegalvictory.Thenwelookedup and saw a new threat loomingon thehorizon.The yen. Itwasfluctuatingwildly,andifitcontinuedtodosoitwouldspellcertaindoom.

Before1972theyen-to-dollarratehadbeenpegged,constant,unvarying.Onedollarwas alwaysworth360yen, andvice versa.Youcould countonthatrate,everyday,assureasyoucouldcountonthesunrising.PresidentNixon, however, felt the yen was undervalued. He feared America was“sendingallitsgoldtoJapan,”sohecuttheyenloose,letitfloat,andnowthe yen-to-dollar rate was like the weather. Every day different.Consequently, no one doing business in Japan could possibly plan fortomorrow.The head of Sony famously complained: “It’s like playing golfandyourhandicapchangesoneveryhole.”

Atthesametime,Japaneselaborcostswereontherise.Combinedwithafluctuatingyen,thismadelifetreacherousforanycompanydoingthebulkofitsproductioninJapan.NolongercouldIenvisionafutureinwhichmostofourshoesweremadethere.Weneedednewfactories, innewcountries,fast.

Tome,Taiwanseemedthenextlogicalstep.Taiwaneseofficials,sensingJapan’scollapse,wererapidlymobilizingtofillthecomingvoid.Theywerebuildingfactoriesatwarpspeed.Andyetthefactoriesweren’tyetcapableofhandlingourworkload.Plus, theirquality controlwaspoor.UntilTaiwanwasready,we’dneedtofindabridge,somethingtoholdusover.

I considered Puerto Rico.We were already making some shoes there.Alas, theyweren’t verygood.Also, Johnsonhadbeendown there to scout

factories,in1973,andhe’dreportedthattheyweren’tmuchbetterthanthedilapidatedoneshesawalloverNewEngland.Sowetalkedaboutsomesortofhybridsolution:takingrawmaterialsfromPuertoRicoandsendingthemtoNewEnglandforlastingandbottoming.

Towardtheendof1974,thatimpossiblylongyear,thisbecameourplan.AndIwaswellpreparedtoimplementit.I’ddonemyhomework.I’dbeenmaking trips to theEastCoast, to lay the groundwork, to look at variousfactorieswemightlease.I’dgonetwice—firstwithCale,thenwithJohnson.

The first time, the clerk at the rental car company declinedmy creditcard.Thenconfiscatedit.WhenCaletriedtosmoothitover,offeringuphiscredit card, the clerk said he wouldn’t accept Cale’s card, either, becauseCalewaswithme.Guiltbyassociation.

Talk about your deadbeats. I couldn’t bringmyself to lookCale in theeye. Here we were, a dozen years out of Stanford, and while he was aneminently successful businessman, I was still struggling to keep my headabovewater.He’d known Iwas struggling, but now he knew exactly howmuch. I was mortified. He was always there at the big moments, thetriumphant moments, but this humiliating little moment, I feared, woulddefinemeinhiseyes.

Then,whenwegottothefactory,theownerlaughedinmyface.Hesaidhewouldn’t considerdoingbusinesswith some fly-by-night companyhe’dneverheardof—letalonefromOregon.

OnthesecondtripImetupwithJohnsoninBoston.IpickedhimupatFootwearNews, where he’d been scouting potential suppliers, and togetherwedrove toExeter,NewHampshire, to see an ancient, shuttered factory.BuiltaroundthetimeoftheAmericanRevolution,thefactorywasaruin.Ithad once housed theExeter Boot and ShoeCompany, but now it housedrats. As we pried open the doors and swatted away cobwebs the size offishing nets, all sorts of creatures scurried past our feet and flew past ourears.Worse, there were gaping holes in the floor; one wrong step couldmeanatriptotheearth’score.

The owner led us up to the third floor, which was usable.He said hecouldrentusthisfloor,withanoptiontobuythewholeplace.Healsosaidwe’dneedhelpgettingthefactoryproperlycleanedandstaffed,andhegaveusthenameofalocalguywhocouldhelp.BillGiampietro.

WemetGiampietrothenextdayatanExetertavern.WithinminutesIcouldseethiswasourman.Atrueshoedog.Hewasfifty,thereabouts,buthis hair had no gray. It seemed paintedwith black polish.He had a thickBostonaccent,andbesidesshoestheonlysubjectheeverbroachedwashisbelovedwifeandkids.Hewasfirst-generationAmerican—hisparentscamefrom Italy, where his father (of course) had been a cobbler. He had theserene expression and callused hands of a craftsman, and he proudlyworethe standard uniform: stained pants, stained denim shirt, rolled up to thestainedelbows.Hesaidhe’dneverdoneanythinginhislifebutcobble,andneverwantedto.“Askanyone,”hesaid,“they’lltellyou.”EveryoneinNewEnglandcalledhimGeppetto,headded,becauseeveryonethought(andstillthinks)Pinocchio’sfatherwasacobbler.(Hewasactuallyacarpenter.)

We each ordered a steak and a beer, and then I removed a pair ofCortezesfrommybriefcase.“CanyouequiptheExeterfactorytoturnoutthese babies?” I asked. He took the shoes, examined them, pulled themapart, yanked out their tongues.He peered into them like a doctor. “Nofuckingproblem,”hesaid,droppingthemonthetable.

Thecost?Hedidthemathinhishead.RentingandfixinguptheExeterfactory,plusworkers,materials,sundries—heguessed$250,000.

Let’sdoit,Isaid.Later, while Johnson and I were on a run, he asked me how we were

goingtopayaquarterofamilliondollarsforafactorywhenwecouldbarelypay forGiampietro’s steak. I told him calmly—in fact with the calm of amadman—that I was going to have Nissho pay for it. “Why on earth isNissho going to give youmoney to run a factory?” he asked. “Simple,” Isaid,“I’mnotgoingtotellthem.”

I stopped running, put my hands on my knees, and told Johnson,furthermore,thatIwasgoingtoneedhimtorunthatfactory.

Hismouthopened, then shut. Justoneyear ago I’d askedhim tomoveacrossthecountrytoOregon.NowIwantedhimtomovebackeastagain?Towork incloseproximity toGiampietro?AndWoodell?Withwhomhehadavery...complicated...rapport?“CraziestthingI’veeverheard,”hesaid.“Nevermindtheinconvenience,nevermindtheinsanityofschleppingallthewaybacktotheEastCoast,whatdoIknowaboutrunningafactory?I’dbeincompletelyovermyhead.”

I laughed.I laughedand laughed.“Overyourhead?”Isaid.“Overyourhead!We’reallinoverourheads!Wayover!”

Hemoaned.Hesoundedlikeacartryingtostartonacoldmorning.Iwaited.Justgiveitasecond,Ithought.He denied, fumed, bargained, got depressed, then accepted. The Five

StagesofJeff.Atlastheletoutalongsighandsaidheknewthiswasabigjob,and,likeme,hedidn’ttrustanyoneelsetohandleit.Hesaidheknewthat,whenitcametoBlueRibbon,eachofuswaswillingtodowhateverwasnecessary to win, and if “whatever was necessary” fell outside our area ofexpertise,hey, asGiampietrowould say, “No fuckingproblem.”Hedidn’tknowanythingaboutrunningafactory,buthewaswillingtotry.Tolearn.

Fearoffailure,Ithought,willneverbeourdownfallasacompany.Notthatanyofusthoughtwewouldn’tfail;infactwehadeveryexpectationthatwewould.Butwhenwedidfail,wehadfaiththatwe’ddoitfast,learnfromit,andbebetterforit.

Johnsonfrowned,nodded.Okay,hesaid.Deal.And so, as we entered the final days of 1974, Johnson was firmly

ensconcedinExeter,andoften,lateatnight,thinkingofhimbackthere,I’dsmileandsayundermybreath:Godspeed,oldfriend.

You’reGiampietro’sproblemnow.

OUR CONTACT ATtheBankofCalifornia,amannamedPerryHolland,wasverymuchlikeHarryWhiteatFirstNational.Agreeable,friendly,loyal,butabsolutelyfeckless,becausehehadrigidloanlimitsthatwerealwayswell

belowourrequests.Andhisbosses,likeWhite’s,werealwayspressingustoslowdown.

Werespondedin1974bymashingtheaccelerator.Wewereonpacefor$8million in sales, and nothing, but nothing, was going to stop us fromhitting that number. In defiance of the bank, we made deals with morestores, and opened several stores of our own—and continued to signcelebrityathleteendorserswecouldn’tafford.

AtthesametimePrewassmashingAmericanrecordsinNikes,thebesttennis player in the world was smashing rackets in them. His name wasJimmy Connors, and his biggest fan was Jeff Johnson. Connors, Johnsontoldme,wasthetennisversionofPre.Rebellious.Iconoclastic.HeurgedmetoreachouttoConnors,signhimtoanendorsementdeal,fast.Thus,inthesummerof1974IphonedConnors’sagentandmademypitch.We’dsignedNastasefortenthousanddollars,Isaid,andwewerewillingtoofferhisboyhalfthat.

Theagentjumpedatthedeal.BeforeConnors could sign thepapers,however,he left the country for

Wimbledon.Then,againstallodds,hewonWimbledon.Inourshoes.Next,he came home and shocked the world by winning the U.S. Open. I wasgiddy.IphonedtheagentandaskedifConnorshadsignedthosepapersyet.Wewantedtogetstartedpromotinghim.“Whatpapers?”theagentsaid.

“Uh,thepapers.Wehadadeal,remember?”“Yeah,Idon’trememberanydeal.We’vealreadygotadealthreetimes

betterthanyourdeal,whichIdon’tremember.”Disappointing,weallagreed.Butohwell.Besides,weallsaid,we’vestillgotPre.We’llalwayshavePre.

1975

Pay Nissho first. This was my morning chant, my nightly prayer, my

numberonepriority.Anditwasmydailyinstructiontothemanwhoplayedthe Sundance Kid to my Butch Cassidy—Hayes. Before paying back thebank,Isaid,beforepayingbackanyone...payNissho.

Itwasn’t somucha strategy as anecessity.Nisshowas like equity.Ourlineofcreditatthebankwas$1million,butwehadanothermillionincreditwithNissho,whichwillinglytooksecondposition,whichmadethebankfeelmore secure. All of thiswould unspool, however, ifNisshoweren’t there.Ergo,weneededtokeepNisshohappy.Always,always,payNisshofirst.

It wasn’t easy, however, this payingNissho first. It wasn’t easy payinganyone.Wewereundergoing an explosion in assets, and inventory,whichputenormousstrainsonourcashreserves.Withanygrowthcompany,thisisthe typical problem. But we were growing faster than the typical growthcompany, faster than any growth company I knew of.Our problemswereunprecedented.Orsoitseemed.

Iwasalsopartlytoblame,ofcourse.Irefusedtoevenconsiderorderingless inventory.Growor die, that’swhat I believed, nomatter the situation.Whycutyourorderfrom$3milliondownto$2millionifyoubelievedinyourbonesthatthedemandouttherewasfor$5million?SoIwasforeverpushingmyconservativebankerstothebrink,forcingthemintoagameofchicken.I’dorderanumberofshoesthatseemedtothemabsurd,anumberwe’dneedtostretchtopay for,andI’dalways justbarelypay for them, inthenickoftime,andthenjustbarelypayourothermonthlybills,atthelastminute,alwaysdoingjustenough,andnomore,topreventthebankersfrom

bootingus.Andthen,attheendofthemonth,I’demptyouraccountstopayNisshoandstartfromzeroagain.

Tomost observers thiswould’ve seemed a brazenly reckless, dangerouswayofdoingbusiness,butIbelievedthedemandforourshoeswasalwaysgreater thanourannual sales.Besides,eightofevery tenorderswere solidgold,guaranteed,thankstoourFuturesprogram.Fullspeedahead.

Others might have argued that we didn’t need to fear Nissho. Thecompany was our ally, after all.Weweremaking themmoney, howmadcouldtheyget?Also,IhadastrongpersonalrelationshipwithSumeragi.

But suddenly in 1975 Sumeragi was no longer running things. Ouraccounthadgrowntoobigforhim;ourcreditwasnolongerhiscallalone.We were now overseen by theWest Coast credit manager, Chio Suzuki,who was based in Los Angeles, and even more directly by the financialmanagerofthePortlandoffice,TadayukiIto.

Whereas Sumeragi was warm and approachable, Ito was congenitallyaloof.Light seemed tobounceoffhimdifferently.No, rather, lightdidn’tbounceoffhim.Heabsorbedit,likeablackhole.EverybodyatBlueRibbonlikedSumeragi—weinvitedhimtoeveryofficeparty.ButIdon’tthinkweeverinvitedItotoanything.

InmymindIcalledhimtheIceMan.I still had difficulty making eye contact with people, but Ito wouldn’t

allowmetodivertmygaze.Helookeddirectlyintomyeyes,downintomysoul,anditwashypnotizing.Especiallywhenhefelthehadtheupperhand.Whichwasalmostalways.I’dplayedgolfwithhimonceortwice,andIwasstruck,evenafterhe’dhita terrible shot,at thewayhe turnedand lookedstraightatmeashecameoffthetee.Hewasn’tagoodgolfer,buthewassoconfident, so self-assured, he always gave the impression that his ball wassitting350yardsaway,atopatuftofgrassinthecenterofthefairway.

AndnowI remember this inparticular.Hisgolf attire, likehisbusinessattire,wasmeticulous.Mine,ofcourse,wasnot.Duringoneofourmatches,the weather was cool, and I was wearing a shaggy mohair sweater. As IapproachedthefirstteeItoaskedunderhisbreathifIplannedtogoskiing

later.Istopped,wheeled.Hegavemeahalfsmile.ItwasthefirsttimeI’deverknowntheIceMantotryhumor.Andthelast.

This was the man I needed to keep happy. It wouldn’t be easy. But Ithought:Alwaysdowellinhiseyes,andcreditwillcontinuetoexpand,thusenablingBlueRibbontoexpand.Stayinhisgoodgracesandallwillbewell.Otherwise...

My obsession with keeping Nissho happy, with keeping Ito happy,combined with my refusal to ease up on growth, created a franticatmosphere around the office. We struggled to make every payment, toBankofCalifornia,toallourothercreditors,butthatNisshopaymentattheendof themonthwas like passing a kidney stone.Aswe’d begin scrapingtogether our available cash, writing checks with barely enough to coverthem,we’d start to sweat.TheNisshopaymentwas sometimes sobig thatwe’dbedeadbrokeforadayortwo.Theneveryothercreditorwouldhavetowait.

Toobadforthem,I’dtellHayes.Iknow,Iknow,he’dsay.PayNisshofirst.Hayesdidn’tlikethisstateofaffairs.Itwashardonhisnerves.“Sowhat

doyouwanttodo,”I’daskhim,“slowdown?”Whichwouldalwaysdrawaguiltysmile.Sillyquestion.

Occasionally, when our cash reserves were really stretched thin, ouraccount at thebankwouldn’t justbe empty, itwouldbeoverdrawn.ThenHayesandIwouldhavetogodowntothebankandexplainthesituationtoHolland.We’dshowhimour financial statements,pointout thatour saleswere doubling, that our inventorywas flying out the door.Our cash flow“situation,”we’dsay,ismerelytemporary.

Weknew,ofcourse,thatlivingonthefloatwasn’tthewaytodothings.Butwe’dalwaystellourselves:It’stemporary.Besides,everyonedidit.Someof the biggest companies in America lived on the float. Banks themselveslived on the float.Holland acknowledged asmuch. “Sure, boys, I get it,”he’d saywith anod.As long aswewereup-frontwithhim, as long asweweretransparent,hecouldworkwithus.

And then came that fateful rainy day. A Wednesday afternoon. Thespringof1975.HayesandIfoundourselvesstaringintotheabyss.WeowedNissho $1 million, our first-ever million-dollar payment, and, hello, wedidn’thave$1millionlyingaround.Wewereabout$75,000short.

I recall thatweweresitting inmyoffice,watchingraindropsracedownthe windowpane. Occasionally we’d look through the books, curse thenumbers,thenlookbackattheraindrops.“WehavetopayNissho,”Isaidquietly.

“Yes,yes,yes,”Hayessaid.“Buttocoveracheckthislarge?We’llhavetodrainallourotherbankaccountsdry.All.Dry.”

“Yes.”Wehad retail stores inBerkeley,LosAngeles,Portland,NewEngland,

eachwithitsownbankaccount.We’dhavetoemptythemall,divertallthatmoney to thehomeoffice account for adayor two—or three.AlongwitheverycentfromJohnson’sfactoryinExeter.We’dhavetoholdourbreath,likewalkingpastagraveyard,untilwecouldreplenishthoseaccounts.AndstillwemightnotbeabletocoverthatmassivechecktoNissho.We’dstillneedalittleluck,apaymentortwotolandfromoneofthemanyretailerswhoowedusmoney.

“Circularfunding,”Hayessaid.“Magicalbanking,”Isaid.“Sonofabitch,”Hayessaid,“ifyoulookatourcashflowoverthenextsix

months, we’re in good shape. It’s just this one payment to Nissho that’sscrewingupeverything.”

“Yes,”Isaid,“ifwecangetpastthisonepayment,we’rehomefree.”“Butthisissomepayment.”“We’ve always covered checks toNisshowithin a day or two. But this

timeitmighttakeus—what—three?Four?”“Idon’tknow,”Hayessaid,“Ihonestlydon’tknow.”I followedtworaindropsracingdowntheglass.Neckandneck.Youare

remembered for the rules you break. “Damn the torpedoes,” I said. “PayNissho.”

Hayesnodded.Hestood.Welookedateachotherforonelongsecond.He said he’d tellCarole Fields, our head bookkeeper, whatwe’d decided.He’dhaveherstartmovingthemoneyaround.

AndcomeFridayhe’dhavehercutthechecktoNissho.Thesearethemoments,Ithought.

TWO DAYS LATERJohnson was in his new office at the Exeter factory,doing paperwork, when amob of angryworkers suddenly appeared at hisdoor.Theirpaycheckshadbounced,theysaid.Theywantedanswers.

Johnson,ofcourse,hadnoanswerstogive.Heimploredthemtoholdon,theremustbe somemistake.HephonedOregon, reachedFields, and toldher what was happening. He expected her to say it was all a bigmisunderstanding,anaccountingerror.Insteadshewhispered,“Oooh,shit.”Thenhunguponhim.

A PARTITION WALLseparatedFields’soffice frommine.Sheranaroundthewallanduptomydesk.“You’dbettersitdown,”sheblurted.

“Iamsittingdown.”“It’sallhittingthefan,”shesaid.“Whatis?”“Thechecks.Allthechecks.”IcalledinHayes.Bythenheweighed330pounds,butheseemedtobe

shrinkingbeforemeasFieldsdescribedtouseveryparticularoftheJohnsonphonecall.“Wemight’vereallyfuckedupthistime,”hesaid.“Whatdowedo?”Isaid.“I’llcallHolland,”Hayessaid.

Minutes later Hayes came back into my office, holding up his hands.“Hollandsaysit’sfine,noworries,he’llsmooththingsoverwithhisbosses.”

Isighed.Disasteraverted.Inthemeantime,however, Johnsonwasn’twaiting forus togetbackto

him. He phoned his local bank and learned that his account, for somereason,wasbonedry.HecalledinGiampietro,whodroveuptheroadtosee

anoldfriend,amanwhoownedalocalboxcompany.Giampietroaskedthemanforaloanoffivethousanddollars,cash.Anoutrageousrequest.Buttheman’sboxcompanydependedonBlueRibbonforitssurvival.Ifwewentoutofbusiness, theboxcompanymight, too.So theboxmanbecameourbagman,forkingoverfiftycrisphundred-dollarbills.

Giampietrothenracedbacktothefactoryanddoledouteveryone’spay,incash,likeJimmyStewartkeepingtheBaileyBros.Building&Loanafloat.

HAYES LUMBERED INTOmy office. “Holland says we need to get ourassesdowntothebank.Pronto.”

NextthingIknew,wewereallsittinginaconferenceroomattheBankofCalifornia.OnonesideofthetablewereHollandandtwonamelessmeninsuits.They looked like undertakers.On the other sidewereHayes and I.Holland,somber,opened.“Gentlemen...”

Notgood,Ithought.“Gentlemen?”Isaid.“Gentlemen?Perry,it’sus.”“Gentlemen, we’ve decided we no longer want your business at this

bank.”HayesandIstared.“Doesthatmeanyou’rethrowingusout?”Hayesasked.“Itdoesindeed,”Hollandsaid.“Youcan’tdothat,”Hayessaid.“Wecanandweare,”Hollandsaid.“We’refreezingyourfunds,andwe

willnolongerhonoranymorechecksyouwriteonthisaccount.”“Freezingour—!Idon’tbelievethis,”Hayessaid.“Believeit,”Hollandsaid.I said nothing. Iwrappedmy arms aroundmy torso and thought,This

isn’tgood,thisisn’tgood,thisisn’tgood.Never mind the embarrassment, the hassles, the cascade of bad

consequencesthatwouldfollowifHollandthrewusout.AllIcouldthinkofwasNissho.Howwouldtheyreact?HowwouldItoreact?Ipicturedmyself

tellingtheIceManthatwecouldn’tgivehimhismilliondollars.Itchilledmedowntomymarrow.

Idon’tremembertheendofthatmeeting.Idon’trememberleavingthebank,orwalkingout,orgoingacrossthestreet,orgettingontheelevator,or riding it to the top floor. I only recall shaking, violently shaking, as IaskedforawordwithMr.Ito.

The next thing I recall is Ito and Sumeragi takingHayes andme intotheirconferenceroom.Theycouldsensethatwewerefragile.Theyledustochairs,andtheybothlookedatthefloorasIspoke.Kei.Muchkei.“Well,”Isaid,“Ihavesomebadnews.Ourbank...hasthrownusout.”

Itolookedup.“Why?”hesaid.His eyeshardened.Buthis voicewas surprisingly soft. I thoughtof the

wind atopMount Fuji. I thought of the gentle breeze stirring the ginkgoleaves in the Meiji gardens. I said, “Mr. Ito, do you know how the bigtrading companies andbanks ‘live on the float’?Okay,we atBlueRibbontendtodothat,too,fromtimetotime,includinglastmonth.Andthefactofthematteris,sir,well,wemissedthefloat.AndnowtheBankofCaliforniahasdecidedtokickusout.”

SumeragilitaLuckyStrike.Onepuff.Two.Ito did the same.One puff. Two. But on the exhale, the smoke didn’t

seemtocomefromhismouth.Itseemedtoemanatefromdeepdowninsidehim, to curl from his cuffs and shirt collar. He looked intomy eyes. Heboredintome.“Theyshouldnothavedonethat,”hesaid.

Myheartstoppedmidbeat.ThiswasanalmostsympatheticthingforItotosay.IlookedatHayes.IlookedbackatIto.Iallowedmyselftothink:Wemight...just...getawaywiththis.

Then I realized that I hadn’t yet told him the bad part. “Be that as itmay,”Isaid,“theydidthrowusout,Mr.Ito,theydid,andthenet-netisthatIhavenobank.AndthusIhavenomoney.AndIneedtomakepayroll.AndIneedtopaymyothercreditors.AndifIcan’tmeetthoseobligations,Iamoutofbusiness.Today.Inwhichcase,notonlycanInotpayyouthemillion

dollarsIoweyou,sir . . .butIneedtoasktoborrowanotheronemilliondollars.”

Ito andSumeragi slid their eyes towardeachother foronehalf second,thenslidthembacktome.Everythingintheroomcametoastop.Thedustmotes,themoleculesofair,pausedmidflight.“Mr.Knight,”Itosaid,“beforegivingyouanothercent...Iwillneedtolookatyourbooks.”

WHEN I GOThome from Nissho it was about 9:00 p.m. Penny saidHollandhadphoned.“Holland?”Isaid.

“Yes,” she said. “He left instructions thatyou shouldcallwheneveryougothome.Helefthishomenumber.”

He answered on the first ring. His voice was . . . off. He’d been stiffearlier in the day, while carrying out orders from his bosses, but now hesoundedmorelikeahumanbeing.Asad,stressedhumanbeing.“Phil,”hesaid,“IfeelIoughttotellyou...we’vehadtonotifytheFBI.”

I gripped the phone tighter. “Say that again,” I whispered. “Say thatagain,Perry.”

“Wehadnochoice.”“Whatareyoutellingme?”“It’s—well,itlookstouslikefraud.”

I WENTINTOthekitchenandfellintoachair.“Whatisit?”Pennysaid.Itoldher.Bankruptcy,scandal,ruin—theworks.“Istherenohope?”sheasked.“It’salluptoNissho.”“TomSumeragi?”“Andhisbosses.”“Noproblem,then.Sumeragilovesyou.”She stood. She had faith. She was completely ready for whatever may

come.Sheevenmanagedtoturnin.

Not me. I sat up all night, playing out a hundred different scenarios,castigatingmyselffortakingsucharisk.

When I finally crawled into bed,mymindwouldn’t stop.Lying in thedarkIthoughtoverandover:AmIgoingtojail?

Me?Jail?Igotup,pouredmyselfaglassofwater,checkedontheboys.Theywere

both sprawledon their tummies,dead to theworld.Whatwould theydo?Whatwouldbecomeofthem?ThenIwentintothedenandresearchedthehomesteadlaws.IwasrelievedtolearnthattheFedscouldn’ttakethehouse.Theycouldtakeeverythingelse,butnotthislittlesixteen-hundred-square-footsanctuary.

I sighed, but the relief didn’t last. I started thinking about my life. Iscrolledbackyears,questioningeverydecisionI’devermadethatledtothispoint.IfonlyI’dbeenbetteratsellingencyclopedias,Ithought.Everythingwouldbedifferent.

Itriedtogivemyselfthestandardcatechism.Whatdoyouknow?ButIdidn’tknowanything.SittinginmyreclinerIwantedtocryout:I

knownothing!I’dalwayshadananswer,somekindofanswer,toeveryproblem.Butthis

moment, this night, I hadno answers. I got up, found a yellow legal pad,startedmakinglists.Butmymindkeptdrifting;whenIlookeddownatthepadtherewereonlydoodles.Checkmarks,squiggles,lightningbolts.

In the eerie glow of the moon they all looked liked angry, defiantswooshes.

Don’tgotosleeponenight.Whatyoumostwantwillcometoyouthen.

I MANAGED TO fall asleep for an hour or two, and I spentmost of thatblearySaturdaymorningon thephone, reachingout topeople for advice.EveryonesaidMondaywouldbethecriticalday.Perhapsthemostcriticalof

mylife.Iwouldneedtoactswiftlyandboldly.So,toprepare,IorganizedasummitforSundayafternoon.

We all gathered in the conference room at Blue Ribbon. There wasWoodell,whomusthave caught the first flightoutofBoston, andHayes,and Strasser, and Cale flew up from Los Angeles. Someone broughtdoughnuts.Someone sentout forpizzas.Someonedialed Johnsonandputhim on the speakerphone. The mood in the room, at first, was somber,becausethatwasmymood.Buthavingmyfriendsaround,myteam,mademefeelbetter,andasIlightenedup,theydid,too.

Wetalkedlongintotheevening,andifweagreedonanything,weagreedthere wasn’t an easy solution. There usually isn’t when the FBI has beennotified.Orwhenyou’vebeenoustedbyyourbankforthesecondtimeinfiveyears.

As the summit drew to a close themood shifted again. The air in theroomgrewstale,heavy.Thepizzalookedlikepoison.Aconsensusformed.Theresolutionofthiscrisis,whateveritmightbe,isinthehandsofothers.

Andofallthoseothers,Nisshowasourbesthope.We discussed tactics forMondaymorning.That’s when themen from

Nisshowereduetoarrive.ItoandSumeragiweregoingtoporethroughourbooks,andwhiletherewasnotellingwhattheymightthinkofourfinances,onethingwasprettymuchpreordained.Theyweregoingtoseerightawaythatwe’d used a big chunk of their financing not to purchase shoes fromoverseas but to run a secret factory inExeter. Best case, this wouldmakethem mad. Worst case, it would make them lose their minds. If theyconsideredouraccountingsleightofhandafull-fledgedbetrayal,theywouldabandonus,fasterthanthebankhad,inwhichcasewe’dbeoutofbusiness.Simpleasthat.

Wetalkedabouthidingthefactoryfromthem.Buteveryonearoundthetable agreed that we needed to play this one straight. As in theOnitsukatrial, fulldisclosure,totaltransparency,wastheonlycourse.Itmadesense,strategicallyandmorally.

Throughout this summit the phones rang constantly. Creditors fromcoast to coastwere trying to findoutwhatwas goingon,whyour checkswerebouncinglikeSuperBalls.Twocreditorsinparticularwerelivid.OnewasBillShesky,headofBostonianShoes.Weowedhimacoolhalfmilliondollars, and he wanted to let us know that he was boarding a plane andcomingtoOregontogetit.ThesecondwasBillManowitz,headofManoInternational,atradingcompanyinNewYork.Weowedhimonehundredthousanddollars,andhe,too,wascomingtoOregontoforceashowdown.Andtocashout.

AfterthesummitadjournedIwasthelasttoleave.Alone,Istaggeredoutto my car. In my lifetime I had finished many races on sore legs, gimpyknees,zeroenergy,butthatnightIwasn’taltogethersureIhadthestrengthtodrivehome.

ITO AND SUMERAGI were right on time. Monday morning, 9:00 a.m.sharp,theypulleduptothebuilding,eachwearingadarksuitanddarktie,eachcarryingablackbriefcase.IthoughtofallthesamuraimoviesI’dseen,allthebooksI’dreadaboutninjas.Thiswashowitalwayslookedbeforetheritualkillingofthebadshogun.

Theywalked straight throughour lobby and into our conference roomandsatdown.Withoutawordofsmalltalkwestackedourbooksinfrontofthem. Sumeragi lit a cigarette, Ito uncapped a fountain pen. Theycommenced. Pecking at calculators, scratching at legal pads, drinkingbottomlesscupsofcoffeeandgreentea,theyslowlypeeledbackthelayersofouroperationandpeeredinside.

I walked in and out, every fifteenminutes or so, to ask if they neededanything.Theyneverdid.

The bank auditor arrived soon after to collect all our cash receipts. Afifty-thousand-dollarcheckfromUnitedSportingGoodsreallyhadbeeninthemail.Weshowedhim:ItwasrightonCaroleFields’sdesk.Thiswasthelatecheckthatsetall thedominoes inmotion.This,plusthenormalday’s

receipts, covered our shortfall. The bank auditor telephoned UnitedSporting Goods’ bank in Los Angeles and asked that their account becharged immediately, the funds transferred to our account at Bank ofCalifornia.TheLosAngelesbanksaidno.TherewereinsufficientfundsintheUnitedSportingGoodsaccount.

UnitedSportingGoodshadalsobeenplayingthefloat.Already feeling a splitting headache coming on, I walked back into the

conference room. I could smell it in the air. We’d reached that fatefulmoment.Leaningover thebooks, Ito realizedwhathewas looking at anddid a slow double-take. Exeter. Secret factory.Then I saw the realizationdawnthathewasthesuckerwho’dpaidforit.

Helookedupatmeandpushedhisheadforwardonhisneck,asiftosay:Really?

Inodded.Andthen...hesmiled.Itwasonlyahalfsmile,amohairsweatersmile,

butitmeanteverything.Igavehimaweakhalfsmileinreturn,andinthatbriefwordlessexchange

countlessfatesandfuturesweredecided.

PAST MIDNIGHT, ITOandSumeragiwerestillthere,stillbusywiththeircalculatorsandlegalpads.Whentheyfinallyleftforthedaytheypromisedtoreturnearlythenextmorning.IdrovehomeandfoundPennywaitingup.We sat in thedining room, talking. I gaveher anupdate.Weagreed thatNisshowasdonewiththeiraudit; they’dknowneverythingtheyneededtoknow before lunch. What followed, and was yet to follow, was simplypunishment.“Don’tletthempushyouaroundlikethis!”Pennysaid.

“Areyoukidding?”Isaid.“Rightnowtheycanpushmearoundalltheywant.They’remyonlyhope.”

“Atleasttherearenomoresurprises,”shesaid.“Yes,”Isaid.“Nomoreshoestodrop.”

ITOANDSUMERAGI werebackat9:00a.m.thenextmorning,andtookuptheir places in the conference room. I went around the office and toldeveryone,“It’salmostover.Justhangon.Justalittlelonger.There’snothingelseforthemtofind.”

Notlongafterthey’darrived,Sumeragistood,stretched,andlookedasifhewasgoingtostepoutsideforasmoke.Hemotionedtome.Aword?Wewalked down the hall to my office. “I fear this audit is worse than yourealize,”hesaid.“What—why?”Isaid.“Because,”hesaid,“Idelayed. . .Isometimesdidnotputinvoicesthroughrightaway.”“Youdidwhatnow?”Isaid.

Hangdog,Sumeragiexplainedthathe’dbeenworriedaboutus,thathe’dtriedtohelpusmanageourcreditproblemsbyhidingNissho’sinvoicesinadrawer.He’dheld themback,not sent themonthroughtohisaccountingpeople,untilhefeltwehadenoughcashtopaythem,whichinturnmadeitappearontheNisshobooksthattheircreditexposuretouswasmuchlowerthanitactuallywas.Inotherwords,allthistimewe’dbeenstressingaboutpayingNissho on time, and we were neverpaying them on time, becauseSumeragiwasn’tinvoicingusontime,thinkinghewashelping.“Thisisbad,”IsaidtoSumeragi.“Yes,”hesaid,relightingaLuckyStrike,“isbad,Buck.Isveryverybad.”

Imarched him back to the conference room and together we told Ito,whowas,ofcourse,appalled.AtfirsthesuspectedSumeragiofactingatourbehest.Icouldn’tblamehim.Aconspiracywasthemostlogicalexplanation.InhisplaceIwould’vethoughtthesamething.ButSumeragi,wholookedasif hewas about toprostratehimself before Ito, sworeonhis life that he’dbeenactingindependently,thathe’dgonerogue.

“Whyyoudosuchathing?”Itodemanded.“Because I think Blue Ribbon could be great success,” Sumeragi said,

“maybe $20 million account. I shake hands many times with Mr. StevePrefontaine. I shake hands withMr. Bill Bowerman. I go many times toTrailBlazergamewithMr.PhilKnight. I evenpackorders atwarehouse.Nikeismybusinesschild.Alwaysitisnicetoseeone’sbusinesschildgrow.”

“Sothen,”Itosaid,“youhideinvoicesbecause...you...likethesemen?”Deeplyashamed,Sumeragibowedhishead.“Hai,”hesaid.“Hai.”

I HADNO ideawhatItomightdo.ButIcouldn’tstickaroundtofindout.Isuddenlyhad anotherproblem.My two angriest creditorshad just landed.SheskyfromBostonianandManowitzfromManowerebothontheground,inPortland,headedourway.

Quickly, I gathered everyone in my office and gave them their finalorders. “Folks—we’re going to Code Red. This building, this forty-five-hundred-square-footbuilding,isabouttobeswarmingwithpeopletowhomweowemoney.Whateverelsewedotoday,wecannotletanyofthembumpintoeachother.Badenoughthatweowethemmoney.Iftheycrosspathsinthehall,ifoneunhappycreditormeetsanotherunhappycreditor,andiftheyshouldhaveachancetocomparenotes,theywillfreakout.Theycouldteamupanddecideonsomesortofcollaborativepaymentschedule!WhichwouldbeArmageddon.”

Wedrewupaplan.Weassignedapersontoeachcreditor,someonewhowouldkeepaneyeonhimatalltimes,evenescortinghimtotherestroom.Thenwe assigned a person to coordinate everything, to be like air trafficcontrol,makingsurethecreditorsandtheirescortswerealwaysinseparateairspace.Meanwhile, Iwould scurry from room to room, apologizing andgenuflecting.

At times the tensionwas unbearable. At other times itwas a badMarxBrothersmovie.Intheend,somehow,itworked.Noneofthecreditorsmetany of the others. Both Shesky andManowitz left the building that nightfeelingreassured,evenmurmuringnicethingsaboutBlueRibbon.

Nissholeftacouplehourslater.BythenItohadacceptedthatSumeragiwasactingunilaterally,hidinginvoicesonhisowninitiative,unbeknownsttome.Andhehad forgivenmemy sins, includingmy secret factory. “Thereareworsethings,”hesaid,“thanambition.”

ONLY ONE PROBLEMremained.AnditwasTheProblem.Allelsepaledbycomparison.TheFBI.

LatethenextmorningHayesandIdrovedowntown.Wesaidverylittlein the car, very little in the elevator rideup toNissho.Wemet Ito inhisouterofficeandhesaidnothing.Hebowed.Webowed.Thenthethreeofusrodetheelevatorsilentlydowntothegroundfloorandwalkedacrossthestreet.ForthesecondtimeinaweekIsawItoasamythicsamurai,wieldingajeweledsword.Butthistimehewaspreparingtodefend—me.

IfonlyIcouldcountonhisprotectionwhenIwenttojail.WewalkedintotheBankofCalifornia,shouldertoshoulder,andasked

tospeakwithHolland.Areceptionisttoldustohaveaseat.Fiveminutespassed.Ten.Hollandcameout.HeshookIto’shand.HenoddedtomeandHayesand

led us into the conference room in the back, the same conference roomwherehe’dloweredtheboomdaysbefore.HollandsaidweweregoingtobejoinedbyaMr.So-and-SoandaMr.Such-and-Such.Weallsat insilenceandwaited forHolland’s cohorts to be released fromwhatever crypt theywerekeptin.Finallytheyarrivedandsatoneithersideofhim.Noonewassurewho should start. Itwas the ultimate high-stakes game.Only aces orbetter.

Itotouchedhischinanddecidedhewouldopen.Rightawayhewentallin.All.Fucking.In.“Gentlemen,”hesaid,thoughhewasspeakingonlytoHolland, “it ismy understanding that you refuse to handle BlueRibbon’saccountanylonger?”

Hollandnodded.“Yes,that’sright,Mr.Ito.”“In that case,” Ito said, “Nisshowould like to pay off the debt of Blue

Ribbon—infull.”Hollandstared.“Thefull...?”Itogrunted.IgloweredatHolland.Iwantedtosay,That’sJapanesefor:

DidIstutter?“Yes,”Itosaid.“Whatisthenumber?”

Hollandwroteanumberonhispadandslid thepaper towardIto,whoglanced quickly down. “Yes,” Ito said. “That is what your people havealready told my people. And so.” He opened his briefcase, removed anenvelope,andsliditacrossthetableatHolland.“Hereisacheckforthefullamount.”

“Itwillbedepositedfirstthinginthemorning,”Hollandsaid.“Itwillbedepositedfirstthingtoday!”Itosaid.Hollandstammered.“Okay,right,today.”Thecohortslookedbewildered,terrified.Itoswiveledinhischair,tookthemallinwithasubzerogaze.“Thereis

onemorething,”hesaid.“IbelieveyourbankhasbeennegotiatinginSanFranciscotobecomeoneofNissho’sbanks?”

“That’sright,”Hollandsaid.“Ah.Imust tellyouthat itwillbeawasteofyourtimetopursuethose

negotiationsanyfurther.”“Areyousure?”Hollandasked.“Iamquitesure.”TheIceMancometh.I slid my eyes towardHayes. I tried not to smile. I tried very hard. I

failed.ThenIlookedrightatHolland.Itwasallthereinhisunblinkingeyes.He

knew the bank had overplayed its hand.He knew the bank’s officers hadoverreacted. I could see, in that moment, there would be no more FBIinvestigation.Heandthebankwantedthismatterclosed,over,donewith.They’d treated a good customer shabbily, and theydidn’twant tohave toanswerfortheiractions.

Wewouldneverhearofthem,orhim,again.I looked at the suits on either side of Holland. “Gentlemen,” I said,

standing.Gentlemen.Sometimesthat’sBusiness-esefor:TakeyourFBIandshoveit.

WHENWEWEREalloutsidethebank,IbowedtoIto.Iwantedtokisshim,butIonlybowed.Hayesbowed,too,thoughforamomentIthoughthewaspitchingforwardfromthestressofthelastthreedays.“Thankyou,”IsaidtoIto.“Youwillneverbesorrythatyoudefendeduslikethat.”

Hestraightenedhistie.“Suchstupidity,”hesaid.AtfirstIthoughthewastalkingaboutme.ThenIrealizedhemeantthe

bank.“Idonot like stupidity,”hesaid.“Peoplepay toomuchattention tonumbers.”

PA RT T W O

“No brilliant idea was ever born in a conference room,” he assured theDane.“Butalotofsillyideashavediedthere,”saidStahr.

—F.ScottFitzgerald,TheLastTycoon

1975

There was no victory party. There was no victory dance. There wasn’t

evenaquickvictoryjiginthehalls.Therewasn’ttime.Westilldidn’thaveabank,andeverycompanyneedsabank.

HayesmadealistofbankswiththemostdepositsinOregon.Theywereall much smaller than First National or Bank of California, but oh well.Beggars,choosers,etc.

Thefirstsixhunguponus.Numberseven,FirstStateBankofOregon,didn’t.Thebankwas inMilwaukie, a little townhalf anhourup the roadfromBeaverton.“Comeonover,”saidthebankpresidentwhenIfinallygothimonthephone.Hepromisedmeonemilliondollarsincredit,whichwasabouthisbank’slimit.

Wemovedouraccountthatday.That night, for the first time in about twoweeks, I putmy head on a

pillowandslept.

THENEXTMORNINGIlingeredwithPennyoverbreakfastandwetalkedabouttheupcomingMemorialDayweekend.ItoldherIdidn’tknowwhenI’dcravedaholidaysomuch.Ineededrest,andsleep,andgoodfood—andIneededtowatchPrerun.Shegavemeawrysmile.Alwaysmixingbusinesswithpleasure.

Guilty.PrewashostingameetthatweekendinEugene,andhe’dinvitedthetop

runners in the world, including his Finnish archnemesis, Viren. ThoughVirenhad pulled out at the lastminute, therewas still a gang of amazing

runnerscompeting, includingonebrashmarathonernamedFrankShorter,who’d taken gold at the 1972 Games, in Munich, the city of his birth.Tough, smart, a lawyer now living in Colorado, Shorter was starting tobecomeaswellknownasPre,andthetwoweregoodfriends.SecretlyIhaddesignsonsigningShortertoanendorsementdeal.

FridaynightPennyandIdrovedowntoEugeneandtookourplacewithseven thousand screaming, roistering Pre fans. The 5,000-meter race wasvicious,furious,andPrewasn’tathisbest,everyonecouldseethat.Shorterledgoing intothe last lap.Butat the lastpossiblemoment, inthe last twohundred yards, Pre did what Pre always did. He dug down deep. WithHaywardvibratingandswaying,hepulledawayandwonin13:23.8,whichwas1.6secondsoffhisbesttime.

Prewasmost famous for saying, “Somebodymaybeatme—but they’regoing tohave tobleed todo it.”Watchinghim run that finalweekendofMay 1975, I’d never feltmore admiration for him, or identifiedwith himmoreclosely.Somebodymaybeatme,Itoldmyself,somebankerorcreditororcompetitormaystopme,butbyGodthey’regoingtohavetobleedtodoit.

Therewas apostraceparty atHollister’shouse.Pennyand Iwanted togo,butwehadatwo-hourdrivebacktoPortland.Thekids,thekids,wesaidaswewavedgood-byetoPreandShorterandHollister.

Thenextmorning,justbeforedawn,thephonerang.InthedarkIgropedforit.Hello?

“Buck?”“Who’sthis?”“Buck,it’sEdCampbell...downatBankofCalifornia.”“BankofCal—?”Calling in the middle of the night? Surely I was having a bad dream.

“Damnit,wedon’tbankwithyouanymore—youthrewusout.”He wasn’t calling about money. He was calling, he said, because he’d

heardPrewasdead.“Dead?That’simpossible.Wejustsawhimrace.Lastnight.”

Dead.Campbellkeptrepeatingthisword,bludgeoningmewithit.Deaddead—dead. Some kind of accident, he murmured. “Buck, are you there?Buck?”

Ifumbledforthelight.IdialedHollister.HereactedjustasIhad.No,itcan’t be. “Pre was just here,” he said. “He left in fine spirits. I’ll call youback.”

Whenhedid,minuteslater,hewassobbing.

AS BEST ANYONEcouldtell,PredroveShorterhomefromtheparty,andminutes after dropping Shorter off he’d lost control of his car. ThatbeautifulbutterscotchMG,boughtwithhisfirstBlueRibbonpaycheck,hitsomekindofboulderalongtheroad.Thecarspunhighintotheair,andPreflewout.HelandedonhisbackandtheMGcamecrashingdownontohischest.

He’d had a beer or two at the party, but everyone who saw him leavesworethathe’dbeensober.

Hewastwenty-fouryearsold.HewastheexactageI’dbeenwhenIleftwithCarterforHawaii.Inotherwords,whenmylifebegan.Attwenty-fourIdidn’tyetknowwhoIwas,andPrenotonlyknewwhohewas,theworldknew.HediedholdingeveryAmericandistancerecordfrom2,000metersto10,000meters, fromtwomilestosixmiles.Ofcourse,whathereallyheld,what he’d captured and kept and now would never let go of, was ourimaginations.

Inhis eulogyBowerman talkedaboutPre’s athletic feats,of course,butinsistedthatPre’s lifeandhis legendwereabout larger, loftier things.Yes,Bowermansaid,Prewasdeterminedtobecomethebestrunnerintheworld,buthewantedtobesomuchmore.Hewantedtobreakthechainsplacedonallrunnersbypettybureaucratsandbeancounters.Hewantedtosmashthesillyrulesholdingbackamateurathletesandkeepingthempoor,preventingthem from realizing their potential. As Bowerman finished, as he steppedfromthepodium,Ithoughthelookedmucholder,almostfeeble.Watching

him walk unsteadily back to his chair, I couldn’t conceive how he’d everfoundthestrengthtodeliverthosewords.

PennyandIdidn’tfollowthecortegetothecemetery.Wecouldn’t.Wewere too overwrought. We didn’t talk to Bowerman, either, and I don’tknow that I ever talked tohim thereafter aboutPre’sdeath.Neitherofuscouldbearit.

LaterIheardthatsomethingwashappeningatthespotwherePredied.Itwas becoming a shrine. People were visiting it every day, leaving flowers,letters,notes,gifts—Nikes.Someoneshouldcollectitall,Ithought,keepitina safeplace. I recalled themanyholy sites I’dvisited in1962.Someoneneeded to curatePre’s rock, and I decided that someoneneeded to be us.We didn’t have money for anything like that. But I talked it over withJohnson andWoodell andwe agreed that, as long aswewere inbusiness,we’dfindmoneyforthingslikethat.

1976

Nowthatwe’dgottenpastourbankcrisis,nowthatIwasreasonablysure

ofnotgoingtojail,Icouldgobacktoaskingthedeepquestions.Whatarewetryingtobuildhere?Whatkindofcompanydowewanttobe?

Likemostcompanies,wehadrolemodels.Sony, for instance.Sonywasthe Apple of its day. Profitable, innovative, efficient—and it treated itsworkerswell.Whenpressed,IoftensaidIwantedtobelikeSony.Atroot,however,Istillaimedandhopedforsomethingbigger,andvaguer.

Iwould searchmymindandheart and theonly thing I could comeupwith was this word—“winning.” It wasn’t much, but it was far, far betterthanthealternative.Whateverhappened,I justdidn’twantto lose.Losingwasdeath.BlueRibbonwasmythirdchild,mybusinesschild,asSumeragisaid, and I simply couldn’t bear the idea of it dying. It has to live, I toldmyself.Itjusthasto.That’sallIknow.

Several times, in those firstmonths of 1976, I huddledwithHayes andWoodellandStrasser,andoversandwichesandsodaswe’dkickaroundthisquestion of ultimate goals. This question of winning and losing. Moneywasn’touraim,weagreed.Moneywasn’tourendgame.Butwhateverouraimorend,moneywastheonlymeanstoget there.Moremoneythanwehadonhand.

Nisshowasloaningusmillions,andthatrelationshipfeltsound,solidifiedbytherecentcrisis.Bestpartnersyou’lleverhave.ChuckRobinsonhadbeenright.Buttokeepupwithdemand,tocontinuegrowing,weneededmillionsmore.Ournewbankwas loaningusmoney,whichwasgood,butbecausetheywereasmallbankwe’dalreadyreachedtheirlegallimit.Atsomepoint

in those1976Woodell-Strasser-Hayesdiscussionswe started to talkaboutthemostlogicalarithmeticalsolution,whichwasalsothemostdifficultoneemotionally.

Goingpublic.Ononelevel,ofcourse,theideamadeperfectsense.Goingpublicwould

generate a ton of money in a flash. But it would also be highly perilous,becausegoingpublicoftenmeantlosingcontrol.Itcouldmeanworkingforsomeone else, suddenly being answerable to stockholders, hundreds ormaybe thousands of strangers, many of whom would be large investmentfirms.

Goingpubliccouldturnusovernightintothethingweloathed,thethingwe’dspentourlivesrunningfrom.

Forme there was an added consideration, a semantic one. Defined byshyness,intenselyprivate,Ifoundthatphraseitselfoff-putting:goingpublic.Nothankyou.

And yet, duringmynightly run, I’d sometimes askmyself,Hasn’t yourlife been a kind of search for connection? Running for Bowerman,backpacking around the world, starting a company, marrying Penny,assembling this bandof brothers atBlueRibbon’s core—hasn’t it all beenabout,onewayoranother,goingpublic?

Intheend,however,Idecided,wedecided,goingpublicwasn’tright.It’sjustnotforus,Isaid,andwesaid.Noway.Never.

Meetingadjourned.Sowesetaboutcastingforotherwaystoraisemoney.Onewayfoundus.FirstStateBankaskedustoapplyforamillion-dollar

loan,whichtheU.S.SmallBusinessAdministrationwouldthenguarantee.Itwas a loophole, a way for a small bank to gently expand its credit line,because their guaranteed-loan limits were greater than their direct-loanlimits.Sowedidit,mainlytomaketheirlifeeasier.

Asisalwaysthecase,theprocessturnedouttobemorecomplicatedthanit first appeared. First State Bank and the Small Business Administrationrequired that Bowerman and I, as majority shareholders, both personally

guarantee the loan. We’d done that at First National and at Bank ofCalifornia,soIdidn’tseeaproblem.Iwasinhockuptomyneck,whatwasonemoreguarantee?

Bowerman,however,balked.Retired,livingonafixedincome,dispiritedafterthetraumasofthelastfewyears,andgreatlyweakenedbythedeathofPre,hedidn’twantanymorerisk.Hefearedlosinghismountain.

Ratherthangivehispersonalguarantee,heofferedtogivemetwo-thirdsofhisstakeinBlueRibbon,atadiscountedprice.Hewasbowingout.

I didn’twant this.Nevermind that I didn’thave themoney tobuyhisstake,Ididn’twanttolosethecornerstoneofmycompany,theanchorofmypsyche.ButBowermanwasadamant,andIknewbetterthantoargue.Sowebothwent to Jaqua and askedhim tohelp broker the deal. Jaquawas stillBowerman’sbestfriend,butI’dcometothinkofhimasaclosefriend,too.Istilltrustedhimcompletely.

Let’s not fully dissolve the partnership, I said to him. Though IreluctantlyagreedtobuyBowerman’sstake(lowpayments,spreadoverfiveyears),Ibeggedhimtoretainapercentage,stayonasavicepresidentandmemberofoursmallboard.

Deal,hesaid.Weallshookhands.

WHILEWEWEREbusymovingaroundstakesanddollars,thedollaritselfwas hemorrhaging value. It was all at once in a death spiral against theJapanese yen. Coupled with rising Japanese labor rates, this was now themost imminent threat to our existence. We’d increased and diversifiedsourcesofproduction,we’daddednewfactoriesinNewEnglandandPuertoRico,butwewerestilldoingnearlyallourmanufacturinginvolatileJapan,mostlyatNipponRubber.Asudden,cripplingshortageofsupplywasarealpossibility. Especially given the spike in demand for Bowerman’s waffletrainer.

Withitsuniqueoutersole,anditspillowymidsolecushion,anditsbelow-market price ($24.95), the waffle trainer was continuing to capture the

popularimaginationlikenopreviousshoe.Itdidn’tjustfeeldifferent,orfitdifferent—it looked different. Radically so. Bright red upper, fat whiteswoosh—itwasarevolutioninaesthetics.Itslookwasdrawinghundredsofthousands of new customers into the Nike fold, and its performance wassealingtheirloyalty.Ithadbettertractionandcushioningthananythingonthemarket.

Watching that shoe evolve in 1976 from popular accessory to culturalartifact,Ihadathought.Peoplemightstartwearingthisthingtoclass.

Andtheoffice.Andthegrocerystore.Andthroughouttheireverydaylives.Itwasarathergrandioseidea.Adidashadhadlimitedsuccessconverting

athletic shoes to everyday wear, with the Stan Smith tennis shoe and theCountryrunningshoe.Butneitherwasnearlyasdistinctive,orpopular,asthe waffle trainer. So I ordered our factories to start making the waffletrainer inblue,whichwouldgobetterwith jeans,and that’swhen it reallytookoff.

Wecouldn’tmakeenough.Retailersandsalesrepswereontheirknees,pleading for all thewaffle trainerswe could ship.The soaring pair countswere transforming our company, not to mention the industry. We wereseeing numbers that redefined our long-term goals, because they gave ussomethingwe’d always lacked—an identity.More than a brand,Nikewasnowbecomingahouseholdword, tosuchanextent thatwewouldhavetochangethecompanyname.BlueRibbon,wedecided,hadrunitscourse.WewouldhavetoincorporateasNike,Inc.

And for this newly named entity to stay vibrant, to keep growing, tosurvive the declining dollar, we’d need as always to ramp up production.Salesrepsontheirknees—thatwasn’tsustainable.We’dneedtofindmoremanufacturing hubs, outside Japan. Our existing factories in America andPuertoRicowouldhelp,buttheyweren’tnearlyenough.Tooold,toofew,tooexpensive.Sointhespringof1976itwasfinallytimetoturntoTaiwan.

For our point man in Taiwan I looked to Jim Gorman, a valuedemployee, longknown forhis almost fanatical loyalty toNike.Raised inaseriesoffosterhomes,GormanseemedtofindinNikethefamilyhe’dneverhad, and thus he was always a good sport, always a team player. It wasGorman,forinstance,who’ddrawntheunpleasanttaskofdrivingKitamitothe airport, back in 1972, after that final showdown in Jaqua’s conferenceroom.Andhediditwithoutcomplaint.ItwasGormanwho’dtakenovertheEugenestorefromWoodell,thetoughestofactstofollow.ItwasGormanwhoworesubparNikespikesinthe1972OlympicTrials.Ineveryinstance,Gormanhaddoneafinejobandneverutteredasourword.Heseemedtheperfectcandidatetotakeonthelatestmissionimpossible—Taiwan.ButfirstI’dneedtogivehimacrashcourseonAsia.SoI scheduleda trip, just thetwoofus.

On the flight overseasGorman proved to be an avid student, a virtualsponge.Hegrilledmeaboutmyexperiences,myopinions,myreading,andwrotedowneverywordI said. I feltas if Iwasback in school, teachingatPortlandState,andI liked it. I remembered that thebestway toreinforceyour knowledge of a subject is to share it, sowe both benefited frommytransferring everything I knew about Japan,Korea,China, andTaiwan toGorman’sbrain.

Shoeproducers,Itoldhim,areabandoningJapanenmasse.Andthey’reall landing in two places. Korea andTaiwan. Both countries specialize inlow-pricedfootwear,butKoreahaselectedtogowithafewgiantfactories,whereas Taiwan is building a hundred smaller ones. So that’s why we’rechoosing Taiwan: Our demand is too high, our volume too low, for thebiggestfactories.Andinsmallerfactorieswe’llhavethedominantposition.We’llbeincharge.

Of course, the tougher challenge was to get any factory we chose toupgradeitsquality.

And then therewas theconstant threatofpolitical instability.PresidentChiangKai-shekhadjustdied,ItoldGorman,andaftertwenty-fiveyearsincommandhewasleavinganastypowervacuum.

For goodmeasure, you always needed to account for Taiwan’s ancienttensionswithChina.

On andon I talked aswe sailed over thePacific.While taking copiousnotes, Gorman also came up with new, fresh ideas, which gave me newinsights,thingstothinkabout.SteppingofftheplaneinTaichung,ourfirststop,Iwasdelighted.Thisguywasintense,energetic,eagertogetstarted.Iwasproudtobehismentor.

Goodchoice,Itoldmyself.By the time we reached the hotel, however, Gorman was wilting.

Taichung looked and smelled like the far end of the galaxy. A vastmegalopolisofsmokingfactories,andthousandsofpeoplepersquarefoot,itwasunlikeanythingI’deverseen,andI’dbeenalloverAsia,soofcourseitoverwhelmed poor Gorman. I saw in his eyes that typical first-timer’sreaction to Asia, that look of alienation and circuit overload. He lookedexactlylikePennywhenshemetmeinJapan.

Steady, I toldhim.Take itoneday,one factory,ata time.Followyourmentor’slead.

Overthenextweekwevisitedandtouredabouttwodozenfactories.Mostwere bad. Dark, dirty, with workers going through the motions, headsbowed, vacant looks in their eyes. Just outsideTaichung, however, in thesmall town of Douliou, we found a factory that showed promise. It wascalledFengTay,anditwasmanagedbyayoungmannamedC.H.Wong.Small,butclean,ithadapositivevibe,asdidWong,ashoedogwholivedforhisworkplace.Andinit.Whenwenoticedthatonesmallroomoffthefactoryfloorwasoff-limits,Iaskedwhatwasinthere.Home,hesaid.“ThatiswheremywifeandIandourthreekidslive.”

IwasremindedofJohnson.IdecidedtomakeFengTaythecornerstoneofourTaiwaneffort.

Whenweweren’t touring factories,Gorman and Iwerebeing fetedbyfactory owners.They stuffed uswith local delicacies, some ofwhichwereactuallycooked,andplieduswithsomethingcalledaMaotai,whichwasamaitai,butapparentlywithshoecreaminsteadofrum.Jet-lagged,Gorman

andIbothhad lostour tolerance.After twoMaotaiswewerepotted.Wetriedtoslowdown,butourhostskeptraisingtheirglasses.

ToNike!ToAmerica!At the final dinner of our Taichung visit Gorman repeatedly excused

himselfandrantothemen’sroom,tosplashcoldwateronhis face.Everytimehe left the table Igot ridofmyMao taibypouring it intohiswaterglass.Eachtimehereturnedfromthemen’sroomtherewasanothertoast,andGormanthoughthewasplayingitsafebyraisinghiswaterglass.

ToourAmericanfriends!ToourTaiwanesefriends!After another huge gulp of spikedwater,Gorman looked atme, panic-

stricken.“IthinkI’mgoingtopassout,”hesaid.“Havesomemorewater,”Isaid.“Tastesfunny.”“Nah.”DespiteoffloadingmyboozeontoGorman,IwaswoozywhenIgotback

tomyroom.Ihadtroublegettingreadyforbed.Ihadtrouble findingthebed.Ifellasleepwhilebrushingmyteeth.Midbrush.

Iwokesometimelaterandtriedtofindmyextracontactlenses.Ifoundthem.Thendroppedthemonthefloor.

There was a knock. Gorman. He walked in and asked me somethingabout our next day’s itinerary. He found me on my hands and knees,searchingformycontactlensesinapoolofmyownsick.

“Phil,youokay?”“Followyourmentor’slead,”Imumbled.

THATMORNINGWE flewtoTaipei,thecapital,andtouredacouplemorefactories.IntheeveningwestrolledXinshengSouthRoad,withitsdozensofshrines and temples, churches and mosques. The Road to Heaven, localscalled it. Indeed, I toldGorman, Xinshengmeans “NewLife.”Whenwe

returnedtoourhotelIgotastrangeandunexpectedphonecall.JerryHsieh—pronouncedShay—was“payinghisrespects.”

I’d met Hsieh before. In one of the shoe factories I’d visited the yearbefore. He was working forMitsubishi and the great Jonas Senter. He’dimpressedmewithhis intensityandworkethic.Andyouth.Unlikeall theothershoedogsI’dmet,hewasyoung,twentysomething,andlookedmuchyounger.Likeanovergrowntoddler.

Hesaidhe’dheardwewereinthecountry.Then,likeaCIAoperative,headded:“Iknowwhyyouarehere...”

He invited us to visit him in his office, an invitation that seemed toindicatehewasnowworkingforhimself,notMitsubishi.

IwrotedownHsieh’sofficeaddressandgrabbedGorman.Theconciergeatourhoteldrewusamap—whichproveduseless.Hsieh’sofficewasinanunmappedpart of the city.Theworst part.Gorman and Iwalkeddown aseries of unmarked lanes, up a series of unnumbered alleys.Do you see astreetsign?Icanbarelyseethestreet.

Wemust have gotten lost a dozen times. Finally, there it was. A stoutbuilding of old red brick. Inside we found a precarious staircase. Thehandrailcameoffinourhandsaswewalkeduptothethirdfloor,andeachstonestephadadeepindentation,fromcontactwithamillionshoes.

“Enter!”Hsiehshoutedwhenweknocked.Wefoundhimsitting in themiddle of a room that looked like the nest of a giant rat. Everywherewelookedwereshoes,andmoreshoes,andpilesofshoepieces—solesandlacesand tongues. Hsieh jumped to his feet, cleared a space for us to sit. Heofferedustea.Then,whilethewaterboiled,hebeganeducatingus.Didyouknow that every country in the world has manymany customs and superstitionsaboutshoes?Hegrabbedashoefromashelf,helditbeforeourfaces.DidyouknowthatinChina,whenmanmarrieswoman,theythrowredshoesontherooftomake sure all goes well on wedding night?He rotated the shoe in the scantdaylightthatmanagedtofightthroughthegrimeonhiswindows.Hetoldus which factory it came from, why he thought it was well made, how itcould have been made better. Did you know that in many countries, when

someone starts on a journey, it’s actually good luck to throw a shoe at them?Hegrabbed another shoe, extended it likeHamlet holding Yorick’s skull.Heidentifieditsprovenance,tolduswhyitwaspoorlymade,whyitwouldsoonfallapart,thentosseditasidewithdisdain.Thedifferencefromoneshoetoanother,hesaid,ninetimesoutoften,isthefactory.Forgetdesign,forgetcolor,forgetalltheotherthingsthatgointoashoe,it’sallaboutfactories.

Ilistenedclosely,andtooknotes,likeGormanontheplane,thoughthewholetimeIwasthinking:It’saperformance.He’sputtingonashow,tryingtosellus.Hedoesn’trealizethatweneedhimmorethanheneedsus.

NowHsiehwent intohispitch.Hetoldus that inexchangeforasmallfeehe’dgladlyconnectuswiththeverybestfactoriesinTaiwan.

Thishadthepotentialtobebig.Wecouldusesomeoneontheground,topaveourway,tomakeintroductions,tohelpGormanacclimate.AnAsianGiampietro.Wehaggledovercommissionperpair,forafewminutes,butitwasafriendlyhaggling.Thenweshookhands.

Deal?Deal.We sat down again and drew up an agreement to establish aTaiwan-‐

based subcompany.What to call it? I didn’twant to useNike. Ifwe everwanted to do business in the People’s Republic of China, we couldn’t beassociated with China’s sworn enemy. It was a faint hope, at best, animpossible dream. But still. So I picked Athena. TheGreek goddess whobringsnike.AthenaCorp.AndthusIpreservedtheunmapped,unnumberedRoadtoHeaven.Orashoedog’sideaofheaven.

Acountrywithtwobillionfeet.

I SENT GORMANhome ahead ofme. Before leaving Asia, I told him, IneededtomakeonequickstopinManila.Personalerrand,Isaidvaguely.

IwenttoManilatovisitashoefactory,averygoodone.Then,closinganoldloop,IspentthenightinMacArthur’ssuite.

Youarerememberedfortherulesyoubreak.Maybe.

Maybenot.

ITWASTHEBicentennialYear,thatstrangemomentinAmerica’sculturalhistory,that365-daylollapaloozaofself-examinationandcivicslessonsandseminightly fireworks. From January 1 toDecember 31 of that year, youcouldn’tchangethechannelwithouthittinguponamovieordocumentaryaboutGeorgeWashingtonorBenFranklinorLexingtonandConcord.Andinvariably, embedded in the patriotic programming, there would be yetanother “Bicentennial Minute,” a public service announcement in whichDickVanDykeorLucilleBallorGabeKaplanwouldrecountsomeepisodethattookplaceonthisdateduringtheRevolutionaryera.Onenightitmightbe Jessica Tandy talking about the felling of the Liberty Tree. The nextnight itmightbePresidentGeraldFord exhorting allAmericans to “keeptheSpiritof’76alive.”Itwasallsomewhatcorny,alittlebitsentimental—and immensely moving. The yearlong swell of patriotism brought out analready strong love of country in me. Tall ships sailing into New YorkHarbor, recitationsof theBillofRights andDeclarationof Independence,ferventtalkoflibertyandjustice—itallrefreshedmygratitudeaboutbeinganAmerican.Andbeingfree.Andnotbeinginjail.

ATTHE 1976 OlympicTrials,heldagainthatJuneinEugene,Nikehadachance, a fantastic chance, to make a good show. We’d never had thatchancewithTiger,whose spikesweren’t top caliber.We’dnever had thatchancewiththefirstgenerationofNikeproducts.Now,atlast,wehadourownstuff,anditwasreallygood:top-qualitymarathonshoesandspikes.Wewere buzzing with excitement as we left Portland. Finally, we said, we’regoingtohaveaNike-shodrunnermakeanOlympicteam.

Itwasgoingtohappen.Itneededtohappen.PennyandIdrovetoEugene,wherewemetupwithJohnson,whowas

photographingtheevent.Despiteourexcitementaboutthetrials,wetalked

mostaboutPreaswetookourseatsinthepackedbleachers.ItwasclearthatPre was on everyone else’s mind, too.We heard his name coming fromevery direction, and his spirit seemed to hover like the low clouds roilingabovethetrack.Andifyouweretemptedtoforgethim,evenforamoment,you got another bracing reminder when you looked at the runners’ feet.ManywerewearingPreMontreals.(ManymorewerewearingExeter-madeproductsliketheTriumphandtheVainqueur.HaywardthatdaylookedlikeaNikeshowroom.)Itwaswellknownthatthesetrialswouldhavebeenthestart of Pre’s epic comeback. After being knocked down inMunich, he’dhaverisenagain,nodoubt,andtherisingwouldhavebegunrighthere,rightnow.Eachracepromptedthesamethoughts,thesameimage:Preburstingaheadofthepack.Predivingthroughthetape.Wecouldseeit.Wecouldseehimflushwithvictory.

Ifonly,wekeptsaying,ourvoiceschoking,ifonly.Atsunsettheskyturnedred,white,andadeepblackishblue.Butitwas

stillbrightenoughtoreadbyastherunnersinthe10,000metersgatheredatthe starting line.Penny and I tried to clear ourminds aswe stood, handsclasped as if in prayer.We were counting on Shorter, of course.He wasextremelytalented,andhe’dbeenthelastpersontoseePrealive—itmadesense thathe’dbe theone to carryPre’s torch.Butwe alsohadNikesonCraigVirgin,abrilliantyoungrunnerfromtheUniversityofIllinois,andonGarryBjorklund,alovableveteranfromMinnesota,whowastryingtocomebackfromsurgerytoremovealooseboneinhisfoot.

Thegunwentoff,therunnersshotforward,allbunchedtight,andPennyandIwerebunchedtight, too,oohingandaahingwitheverystride.Therewasn’t an inch of separation in the pack until the halfway mark, whenShorter and Virgin violently pushed ahead. In the jostling, VirginaccidentallysteppedonBjorklundandsenthisNikeflying.NowBjorklund’stender, surgically repaired footwasbare,exposed, smacking thehard trackwitheverystride.AndyetBjorklunddidn’tstop.Hedidn’tfalter.Hedidn’teven slow down.He just kept running, faster and faster, and that blazing

showofcouragewonoverthecrowd.Ithinkwecheeredforhimasloudlyaswe’dcheeredforPretheyearbefore.

Enteringthefinallap,ShorterandVirginwereinfront.PennyandIwerejumpingupanddown.“We’regoingtoget two,”wesaid,“we’regoingtogettwo!”Andthenwegotthree.ShorterandVirgintookfirstandsecond,andBjorklundplungedaheadofBillRodgersatthetapetotakethird.Iwascoveredwithsweat.ThreeOlympians...inNikes!

Thenextmorning,ratherthantakeavictory lapatHayward,wesetupcamp at the Nike store. While Johnson and I mingled with customers,Pennymannedthesilk-screenmachineandchurnedoutNikeT-shirts.Hercraftsmanshipwasexquisite;allday longpeoplecameintosaythey’dseensomeonewearingaNikeT-shirtonthestreetandtheyjusthadtohaveonefor themselves. Despite our continual melancholy about Pre, we allowedourselves to feel joy, because it was becoming clear that Nike was doingmore thanmaking a good show.Nikewas dominating those trials.Virgintookthe5,000metersinNikes.ShorterwonthemarathoninNikes.Slowly,intheshop, inthetown,weheardpeoplewhispering,NikeNikeNike.Weheardournamemorethanthenameofanyathlete.BesidesPre.

Saturday afternoon, walking into Hayward to visit Bowerman, I heardsomeonebehindmesay,“Jeez,NikeisreallykickingAdidas’sass.”Itmighthavebeenthehighlightoftheweekend,oftheyear,followedcloselybythePumasalesrepIspottedmoments later, leaningagainsta treeand lookingsuicidal.

Bowermanwas there strictly as a spectator,whichwas strange for him,andus.Andyethewaswearinghisstandarduniform:therattysweater,thelowballcap.Atonepointheformallyrequestedameetinginasmallofficeunder the east grandstand. The office wasn’t really an office, more like acloset,where thegroundskeepers stored their rakes andbrooms and a fewcanvas chairs.Therewas barely room for the coach and Johnson andme,nevermind theothers invitedby thecoach:Hollister, andDennisVixie, alocalpodiatristwhoworkedwithBowermanasashoeconsultant.AsweshutthedoorInoticedBowermandidn’tlooklikehimself.AtPre’sfuneralhe’d

seemed old.Now he seemed lost. After aminute of small talk he startedbellowing. He complained that he wasn’t getting any “respect” anymorefromNike.We’d built him a home lab, and supplied him with a lastingmachine,buthesaidthathewasconstantlyaskinginvainforrawmaterialsfromExeter.

Johnsonlookedhorrified.“Whatmaterials?”heasked.“Iaskforshoeuppersandmyrequestsareignored!”Bowermansaid.JohnsonturnedtoVixie.“Isentyoutheuppers!”hesaid.“Vixie—didn’t

yougetthem?”Vixielookedperplexed.“Yes,Igotthem.”Bowermantookoffhisballcap,putitbackon,tookitoff.“Yeah,well,”

hegrumbled,“butyoudidn’tsendtheoutersoles.”Johnson’sfacereddened.“Isentthose,too!Vixie?”“Yes,”Vixiesaid,“wegotthem.”NowweallturnedtoBowerman,whowaspacing,ortryingto.Therewas

noroom.Theofficewasdark,butIcouldstilltellthatmyoldcoach’sfacewasturningred.“Well...wedidn’tgetthemontime!”heshouted,andthetinesoftherakestrembled.Thiswasn’taboutuppersandoutersoles.Thiswasaboutretirement.Andtime.LikePre,timewouldn’tlistentoBowerman.Time wouldn’t slow down. “I’m not going to put up with this bullshitanymore,”hehuffed,andstormedout,leavingthedoorswingingopen.

I looked at Johnson andVixie andHollister.They all looked atme. Itdidn’tmatterifBowermanwasrightorwrong,we’djusthavetofindawaytomakehimfeelneededanduseful. IfBowermanisn’thappy,Isaid,Nikeisn’thappy.

A FEW MONTHS later,muggyMontrealwas the setting forNike’sgranddebut,ourOlympiccoming-outparty.Asthose1976Gamesopened,wehadathletesinseveralhigh-profileeventswearingNikes.Butourhighesthopes,andmostofourmoney,werepinnedonShorter.Hewasthefavoritetowingold,whichmeantthatNikes,forthefirsttimeever,weregoingtocrossan

Olympic finish lineaheadofallothershoes.Thiswasanenormousriteofpassageforarunning-shoecompany.Youreallyweren’talegitimate,card-‐carrying running-shoe company until an Olympian ascended to the topmedalstandinyourgear.

I woke up early that Saturday—July 31, 1976. Right aftermymorningcoffeeItookupmypositioninmyrecliner.Ihadasandwichatmyelbow,coldsodas inthefridge.Iwondered ifKitamiwaswatching.Iwondered ifmyformerbankerswerewatching.Iwonderedifmyparentsandsisterswerewatching.IwonderediftheFBIwaswatching.

Therunnersapproachedthestartingline.WiththemIcrouchedforward.I probably had asmuch adrenaline inmy system as Shorter had in his. Iwaited for thepistol, and for the inevitableclose-upofShorter’s feet.Thecamera zoomed in. I stoppedbreathing. I slidoutofmy reclineronto thefloor and crawled toward the TV screen. No, I said. No, I cried out inanguish.“No.NO!”

Hewaswearing...Tigers.IwatchedinhorrorasthegreathopeofNiketookoffintheshoesofour

enemy.Istood,walkedbacktomyrecliner,andwatchedtheraceunfold,talking

to myself, mumbling to myself. Slowly the house grew dark. Not darkenoughtosuitme.AtsomepointIdrewthecurtains,turnedoffthelights.ButnottheTV.Iwouldwatch,alltwohoursandtenminutes,tothebitterend.

I’m still not sure I know exactly what happened. Apparently, ShorterbecameconvincedthathisNikeshoeswerefragileandwouldn’tholdupforthe whole twenty-six miles. (Never mind that they’d performed perfectlywellattheOlympicTrials.)Maybeitwasnerves.Maybeitwassuperstition.Hewantedtousewhathe’dalwaysused.Runnersarefunnythatway.Inanycase,atthelastmomentheswitchedbacktotheshoesthatheworewhenhewonthegoldin1972.

And I switched from soda to vodka. Sitting in the dark, clutching acocktail, I told myself it was no big deal, in the grand scheme of things.

Shorterdidn’tevenwin.AnEastGermansurprisedhimandtookthegold.OfcourseIwaslyingtomyself,itwasaverybigdeal,andnotbecauseofthedisappointment or the lostmarketing opportunity. If watching Shorter gooff inshoesotherthanminecouldaffectmesodeeply, itwasnowofficial:Nikewasmorethanjustashoe.InolongersimplymadeNikes;Nikesweremakingme.IfIsawanathletechooseanothershoe,ifIsawanyonechooseanothershoe,itwasn’tjustarejectionofthebrandalone,butofme.Itoldmyselftobereasonable,noteveryoneintheworldwasgoingtowearNike.AndIwon’tsaythatIbecameupseteverytimeIsawsomeonewalkingdownthestreetinarunningshoethatwasn’tmine.

Butitdefinitelyregistered.AndIdidn’tcareforit.At some point that night I phoned Hollister. He was devastated, too.

Therewasrawanger inhisvoice. Iwasglad. Iwantedpeopleworkingformewhowouldfeelthatsameburn,thatsamegut-punchrejection.

Happily, there were fewer such rejections all the time. At the close offiscal 1976we doubled our sales—$14million. A startling number, whichfinancialanalystsnoted,andwroteabout.Andyetwewerestillcash-poor.IkeptborrowingeverynickelIcould,plowingitintogrowth,withtheexplicitortacitblessingofpeopleItrusted.Woodell,Strasser,Hayes.

Inearly1976thefourofushadtalkedtentativelyaboutgoingpublic,andtabledtheidea.Now,atthecloseof1976,wetookuptheideaagain,moreseriously. We analyzed the risks, weighed the cons, considered the pros.Againwedecided:No.

Sure,sure,wesaid,we’d lovetohavethatquick infusionofcapital.Oh,thethingswecoulddowiththatmoney!Thefactorieswecouldlease!Thetalentwe couldhire!Butgoingpublicwould changeour culture,makeusbeholden,makeuscorporate.That’snotourplay,weallagreed.

Weeks later, strapped for money again, our bank accounts at zero, wetookanotherlookattheidea.

Andrejecteditagain.

Wantingtosettlethematteronceandforall,Iputthesubjectatthetopoftheagendaforourbiannualgathering,aretreatwe’dtakentocallingtheButtface.

JOHNSON COINED THEphrase,wethink.Atoneofourearliestretreatshemuttered: “Howmanymultimillion-dollar companies can you yell out,‘Hey, Buttface,’ and the entiremanagement team turns around?” It got alaugh.And then it stuck.And then itbecameakeypartofourvernacular.Buttface referred to both the retreat and the retreaters, and it not onlycapturedtheinformalmoodofthoseretreats,wherenoideawastoosacredto be mocked, and no person was too important to be ridiculed, it alsosummedupthecompanyspirit,missionandethos.

ThefirstfewButtfacestookplaceatvariousOregonresorts.OtterCrest.Salishan. Ultimately we came to prefer Sunriver, an idyllic spot in sunnycentral Oregon. Typically,Woodell and Johnson would fly out from theEastCoast, andwe’d all drive out toSunriver lateFriday.We’d reserve abunch of cabins, seize a conference room, and spend two or three daysshoutingourselveshoarse.

I can seemyself so clearly at the head of a conference table, shouting,being shouted at—laughing until my voice was gone. The problemsconfrontingusweregrave,complex,seeminglyinsurmountable,mademoresobythefactwewereseparatedfromeachotherbythreethousandmiles,atatimewhencommunicationwasn’teasyorinstant.Andyetwewerealwayslaughing. Sometimes, after a really cathartic guffaw, I’d look around thetableand feelovercomebyemotion.Camaraderie, loyalty,gratitude.Evenlove. Surely love.But I also remember feeling shocked that thesewere themenI’dassembled.Thesewerethefoundingfathersofamultimillion-dollarcompanythatsoldathleticshoes?Aparalyzedguy,twomorbidlyobeseguys,achain-smokingguy? Itwasbracing to realize that, in thisgroup, theonewithwhom I had themost in commonwas . . . Johnson. And yet, it was

undeniable.Whileeveryoneelsewaslaughing,rioting,he’dbethesaneone,sittingquietlyinthemiddleofthetablereadingabook.

TheloudestvoiceateveryButtfacealwaysseemedtobeHayes.Andthecraziest. Like his girth, his personality was ever expanding, adding newphobiasandenthusiasms.Forinstance,bythistimeHayeshaddevelopedacurious obsession with heavy equipment. Backhoes, bulldozers, cherrypickers, cranes, they fascinated him. They . . . turned him on, there’s nootherway to say it.At anearlyButtfacewewere leaving a localbarwhenHayesspiedabulldozerinthefieldbehindthelodge.Hediscovered,tohisastonishment,thekeyshadbeenleftinside,sohehoppedinandmovedtheearth all around the field, and in the parking lot, quitting only when henarrowlymissedcrushingseveralcars.Hayesonabulldozer, I thought:Asmuchastheswoosh,thatmightbeourlogo.

IalwayssaidthatWoodellmadethetrainsrunontime,butitwasHayeswho laiddownthetracks.Hayessetupall theesotericaccountingsystemswithout which the company would have ground to a halt.When we firstwent from manual to automated accounting, Hayes acquired the firstprimitivemachines, and by constantlymending them,modifying them, orpoundingthemwithhisbighammyfists,hekeptthemuncannilyaccurate.When we first started doing business outside the United States, foreigncurrencies became a devilishly tricky problem, and Hayes set up aningenious currency-hedging system,whichmade the spreadmore reliable,morepredictable.

Despite our hijinks, despite our eccentricities, despite our physicallimitations,Iconcludedin1976thatwewereaformidableteam.(Yearslatera famous Harvard business professor studying Nike came to the sameconclusion. “Normally,” he said, “if onemanager at a company can thinktacticallyandstrategically,thatcompanyhasagoodfuture.Butboyareyoulucky:MorethanhalftheButtfacesthinkthatway!”)

Undoubtedlywelooked,toanycasualobserver,likeasorry,motleycrew,hopelesslymismatched.But in factweweremore alike thandifferent, andthatgaveacoherencetoourgoalsandourefforts.WeweremostlyOregon

guys,whichwas important.Wehadan inbornneed toproveourselves, toshowtheworldthatweweren’thicksandhayseeds.Andwewerenearlyallmercilessself-loathers,whichkepttheegosincheck.Therewasnoneofthatsmartest-guy-in-the-room foolishness. Hayes, Strasser, Woodell, Johnson,eachwouldhavebeenthesmartestguyinanyroom,butnonebelieveditofhimself,or thenextguy.Ourmeetingsweredefinedbycontempt,disdain,andheapsofabuse.

Oh,what abuse.Wecalledeachother terriblenames.We raineddownverbalblows.Whilefloatingideas,andshootingdownideas,andhashingoutthreats tothecompany, the last thingwetook intoaccountwassomeone’sfeelings. Including mine. Especially mine. My fellow Buttfaces, myemployees,calledmeBuckytheBookkeeper,constantly.Ineveraskedthemtostop.Iknewbetter.Ifyoushowedanyweakness,anysentimentality,youweredead.

I remember a Buttface when Strasser decided we weren’t being“aggressive” enough in our approach. Too many bean counters in thiscompany, he said. “So before this meeting starts I want to interjectsomething. I’ve prepared here a counterbudget.” He waved a big binder.“Thisrighthereiswhatweshouldbedoingwithourmoney.”

Ofcourseeveryonewantedtoseehisnumbers,butnoonemorethanthenumbersguy,Hayes.Whenwediscoveredthatthenumbersdidn’taddup,notonecolumn,westartedhowling.

Strassertookitpersonally.“It’stheessenceI’mgettingat,”hesaid.“Notthespecifics.Theessence.”

Thehowlinggrewlouder.SoStrasserpickeduphisbinderandthrewitagainstthewall.“Fuckallyouguys,”hesaid.Thebinderburstopen,pagesflew everywhere, and the laughter was deafening. Even Strasser couldn’thelphimself.Hehadtojoinin.

Little wonder that Strasser’s nickname was Rolling Thunder. Hayes,meanwhile, was Doomsday. Woodell was Weight. (As in Dead Weight.)Johnson was Four Factor, because he tended to exaggerate and therefore

everythinghesaidneededtobedividedbyfour.Noonetookitpersonally.TheonlythingtrulynottoleratedataButtfacewasathinskin.

Andsobriety.Atday’send,wheneverybodyhadascratchythroatfromalltheabusingand laughingandproblem-solving,whenouryellowlegalpadswere filledwith ideas, solutions, quotations, and lists upon lists,we’d shiftgroundtothebaratthelodgeandcontinuethemeetingoverdrinks.Manydrinks.

ThebarwascalledtheOwl’sNest.Ilovetoclosemyeyesandrememberus storming through the entrance, scattering all otherpatrons.Ormakingfriendsofthem.We’dbuydrinksforthehouse,thencommandeeracornerand continue laying into each other about some problem or idea orharebrainedscheme.SaytheproblemwasmidsolesnotgettingfromPointAtoPointB.Roundandroundwe’dgo,everyonespeakingatonce,achoraleof name-calling and finger-pointing, all made louder, and funnier, andsomehowclearer,bythebooze.ToanyoneintheOwl’sNest,toanyoneinthe corporateworld, it would have looked inefficient, inappropriate. Evenscandalous.Butbeforethebartendergavelastcall,we’dknowfullwellwhythose midsoles weren’t getting from Point A to Point B, and the personresponsiblewouldbecontrite,andputonnotice,andwe’dhaveourselvesacreativesolution.

Theonlypersonwhodidn’tjoinusintheselate-nightrevelswasJohnson.He’dtypicallygoforahead-clearingrun,thenretreattohisroomandreadinbed. Idon’t thinkheeverset foot in theOwl’sNest.Orknewwhere itwas.We’dalwayshavetospendthefirstpartofthenextmorningupdatinghimonwhatwe’ddecidedinhisabsence.

In the Bicentennial Year alone we were struggling with a number ofunusuallystressfulproblems.Weneededtofinda largerwarehouseontheEast Coast. We needed to transfer our sales-distribution center, fromHolliston, Massachusetts, to a new forty-thousand-square-foot space inGreenland,NewHampshire, whichwas sure to be a logistical nightmare.Weneededtohireanadvertisingagencytohandletheincreasingvolumeofprint ads. We needed to either fix or get shut of our underperforming

factories.Weneeded to smoothout glitches inourFuturesProgram.Weneededtohireadirectorofpromotions.WeneededtoformaProClub,asort of reward system for our topNBA stars, to cement their loyalty andkeepthemin theNike fold.Weneededtoapprovenewproducts, like theArsenal, a soccer-baseball cleat with leather upper and vinyl poly-foamtongue, and the Striker, a multipurpose cleat good for soccer, baseball,football,softball,andfieldhockey.Andweneededtodecideonanewlogo.Aside from the swoosh, we had a lowercase script name, nike, which wasproblematic—toomanypeople thought itwas like, ormike.But itwas toolate in the day to change thenameof the company, somaking the lettersmore readable seemed a good idea.Denny Strickland, creative director atour advertising agency, had designed a block-letteredNIKE, all caps, andnesteditinsideaswoosh.Wespentdaysconsideringit,debatingit.

Above all, we needed to decide, once and for all, this “going public”question. In those earliest Buttfaces, a consensus began to form. If wecouldn’tsustaingrowth,wecouldn’tsurvive.Anddespiteourfears,despitetherisksanddownsides,goingpublicwasthebestwaytosustaingrowth.

Andyet,inthemidstofthoseintensediscussions,inthemiddleofoneofthemosttryingyearsinthecompany’shistory,thoseButtfacemeetingswerenothingbutajoy.OfallthosehoursspentatSunriver,notoneminutefeltlike work. It was us against the world, and we felt damned sorry for theworld.Thatis,whenweweren’trighteouslypissedoffatit.Eachofushadbeenmisunderstood,misjudged,dismissed.Shunnedbybosses, spurnedbyluck,rejectedbysociety,shortchangedbyfatewhenlooksandothernaturalgraceswerehandedout.We’deachbeenforgedbyearlyfailure.We’deachgivenourselves tosomequest, someattemptatvalidationormeaning,andfallenshort.

Hayescouldn’tbecomeapartnerbecausehewastoofat.Johnsoncouldn’tcopeintheso-callednormalworldofnine-to-five.Strasserwasaninsurancelawyerwhohatedinsurance—andlawyers.Woodelllostallhisyouthfuldreamsinoneflukeaccident.Igotcutfromthebaseballteam.AndIgotmyheartbroken.

I identified with the born loser in each Buttface, and vice versa, and Iknew that together we could become winners. I still didn’t know exactlywhat winningmeant, other than not losing, but we seemed to be gettingclosertoadefiningmomentwhenthatquestionwouldbesettled,oratleastmoresharplydefined.Maybegoingpublicwouldbethatmoment.

MaybegoingpublicwouldfinallyensurethatNikewouldliveon.IfIhadanydoubtsaboutBlueRibbon’smanagementteamin1976,they

weremainlyaboutme.WasIdoingrightbytheButtfaces,givingthemsolittleguidance?WhentheydidwellI’dshruganddelivermyhighestpraise:Notbad.When they erred I’d yell for aminuteor two, then shake it off.None of the Buttfaces felt the least threatened by me—was that a goodthing?Don’ttellpeoplehowtodothings,tellthemwhattodoandletthemsurpriseyouwiththeirresults.ItwastherighttackforPattonandhisGIs.ButdidthatmakeitrightforabunchofButtfaces?Iworried.MaybeIshouldbemorehands-on.Maybeweshouldbemorestructured.

But then I’d think: Whatever I’m doing, it must be working, becausemutinies are few. In fact, ever since Bork, no one had thrown a genuinetantrum,aboutanything,notevenwhattheywerepaid,whichisunheardofin any company, big or small.TheButtfaces knew Iwasn’t payingmyselfmuch,andtheytrustedthatIwaspayingthemwhatIcould.

ClearlytheButtfaceslikedthecultureI’dcreated.Itrustedthem,wholly,and didn’t look over their shoulders, and that bred a powerful two-wayloyalty.Mymanagementstylewouldn’thaveworkedforpeoplewhowantedtobeguided,everystep,butthisgroupfounditliberating,empowering.Iletthembe,letthemdo,letthemmaketheirownmistakes,becausethat’showI’dalwayslikedpeopletotreatme.

At the end of a Buttface weekend, consumed with these and otherthoughts,I’ddrivebacktoPortlandinatrance.HalfwaythereI’dcomeoutof the trance and start thinking aboutPenny and the boys.TheButtfaceswerelikefamily,buteveryminuteIspentwiththemwasatthecostofmyotherfamily,myrealfamily.Theguiltwaspalpable.OftenI’dwalkintomyhouse andMatthew andTraviswouldmeetme at the door. “Wherehave

youbeen?”they’dask.“Daddywaswithhis friends,”I’dsay,pickingthemup.They’dstare,confused.“ButMommytoldusyouwereworking.”

Itwasaroundthistime,asNikerolledoutitsfirstchildren’sshoes,WallyWaffle andRobbieRoadRacer, thatMatthew announced hewould neverwear Nikes so long as he lived. His way of expressing anger about myabsences,aswellasotherfrustrations.PennytriedtomakehimunderstandthatDaddywasn’tabsentbychoice.Daddywas tryingtobuildsomething.Daddywas trying to ensure that he andTravis would one day be able toattendcollege.

Ididn’tevenbothertoexplain.Itoldmyselfitdidn’tmatterwhatIsaid.Matthew never understood, and Travis always understood—they seemedborn with these unvarying default positions. Matthew seemed to harborsome innate resentment toward me, while Travis seemed congenitallydevoted.Whatdifferencewoulda fewmorewordsmake?Whatdifferencewouldafewmorehoursmake?

Myfatherhoodstyle,mymanagementstyle.Iwasforeverquestioning,Isitgood—ormerelygoodenough?

TimeandagainI’dvowtochange.TimeandagainI’dtellmyself:Iwillspendmore timewith the boys.Timeand again I’d keep thatpromise—for awhile.Then I’d fallback tomy former routine, theonlyway Iknew.Nothands-off.Butnothands-on.

ThismighthavebeentheoneproblemIcouldn’tsolvebybrainstormingwith my fellow Buttfaces. Vastly trickier than how to get midsoles fromPointAtoPointBwasthequestionofSonAandSonB,howtokeepthemhappy,whilekeepingSonC,Nike,afloat.

1977

HisnamewasM.FrankRudy,hewasaformeraerospaceengineer,andhe

was a true original. One look at him told you he was a nutty professor,though it wasn’t until years later that I learned the full extent of hisnuttiness.(Hekeptameticulousdiaryofhissexlifeandbowelmovements.)He had a business partner, Bob Bogert, another brainiac, and they had aCrazyIdea,andtogethertheyweregoingtopitchus—that’sthesumtotalofwhat I knew that morning in March 1977 as we settled around theconference table. I wasn’t even sure how these guys reached us, or howthey’darrangedthismeeting.

“Okay,fellas,”Isaid,“what’veyougot?”It was a beautiful day, I remember. The light outside the room was a

butterypaleyellow,andtheskywasblueforthefirst timeinmonths,soIwasdistracted,alittlespringfeverish,asRudyleanedhisweightontheedgeoftheconferencetableandsmiled.“Mr.Knight,we’vecomeupwithawaytoinject...air...intoarunningshoe.”

Ifrownedanddroppedmypencil.“Why?”Isaid.“Forgreatercushioning,”hesaid.“Forgreatersupport.Fortherideofa

lifetime.”Istared.“You’rekiddingme,right?”I’d heard a lot of silliness from a lot of different people in the shoe

business,butthis.Oh.Brother.Rudyhandedmeapairof soles that lookedas if they’dbeenteleported

from the twenty-second century.Big, clunky, theywere clear thick plasticandinsidewere—bubbles?Iturnedthemover.“Bubbles?”Isaid.

“Pressurizedairbags,”hesaid.IsetdownthesolesandgaveRudyacloserlook,afullhead-to-toe.Six-

three, lanky,with unruly dark hair, bottle-bottomglasses, a lopsided grin,andaseverevitaminDdeficiency,Ithought.Notenoughsunshine.Orelsealong-lostmemberoftheAddamsFamily.

Hesawmeappraisinghim,sawmyskepticism,andwasn’ttheleastfazed.Hewalkedtotheblackboard,pickedupapieceofchalk,andbeganwritingnumbers,symbols,equations.Heexplainedatsomelengthwhyanairshoewouldwork, why it would never go flat, why it was theNext BigThing.When he finished I stared at the blackboard. As a trained accountant I’dspent a good part of my life looking at blackboards, but this Rudy fella’sscribblesweresomethingelse.Indecipherable.

Humans have been wearing shoes since the Ice Age, I said, and theunderlying design hasn’t changed all that much in forty thousand years.Therehadn’treallybeenabreakthroughsincethelate1800s,whencobblersstartedlastingleftandrightshoesdifferently,andrubbercompaniesstartedmaking soles. It didn’t seem all too likely that, at this late date in history,something so new, so revolutionary, was going to be dreamed up. “Airshoes”soundedtomelikejetpacksandmovingsidewalks.Comicbookstuff.

Rudystillwasn’tdiscouraged.Hekeptatit,unflappable,earnest.Finallyhe shrugged and said that he understood.He’d tried to pitch Adidas andthey’dbeenskeptical,too.Abracadabra.ThatwasallIneededtohear.

IaskedifIcouldfithisairsolesintomyrunningshoesandgivethematry.“Theydon’thaveamoderator,”hesaid.“They’dbelooseandwobbly.”

“Idon’tcareaboutthat,”Isaid.Isqueezedthesolesintomyshoes,slippedtheshoesbackon,lacedthem

up.Notbad,Isaid,bouncingupanddown.Iwentforasix-milerun.Theywereindeedunstable.Buttheywerealso

oneheckofaride.I ran back to the office. Still covered with sweat, I ran straight up to

Strasserandtoldhim:“Ithinkwemighthavesomethinghere.”

THAT NIGHT STRASSERand I went to dinner with Rudy and Bogert.Rudy explainedmore of the science behind the air soles, and this secondtimearound it started tomakesense. I toldhimtherewasapossibilitywecoulddobusiness.ThenIturneditovertoStrassertoclose.

I’dhiredStrasserforhis legalmind,butby1977I’ddiscoveredhistruetalent.Negotiating.ThefirstfewtimesIaskedhimtoworkoutacontractwithsportsagents,thetoughestnegotiatorsintheworld,hemorethanheldhisown.Iwasamazed.Soweretheagents.Everytime,Strasserwalkedawaywithmorethanwe’deverhoped.Noonescaredhim,noonematchedhimin a clashofwills.By1977 Iwas sendinghim into everynegotiationwithtotalconfidence,asifIweresendingintheEighty-SecondAirborne.

Hissecret,Ithink,wasthathejustdidn’tcarewhathesaidorhowhesaidit or how it went over. He was totally honest, a radical tactic in anynegotiation. I recall one tug-of-war Strasser had over Elvin Hayes, theWashingtonBullets all-star, whomwe badlywanted to sign again. Elvin’sagenttoldStrasser,“YoushouldgiveElvinyourwholedamncompany!”

Strasseryawned.“Youwantit?Helpyourself.We’vegottengrandinthebank.

“Finaloffer,takeitorleaveit.”Theagenttookit.Now,seeinggreatpotentialinthese“airsoles,”StrasserofferedRudyten

cents foreverypairofsoles thatwesold,andRudydemandedtwenty,andafter weeks of haggling they settled somewhere in the middle. We thenshippedRudyandhispartnerback toExeter,whichwasbecomingourdefactoResearchandDevelopmentDepartment.

Of course, when Johnsonmet Rudy, he did exactly what I’d done.Heslippedsomeairsolesintohisrunningshoesandtrottedsixbriskmiles,afterwhichhephonedme.“Thiscouldbehuge,”hesaid.

“That’swhatIthought,”Isaid.But Johnsonworried that thebubblewould cause friction.His foot felt

hot,he said.Hehad the startof ablister.He suggestedputting air in the

midsoleaswell,tolevelouttheride.“Don’ttellme,”Isaid,“tellyournewroommate,Mr.Rudy.”

FRESH OFF HIS successful closing with Rudy, we gave Strasser anothercriticalassignment.Signcollegebasketballcoaches.NikehadasolidstableofNBAplayers,andsalesofbasketballshoeswererisingbriskly,butwehadvirtuallynocollegeteams.NoteventheUniversityofOregon.Unthinkable.

Thecoach,DickHarter,toldusin1975thathe’dleftthedecisionuptohisplayers,andtheteamvotewas6–6.SotheteamstayedwithConverse.

Thenextyear the teamvoted forNike,9–3,butHarter said itwas stilltooclose,sohewasstayingwithConverse.

Whatthe?ItoldHollistertolobbytheplayerssteadilyoverthenexttwelvemonths.

Whichhedid.Andthe1977votewas12–0forNike.ThenextdayImetHarterinJaqua’soffice,andhetoldushestillwasn’t

readytosign.Whynot?“Where’smytwenty-fivehundreddollars?”hesaid.“Ah,”Isaid.“NowIgetit.”I mailed Harter a check. At last my Ducks would wear Nikes on the

hardboards.Atalmostthissameoddmomentintime,asecondstrangeshoeinventor

showeduponourdoorstep.HisnamewasSonnyVaccaro,andhewasjustasuniqueasFrankRudy.Short,round,withconstantlydartingeyes,hespokein a soupy voice with an Americanized Italian accent, or an ItalianizedAmericanaccent,Icouldn’tplaceit.Hewasashoedog,forsure,butashoedogstraightoutofTheGodfather.WhenhefirstarrivedatNikehecarriedwithhimseveralshoesofhisowninvention,whichsetoffgalesoflaughteraroundtheconferenceroom.TheguywasnoRudy.Andyetinthecourseofconversationheclaimedtobechummywitheverycollegebasketballcoachinthecountry.Somehow,yearsbefore,he’dfoundedapopularhighschool

all-stargame,theDapperDanClassic,and itwasabighit,andthroughithe’dgottentoknowallthecoachingroyalty.

“Okay,”Itoldhim,“you’rehired.YouandStrasserhittheroad,gooutandseeifyoucancrackthatcollegebasketballmarket.”

Allthegreatbasketballschools—UCLA,Indiana,NorthCarolina,andsoon—hadlong-standingdealswithAdidasorConverse.Sowhowasleft?Andwhat could we offer? We hurriedly dreamed up an “Advisory Board,”anotherversionofourProClub,ourNBArewardsystem—butitwassmallbeer. I fully expected Strasser and Vaccaro to fail. And I expected to seeneitherofthemforayear,atleast.

One month later Strasser was standing in my office, beaming. Andshouting. And ticking off names. Eddie Sutton, Arkansas! Abe Lemmons,Texas!JerryTarkanian,UNLV!FrankMcGuire,SouthCarolina!(Ileapedoutofmychair.McGuirewasalegend:He’ddefeatedWiltChamberlain’sKansasteamtowinthenationalchampionshipforNorthCarolina.)Wehitpaydirt,Strassersaid.

Plus,almostasathrow-in,hementionedtwounder-the-radaryoungsters:JimValvanoatIonaandJohnThompsonatGeorgetown.

(Ayearortwolaterhedidthesamethingwithcollegefootballcoaches,landing all the greats, includingVinceDooley and his national championGeorgiaBulldogs.HerschelWalkerinNikes—yes.)

We rushedout apress release, announcing thatNikehad these schoolsunder contract. Alas, the press release had a bad typo. Iona was spelled“Iowa.”LuteOlson,coachatIowa,phonedimmediately.Hewasirate.Weapologizedandsaidwe’dsendacorrectionthenextday.

Hegotquiet.“Wellnowwaitwait,”hesaid,“what’s thisAdvisoryBoardanyway...?”

TheHarterRule,infulleffect.

OTHERENDORSEMENTSWEREagreaterstruggle.Ourtennisefforthadstarted so promisingly, with Nastase, but then we’d hit that speed-bump

withConnors, and nowNastasewas dumping us. Adidas had offered himonehundred thousanddollarsayear, includingshoes,clothes,andrackets.We had the right to match, but it was out of the question. “Fiscallyirresponsible,”IsaidtoNasty’sagent,andeveryoneelsewhowould listen.“Noonewilleverseeasportsendorsementdealthatbigeveragain!”

Sotherewewerein1977withoutahorseintennis.Wequicklyhiredalocalprotobeaconsultant,andthatsummerheandIwenttoWimbledon.OnourfirstdayinLondonwemetwithagroupofAmericantennisofficials.“We’vegot somegreat youngplayers,” they said. “ElliotTelschermaybethebest.Gottfriedisalsooutstanding.Whateveryoudo,juststayawayfromthekidplayingoutonCourt14.”

“Why?”“He’sahothead.”I went straight to Court 14. And fell madly, hopelessly in love with a

frizzy-hairedhighschoolerfromNewYorkCitynamedJohnMcEnroe.

AT THE SAMEtimewewere signingdealswith athletes and coaches andnuttyprofessors,wewerecomingoutwiththeLD1000,arunningshoethatfeatured a dramatically flared heel. The heel flared somuch, in fact, thatfromcertainangles it looked likeawaterski.The theorywas thata flaredheelwould lessen torqueon the legandreducepressureon theknee, thuslowering the risk of tendinitis and other running-related maladies.Bowerman designed it, with heavy input from Vixie the podiatrist.Customerslovedit.

Atfirst.Thencametheissues.Ifarunnerdidn’tlandjustright,theflaredheelcouldcausepronation,kneeproblems,orworse.Weissuedarecallandbracedourselvesforapublicbacklash—butitnevercame.Onthecontrary,we heard nothing but gratitude. No other shoe company was trying newthings, soourefforts, successfulornot,were seenasnoble.All innovationwashailedasprogressive,forward-thinking.Justasfailuredidn’tdeterus,itdidn’tseemtodiminishtheloyaltyofourcustomers.

Bowerman,however,gotverydownonhimself.ItriedtoconsolehimbyremindinghimthattherewasnoNikewithouthim,soheshouldcontinuetoinvent,create,fearlessly.TheLD1000was likea literarygenius’snovelthatdidn’tquitecometogether.Ithappenedtothebestofthem.Noreasontostopwriting.

Mypeptalksdidn’twork.AndthenImadethemistakeofmentioningtheairsolewehadindevelopment.ItoldBowermanaboutRudy’soxygenatedinnovation, and Bowerman scoffed. “Pff—air shoes. That’ll never work,Buck.”

Hesoundedabit—jealous?Iconsidered it agoodsign.Hiscompetitive juiceswerealready flowing

again.

MANY AFTERNOONS I ’Dsit around the office with Strasser, trying tofigureoutwhysomelinesweresellingandsomenot,whichledtobroaderdiscussions of what people thought of us, andwhy.We didn’t have focusgroups,ormarketresearch—wecouldn’taffordthem—sowetriedtointuit,divine,readtealeaves.Clearlypeoplelikedthelookofourshoes,weagreed.Clearlytheylikedourstory:Oregonfirmfoundedbyrunninggeeks.ClearlytheylikedwhatwearingapairofNikessaidaboutthem.Weweremorethanabrand;wewereastatement.

Someof the creditwent toHollywood.Wehad aguyout theregivingNikestostars,allkindsofstars,big,little,rising,fading.EverytimeIturnedon the TV our shoes were on a character in some hit show—Starsky &Hutch, The Six Million Dollar Man, The Incredible Hulk. Somehow, ourHollywoodliaisongotapairofSenoritaCortezesintothehandsofFarrahFawcett,whoworethemina1977episodeofCharlie’sAngels.Thatwasallittook.OnequickshotofFarrah inNikesandeverystore in thenationwassoldoutofSenoritaCortezesbynoonthenextday.SoonthecheerleadersatUCLAandUSCwere jumping and leaping inwhatwas commonly calledtheFarrahShoe.

All of which meant more demand . . . and more problems meetingdemand.Ourmanufacturingbasewasbroader.Besides Japan,wenowhadseveral factories inTaiwanandtwosmaller factories inKorea,plusPuertoRicoandExeter,butstillwecouldn’tkeepup.Also, themorefactorieswebroughtonline,themorestrainitputonourcash.

Occasionally our problems had nothing to do with cash. In Korea, forinstance, the five biggest factories were so massive, and the competitionamongthemsocutthroat,weknewweweregoingtogetknockedoffsoon.Sure enough, one day I received in themail a perfect replica of ourNikeBruin,includingthetrademarkswoosh.Imitationisflattery,butknockoffistheft,andthistheftwasdiabolical.Thedetailandworkmanship,withoutanyinput from our people, was startlingly good. I wrote the president of thefactoryanddemandedheceaseanddesistorI’dhavehimthrowninjailforahundredyears.

Andbytheway,Iadded,howwouldyouliketoworkwithus?Isignedacontractwithhisfactoryinthesummerof1977,whichended

our knockoff problem for the moment. More important, it gave us thecapacitytoshiftproductioninahugeway,ifneedbe.

ItalsoendedonceandforallourdependenceonJapan.

THE PROBLEMS WEREnever going to stop, I realized, but for themoment we had more momentum than problems. To build on thismomentumwerolledoutanewadcampaignwithasexynewslogan:“Thereisno finish line.” Itwas the ideaofournewadagencyand itsCEO,JohnBrown.He’djustopenedhisownshopinSeattle,andhewasyoung,bright,andofcoursetheoppositeofanathlete.Thatwasallweseemedtohireinthosedays.BesidesJohnsonandmyself,Nikewasahavenforthesedentary.Still,nonjockornot,BrownmanagedtodreamupacampaignandataglinethatperfectlycapturedNike’sphilosophy.Hisadshowedasinglerunneronalonelycountryroad,surroundedbytallDouglasfirs.Oregon,clearly.The

copyread:“Beatingthecompetition isrelativelyeasy.Beatingyourself isanever-endingcommitment.”

Everyonearoundmethoughttheadwasbold,fresh.Itdidn’tfocusontheproduct, but on the spirit behind the product, which was something younever saw in the 1970s. People congratulated me on that ad as if we’dachievedsomethingearth-shattering.I’dshrug.Iwasn’tbeingmodest.Istilldidn’t believe in the power of advertising. At all. A product, I thought,speaks for itself, or it doesn’t. In the end, it’s only quality that counts. Icouldn’t imagine that any ad campaign would ever prove me wrong orchangemymind.

Our advertising people, of course, told me I was wrong, wrong, athousand percent wrong. But again and again I’d ask them: Can you saydefinitivelythatpeoplearebuyingNikesbecauseofyourad?Canyoushowittomeinblack-and-whitenumbers?

Silence.No,they’dsay...wecan’tsaythatdefinitively.Sothenit’salittlehardtogetenthused,I’dsay—isn’tit?Silence.

I OFTENWISHEDIhadmoretimetokickbackanddebatethenicetiesofadvertising.Oursemidailycriseswerealwaysbiggerandmorepressingthanwhatslogantoprintunderapictureofourshoes.Inthesecondhalfof1977the crisiswas our debentureholders.Theywere suddenly clamoring for away to cash in. By far the best way for them to do so would be a publicoffering,which,wetriedtoexplaintothem,wasnotanoption.Theydidn’twanttohearthat.

IturnedoncemoretoChuckRobinson.He’dservedwithdistinctionaslieutenant commander on a battleship inWorldWar II.He’d built SaudiArabia’s first steel mill. He’d helped negotiate the grain deal with theSoviets.Chuckknewbusinesscold,betterthananyoneI’devermet,andI’dbeenwantinghisadviceforquitesometime.Butoverthelastfewyearshe’d

beenthenumbertwomanunderHenryKissingerattheStateDepartment,andthereby“off-limits”tome,accordingtoJaqua.Now,withJimmyCarternewly elected, Chuck was on Wall Street and available once again forconsultations.IinvitedhimouttoOregon.

I’ll never forget his first day in our office. I caught him up on thedevelopments of the last few years and thanked him for his invaluablecounselaboutJapanesetradingcompanies.ThenIshowedhimourfinancialstatements. He flipped through them, started to laugh. He couldn’t stoplaughing.“Compositionally,”hesaid,“youareaJapanesetradingcompany—90percentdebt!”

“Iknow.”“Youcan’tlivelikethis,”hesaid.“Well...Iguessthat’swhyyou’rehere.”As the first order of business, I invited him to be on our board of

directors.Tomysurprise,heagreed.ThenIaskedhisopinionaboutgoingpublic.

He said going public wasn’t an option. It was mandatory. I needed tosolvethiscashflowproblem,hesaid,attack it,wrestle it totheground,orelseIcouldlosethecompany.Hearinghisassessmentwasfrightening,butnecessary.

ForthefirsttimeeverIsawgoingpublicasinevitable,andIcouldn’thelpit,therealizationmademesad.Ofcoursewestoodtomakeagreatdealofmoney.Butgettingrichhadneverfactoredinmydecisions,anditmatteredevenlesstotheButtfaces.SowhenIbroughtitupatthenextmeetingandtoldthemwhatChuckhadsaid,Ididn’taskforanotherdebate.Ijustputittoavote.

Hayeswasfor.Johnsonwasagainst.Strasser,too.“It’llspoiltheculture,”hekeptsaying,overandover.Woodellwasonthefence.If there was one thing we all agreed on, however, it was the lack of

barriers.Nothingstoodinthewayofgoingpublic.Saleswereextraordinary,

wordofmouthwaspositive,legaldisputeswerebehindus.Wehaddebt,butfor the moment it was manageable. At the start of the 1977 Christmasseason, as the brightly colored lights appeared on the houses in myneighborhood,Irecallthinkingduringoneofmynightlyruns:Everythingisabouttochange.It’sjustamatteroftime.

Andthencametheletter.

AN UNIMPOSING LITTLEthing. Standard white envelope. Embossedreturn address.U.S. Customs Service,Washington, DC. I opened it andmyhandsstartedtoshake.Itwasabill.For$25million.

I read it, and reread it. I couldn’tmake heads or tails. As best I coulddetermine, the federal government was saying that Nike owed customsdutiesdatingbackthreeyears,byvirtueofsomethingcalledthe“AmericanSelling Price,” an old duty-assessing method. American Selling—what? Icalled Strasser into my office and thrust the letter at him. He read it,laughed. “This can’t be real,” he said, tugging his beard. “My reactionexactly,”Isaid.

Wepasseditbackandforthandagreedithadtobeamistake.Becauseifitwasreal, ifweactuallydidowe$25million to thegovernment,wewereoutofbusiness.Justlikethat.Allthistalkofgoingpublichadbeenacolossalwasteoftime.Everythingsince1962hadbeenawasteoftime.Thereisnofinishline?Thisrighthere,thisisthefinishline.

Strassermadeafewphonecallsandcamebacktomethenextday.Thistimehewasn’tlaughing.“Itmightbereal,”hesaid.

And its origin was sinister. Our American competitors, Converse andKeds, plus a few small factories—in other words, what was left of theAmericanshoeindustry—wereallbehindit.They’dlobbiedWashington,inan effort to slow ourmomentum, and their lobbying had paid off, betterthanthey’deverdaredhope.They’dmanagedtoconvincecustomsofficialstoeffectivelyhobbleusbyenforcingthisAmericanSellingPrice,anarchaic

law that dated back to the protectionist days, which preceded—some sayprompted—theGreatDepression.

Essentially the American Selling Price law, or ASP, said that importdutiesonnylonshoesmustbe20percentofthemanufacturingcostoftheshoe—unless there’s a “similar shoe”manufacturedby a competitor in theUnited States. In which case, the duty must be 20 percent of thecompetitor’ssellingprice.SoallourcompetitorsneededtodowasmakeafewshoesintheUnitedStates,getthemdeclared“similar,”thenpricethemskyhigh—andboom.Theycouldsendourimportdutiesskyhigh,too.

Andthat’sjustwhattheydid.Onedirtylittletrick,andthey’dmanagedtospikeourimportdutiesby40percent—retroactively.Customswassayingweowedthemimportdutiesdatingbackyears,tothetuneof$25million.Dirtytrickornot,Strassertoldmecustomswasn’tjokingaround.Weowedthem$25million,andtheywantedit.Now.

Iputmyheadonmydesk.Afewyearsearlier,whenmyfighthadbeenwithOnitsuka,Itoldmyselftheproblemwasrootedinculturaldifferences.Somepartofme,shapedbyWorldWarII,wasn’tallthatsurprisedtobeatoddswitha former foe.NowIwas in thepositionof the Japanese, atwarwiththeUnitedStatesofAmerica.Withmyowngovernment.

ThiswasoneconflictIneverimagined,anddesperatelydidn’twant,andyetIcouldn’tduckit.Losingmeantannihilation.Whatthegovernmentwasdemanding,$25million,was verynearlyour salesnumber for all of 1977.And even if we could somehow give them a year’s worth of revenue, wecouldn’tcontinuetopayimportdutiesthatwere40percenthigher.

Sotherewasonlyonethingtodo,ItoldStrasserwithasigh.“We’llhavetofightthiswitheverythingwe’vegot.”

I DON’TKNOWwhythiscrisishitmeharder,mentally,thanalltheothers.Itriedtotellmyself,overandover,We’vebeenthroughbadtimes,we’llgetthroughthis.

Butthisonejustfeltdifferent.

I tried to talk to Penny about it, but she said I didn’t actually talk, Igruntedandstaredoff.“Herecomesthewall,”she’dsay,exasperated,andalittle frightened. I should have told her, That’s what men do when theyfight.Theyputupwalls.Theypullupthedrawbridge.Theyfillinthemoat.

But frombehindmy risingwall I didn’t knowhow. I lost the ability in1977 to speak. It was either silence or rage withme. Late at night, aftertalkingon thephonewithStrasser,orHayes,orWoodell, ormy father, Icouldn’tseeanywayout.IcouldonlyseemyselffoldingupthisbusinessI’dworkedsohardtobuild.SoI’derupt—atthetelephone.Insteadofhangingup,I’dslamthereceiverdown,thenslamitdownagain,harderandharder,untilitshattered.SeveraltimesIbeatthelivingtaroutofthattelephone.

AfterI’ddonethisthreetimes,maybefour,Inoticedtherepairmanfromthetelephonecompanyeyeingme.Hereplacedthephone,checkedtomakesure therewasadial tone,andashewaspackinguphis toolshe saidverysoftly:“Thisis...really...immature.”

Inodded.“You’resupposedtobeagrown-up,”hesaid.Inoddedagain.If aphone repairman feels theneed to chastise you, I toldmyself, your

behavior probably needsmodifying. Imadepromises tomyself that day. Ivowedthat fromthenonI’dmeditate,countbackward, run twelvemilesanight,whateverittooktoholdittogether.

HOLDING IT TOGETHERwasn’t the same thingasbeingagood father.I’d alwayspromisedmyself that I’dbe abetter father tomy sons thanmyfatherhadbeentome—meaningI’dgivethemmoreexplicitapproval,moreattention.Butinlate1977,whenIevaluatedmyselfhonestly,whenIlookedathowmuchtimeIwasspendingawayfromtheboys,andhowdistantIwaseven when I was home, I gave myself low marks. Going strictly by thenumbers, Icouldonly say that Iwas10percentbetter thanmy fatherhadbeenwithme.

AtleastI’mabetterprovider,Itoldmyself.AndatleastIkeeptellingthemtheirbedtimestories.Boston,April 1773.Alongwith scores of angry colonists, protesting the rise of

import duties on their beloved tea,Matt and TravisHistory snuck aboard threeshipsinBostonHarborandthrewalltheteaoverboard...

Theminute their eyeswere closed, Iwould sneakoutof the roomandsettle intomy recliner and reach for the phone.Hey,Dad. Yeah.How youdoing?...Me?Notsogood.

Overthelasttenyearsthishadbeenmynightcap,mysalvation.Butnow,morethanever,I livedforit.IcravedthingsIcouldonlygetfrommyoldman,thoughI’dhavebeenhard-pressedtonamethem.

Reassurance?Affirmation?Comfort?OnDecember9,1977,Igotthemall,inaburst.Sports,ofcourse,were

thecause.TheHoustonRocketswereplayingtheLosAngelesLakersthatnight.At

thestartofthesecondhalf,LakersguardNormNixonmissedajumper,andhisteammateKevinKunnert,aseven-footbeanpoleoutofIowa,foughtforthereboundwithHouston’sKermitWashington.Inthetussle,Washingtonpulled down Kunnert’s shorts, and Kunnert retaliated with an elbow.Washington then socked Kunnert in the head. A fight broke out. AsHouston’s Rudy Tomjanovich ran over to defend his teammates,Washington turned and threw a devastating haymaker, breakingTomjanovich’snose,andjaw,andseparatinghisskullandfacialbonesfromhis skin. Tomjanovich fell to the floor as if hit with a shotgun blast.Hismassivebodystruckthegroundwithasickeningsmack.Thesoundechoedthroughout the upper reaches of theL.A. Forum, and for several secondsTomjanovich lay there,motionless, inanever-wideningpuddleofhisownblood.

Ihadn’theardanythingaboutituntilItalkedtomyfatherthatnight.Hewasbreathless.Iwassurprisedthathe’dwatchedthegame,buteveryonein

Portlandwasbasketballcrazythatyear,becauseourTrailBlazerswerethedefending NBA champs. Still, it wasn’t the game, per se, that had himbreathless.Aftertellingmeaboutthefight,hecried,“Oh,Buck,Buck,itwasoneofthemostincrediblethingsIhaveeverseen.”Thentherewasalongpauseandheadded,“Thecamerakeptzoominginandyoucouldseequiteclearly.. .onTomjanovich’sshoes.. .theswoosh!Theykeptzoominginontheswoosh.”

I’dneverheardsuchprideinmyfather’svoice.Sure,Tomjanovichwasinahospitalfightingforhislife,andsurehisfacialboneswerefloatingaroundhishead—butBuckKnight’slogowasinthenationalspotlight.

Thatmight have been the night the swoosh became real tomy father.Respectable.He didn’t actually use the word “proud.” But I hung up thephonefeelingasifhehad.

Italmostmakesthisallworthwhile,Itoldmyself.Almost.

SALES HAD BEENclimbinggeometrically, year after year, ever since thefirst few hundred pairs I sold out of my Valiant. But as we closed out1977 . . . sales were going berserk. Nearly $70 million. So Penny and Idecidedtobuyabiggerhouse.

Itwasastrangethingtodo,inthemidstofanapocalypticfightwiththegovernment.But I liked the ideaof actingas if thingsweregoing toworkout.

Fortunefavorsthebrave,thatsortofthing.Ialsolikedtheideaofachangeofscenery.Maybe,Ithought,itwillinitiateachangeofluck.Weweresadtoleavetheoldhouse,ofcourse.Bothboyshadtakentheir

first steps there, andMatthew had lived for that swimming pool.He wasneversoatpeaceaswhenfrolickinginthewater.IrecallPennyshakingherheadandsaying,“Onething’sforcertain.Thatboywillneverdrown.”

Butbothboysweregettingsobig, theydesperatelyneededmoreroom,andthenewplacehadplenty.ItsatonfiveacreshighaboveHillsboro,andeveryroomfeltspaciousandairy.Fromthefirstnightweknewwe’dfoundourhome.Therewasevenabuilt-innicheformyrecliner.

Tohonorournewaddress,ournewstart,Itriedtokeepanewschedule.Unless Iwasoutof town, I tried to attendall theyouthbasketballgames,andyouthsoccergames,andLittleLeaguegames.IspentwholeweekendsteachingMatthew to swing a bat, though both of us wondered why. Herefusedtokeephisbackfootstill.Herefusedtolisten.Hearguedwithmeconstantly.

Theball’smoving,hesaid,whyshouldn’tI?Becauseit’shardertohitthatway.Thatwasneveragoodenoughreasonforhim.Matthew was more than a rebel. He was, I discovered, more than a

contrarian. He positively couldn’t abide authority, and he perceivedauthoritylurkingineveryshadow.Anyoppositiontohiswillwasoppressionandthusacall toarms.Insoccer, for instance,heplayedlikeananarchist.Hedidn’tcompeteagainst theopponentsomuchasagainst therules—thestructure. If the other team’s best player was coming toward him on abreakaway,Matthewwouldforgetthegame,forgettheball,andjustgoforthekid’sshins.Downwentthekid,outcametheparents,andpandemoniumwould ensue. During one Matthew-sparked melee, I looked at him andrealized he didn’t want to be there any more than I did. He didn’t likesoccer.Forthatmatter,hedidn’tcareforsports.Hewasplaying,andIwaswatchinghimplay,outofsomesenseofobligation.

Over timehisbehaviorhada suppressiveeffectonhisyoungerbrother.ThoughTraviswas a gifted athlete and loved sports,Matthewhad turnedhimoff.OnedaylittleTravissimplyretired.Hewouldnolongergooutforanyteams.Iaskedhimtoreconsider,buttheonlythinghehadincommonwith Matthew, and maybe his father, was a stubborn streak. Of all thenegotiationsinmylife,thosewithmysonshavebeenthemostdifficult.

OnNewYear’sEve,1977,Iwentaroundmynewhouse,puttingoutthelights,andI feltakindof fissuredeepwithinthebedrockofmyexistence.My lifewasabout sports,mybusinesswasabout sports,mybondwithmyfatherwasaboutsports,andneitherofmytwosonswantedanythingtodowithsports.

LiketheAmericanSellingPrice,itallseemedsounjust.

1978

Strasserwasour five-stargeneral,andIwasreadyto followhimintoany

fray,anyfusillade.InourfightwithOnitsukahisoutragehadcomfortedandsustainedme,andhismindhadbeenaformidableweapon.InthisnewfightwiththeFedshewasdoublyoutraged.Good,Ithought.Hestompedaroundtheofficeslikeapissed-offViking,andhisstompsweremusictomyears.

Webothknew,however, thatragewasn’tgoingtobeenough.NorwasStrasseralone.WeweretakingontheUnitedStatesofAmerica.Weneededafewgoodmen.SoStrasserreachedouttoayoungPortlandlawyer,afriendofhisnamedRichardWerschkul.

Idon’tremembereverbeingintroducedtoWerschkul.Idon’trememberanyoneaskingmetomeethimorhirehim.IjustremembersuddenlybeingawareofWerschkul,extremelyconsciousofhispresence,all thetime.Thewayyou’reawareofabigwoodpeckerinyourfrontyard.Oronyourhead.

ForthemostpartWerschkul’spresencewaswelcome.Hehadthekindofgo-gomotorwe liked, and the credentials we always looked for. Stanfordundergrad,UniversityofOregonLaw.Healsohadacompellingpersonality,apresence.Dark,wiry,sarcastic,bespectacled,hepossessedanuncommonlydeep,plummybaritone,likeDarthVaderwithaheadcold.Overallhegavetheimpressionofamanwithaplan,andtheplandidn’tincludesurrenderorsleep.

On the other hand, he also had an eccentric streak. We all did, butWerschkulhadwhatMomHatfieldmighthavecalleda“wildhair.”Therewas always something about him that didn’t quite . . . fit. For instance,though hewas a nativeOregonian, he had a bafflingEastCoast air. Blue

blazers, pink shirts, bow ties. Sometimes his accent suggested summers inNewport,rowingforYale—astringofpoloponies.SurpassingstrangeinamanwhoknewhiswayaroundtheWillametteValley.Andwhilehecouldbe very witty, even silly, he could change on a dime and become scaryserious.

NothingmadehimmoreseriousthanthetopicofNikevs.U.S.Customs.Some inside Nike worried about Werschkul’s seriousness, fearing it

borderedonobsession.Finebyme,Ithought.Obsessivesweretheonlyonesforthejob.Theonlyonesforme.Somequestionedhisstability.Butwhenitcametostability,Iasked,whoamonguswillthrowthefirststone?

Besides, Strasser liked him, and I trusted Strasser. So when StrassersuggestedthatwepromoteWerschkul,andmovehimtoWashington,D.C.,where he’d be closer to the politicians we’d need on our side, I didn’thesitate.Neither,ofcourse,didWerschkul.

ABOUT THE SAMEtimewedispatchedWerschkul toWashington,IsentHayestoExetertocheckonthingsatthefactory,andtoseehowWoodelland Johnson were getting along. Also on his agenda was the purchase ofsomethingcalledarubbermill.Allegedlyitwouldhelpusdoabetterjobofdictating the quality of our outer soles and midsoles. More, Bowermanwanted it for his experiments, and my policy was still WBW:WhateverBowerman Wants. If Bowerman requisitions a Sherman tank, I toldWoodell,don’taskquestions.JustdialthePentagon.

ButwhenHayes askedWoodell about “these rubbermill gizmos,” andwhere to find one, Woodell shrugged. Never heard of them. WoodellreferredHayes toGiampietro,whokneweverythingworthknowingaboutrubbermills, of course, and days laterHayes found himself trekkingwithGiampietrointothebackwoodsofMaine,tothelittletownofSaco,andanauctionofindustrialequipment.

Hayeswasn’tabletofindarubbermillat theauction,buthedidfall inlovewith theauctionsite,anoldredbrick factoryonan island in theSaco

River.ThefactorywassomethingoutofStephenKing,butthatdidn’tspookHayes. It spoke to him. I guess it was to be expected that a man with abulldozer fetish would become enamored of a rusted-out factory. Thesurprising part was, the factory happened to be for sale. Price: $500,000.Hayesofferedthefactoryowner$100,000,andtheysettledon$200,000.

“Congratulations,” Hayes and Woodell said when they phoned thatafternoon.

“Forwhat?”“Foronlyslightlymorethanthecostofarubbermillyouaretheproud

ownerofawholedamnfactory,”theysaid.“Theheckareyoutalkingabout?”They filledme in. Like Jack telling hismother about themagic beans,

theymumbled when they got to the part about the price. And about thefactoryneedingtensofthousandsofdollarsinrepairs.

Icould tell they’dbeendrinking,and laterWoodellwouldconfess that,after stopping at a huge discount liquor outlet inNewHampshire,Hayeswhooped:“Atpriceslikethis?Amancan’taffordnottodrink!”

Irosefrommychairandyelledintothephone,“Youdummies!WhatdoIneedwithanonworkingfactoryinSaco,Maine?”

“Storage?” they said. “And one day it could be a complement to ourfactoryinExeter.”

InmybestJohnMcEnroeIscreamed,“Youcannotbeserious!Don’tyoudare!”

“Toolate.Wealreadyboughtit.”Dialtone.Isatdown.Ididn’tevenfeelmad.Iwastooupsettobemad.TheFeds

weredunningme for$25million Ididn’thaveandmymenwere runningaround the country writing checks for hundreds of thousands of dollarsmore,withoutevenaskingme.SuddenlyIbecamecalm.Quasi-comatose.Itold myself, Who cares? When the government comes in, when theyrepossesseverything,lock,stock,andbarrel, letthem figureoutwhattodowithanonworkingfactoryinSaco,Maine.

LaterHayesandWoodellcalledbackandsaidthey’donlybeenkiddingaboutbuyingthefactory.“Pullingyourchain,”theysaid.“Butyoudoneedtobuyit.Youmust.”

Okay,Isaidwearily.Okay.Whateveryoudummiesthinkbest.

WEWEREONtrackin1979forsalesof$140million.Betteryet,ourqualitywasrisingapace.Peopleinthetrade,industryinsiders,werewritingarticles,praisingusfor“finally”puttingoutabettershoethanAdidas.Personally,Ithoughttheinsiderswerelatetotheparty.Otherthanafewearlystumbles,ourqualityhadbeen tops for years.Andwe’dnever lagged in innovation.(Plus,wehadRudy’sairsolesinthepipeline.)

Asidefromourwarwiththegovernment,wewereingreatshape.Whichseemedlikesaying:Asidefrombeingondeathrow,lifewasgrand.Another good sign.We kept outgrowing our headquarters.Wemoved

again that year, to a forty-thousand-square-foot building all our own, inBeaverton.Myprivateofficewassleek,andhuge,biggerthanourentirefirstheadquartersnexttothePinkBucket.

And utterly empty. The interior decorator decided to go Japaneseminimalist—withonetouchoftheabsurdthateveryonefoundhilarious.Shethoughtitwouldbeahoottosetbesidemydeskaleatherchairthatwasagiantbaseballmitt.“Now,”shesaid,“youcansitthereeverydayandthinkaboutyour...sportsthings.”

Isatinthemitt,likeafoulball,andlookedoutthewindow.Ishouldhavereveledinthatmoment,savoredthehumorandtheirony.Gettingcutfrommyhighschoolbaseballteamhadbeenoneofthegreathurtsofmylife,andnow I was sitting in a giantmitt, in a swank new office, presiding over acompany that sold “sports things” to professional baseball players. Butinsteadofcherishinghowfarwe’dcome,Isawonlyhowfarwehadtogo.Mywindowlookedontoabeautifulstandofpines,andIdefinitelycouldn’tseetheforestforthetrees.

Ididn’tunderstandwhatwashappening, in themoment,butnow Ido.The years of stress were taking their toll.When you see only problems,you’renotseeingclearly.AtjustthemomentIneededtobemysharpest,Iwasapproachingburnout.

I OPENEDTHE finalButtfaceof1978witharah-rahspeech,tryingtofireup the troops, but especiallymyself. “Gentlemen,” I said, “our industry ismadeupofSnowWhiteandtheSevenDwarfs!Andnextyear...finally...oneofthedwarfsisgoingtogetintoSnowWhite’spants!”

As if themetaphor needed further explanation, I explained that AdidaswasSnowWhite.Andourtime,Ithundered,iscoming!

Butfirstweneededtostartsellingclothes.Asidefromtheplainnumericalfact that Adidas sold more apparel than shoes, apparel gave them apsychological edge. Apparel helped them lure bigger athletes into sweeterendorsement deals. Look at all we can give you, Adidas would say to anathlete,pointingtotheirshirtsandpantsandothergear.Andtheycouldsaythesamethingwhentheysatdownwithsportinggoodsstores.

Besides,ifweeverresolvedourfightwiththeFeds,andifweeverwantedtogopublic,WallStreetwouldn’tgiveustherespectwedeservedifwewerejust a shoe company.Weneeded tobediverse,whichmeantdeveloping asolidlineofapparel—whichmeantfindingsomeonedarnedgoodtoputincharge of it. At the Buttface I announced that someone would be RonNelson.

“Whyhim?”Hayesasked.“Uh,well,”Isaid,“forstarters,he’saCPA...”Hayes waved his arms over his head. “Just what we need,” he said,

“anotheraccountant.”He had me there. I did seem to hire nothing but accountants. And

lawyers. It wasn’t that I had some bizarre affection for accountants andlawyers,Ijustdidn’tknowwhereelsetolookfortalent.IremindedHayes,notforthefirsttime,thatthere’snoshoeschool,noUniversityofFootwear

fromwhichwecouldrecruit.Weneededtohirepeoplewithsharpminds,thatwasourpriority,andaccountantsand lawyershadat leastprovedthattheycouldmasteradifficultsubject.Andpassabigtest.

Most had also demonstrated basic competence. When you hired anaccountant,youknewheorshecouldcount.Whenyouhiredalawyer,youknewheorshecouldtalk.Whenyouhiredamarketingexpert,orproductdeveloper,what did you know?Nothing.You couldn’t predictwhat he orshe could do, or if he or she could do anything. And the typical businessschoolgraduate?Heorshedidn’twanttostartoutwithabagsellingshoes.Plus,theyallhadzeroexperience,soyouweresimplyrollingthedicebasedon howwell they did in an interview.We didn’t have enoughmargin forerrortorollthediceonanyone.

Besides, as accountants went, Nelson was a standout. He’d become amanager in just five years, which was ridiculously fast. And he’d beenvaledictorianathishighschool.(Alas,wedidn’tfindoutuntil laterthathewenttohighschoolineasternMontana;hisclasshadfivepeople.)

Ontheminussideof the ledger,becausehe’dbecomeanaccountantsofast,Nelsonwasyoung.Maybetooyoungtohandlesomethingasbigasthelaunch of an apparel line. But I toldmyself that his youth wouldn’t be acritical factor,becausestartinganapparel linewasrelativelyeasy.Afterall,there wasn’t any technology or physics involved. As Strasser had oncequipped,“There’snosuchthingasairshorts.”

Then,duringoneofmyfirstmeetingswithNelson,rightafterI’dhiredhim, Inoticed . . .hehadabsolutelynosenseof style.ThemoreI lookedhimover,upanddown,sidetoside,themoreIrealizedthathemighthavebeentheworstdresserI’devermet.WorsethanStrasser.EvenNelson’scar,Inoticedonedayintheparkinglot,wasahideousshadeofbrown.WhenImentionedthistoNelson,helaughed.Hehadthenervetobragthateverycarhe’deverownedhadbeenthesamebrown.

“ImighthavemadeamistakewithNelson,”IconfidedtoHayes.

I WASNO fashionplate.ButIknewhowtowearadecentsuit.Andbecausemy company was launching an apparel line, I now started paying closerattention towhat Iwore, andwhat thosearoundmewore.On the secondfront Iwas appalled.Bankers and investors, reps fromNissho, all kindsofpeople we needed to impress, were passing through our new halls, andwhenevertheysawStrasserinhisHawaiianshirts,orHayesinhisbulldozer-drivingoutfits,theydidtriple-takes.Sometimesoureccentricitywasfunny.(AtopexecutiveatFootLockersaid,“Wethinkofyouguysasgods—untilwe see your cars.”) But most times it was embarrassing. And potentiallydamaging.Thus, aroundThanksgiving,1978, I instituteda strict companydresscode.

The reaction wasn’t terribly enthusiastic. Corporate bullshit, manygrumbled.Iwasmocked.MostlyIwasignored.Toevenacasualobserver,itbecame clear that Strasser started dressingworse.When he showed up towork one day in baggy-seated Bermuda shorts, as if he were walking aGeiger counter down the beach, I couldn’t stand by. This was rankinsubordination.

I interceptedhim in thehalls and calledhimout. “Youneed towear acoatandtie!”Isaid.

“We’renotacoat-and-tiecompany!”heshotback.“Wearenow.”Hewalkedawayfromme.In the coming days Strasser continued to dress with a studied,

confrontational casualness. So I fined him. I instructed the bookkeeper todeductseventy-fivedollarsfromStrasser’snextpaycheck.

Hethrewafit,ofcourse.Andheplotted.DayslaterheandHayescametoworkincoatsandties.Butpreposterouscoatsandties.Stripesandplaids,checks with polka dots, all of it rayon and polyester—and burlap? Theymeantitasafarce,butalsoasaprotest,agestureofcivildisobedience,andIwasinnomoodfortwofashionGandhisstagingadress-in.IdisinvitedthembothfromthenextButtface.ThenIorderedthembothtogohomeandnottocomebackuntiltheycouldbehave,anddress,likeadults.

“And—you’refinedagain!”IyelledatStrasser.“Thenyou’refucked!”heyelledback.Justthen,atthatexactmoment,Iturned.ComingtowardmewasNelson,

dressedworsethanthelotofthem.Polyesterbell-bottoms,apinksilkshirtopentohisnavel.StrasserandHayeswereonething,butwheretheheckdidthis new guy get off protestingmy dress code? After I’d just hiredhim? Ipointedat thedoorandsenthimhome, too.Fromtheconfused,horrifiedlook on his face I realized he wasn’t protesting. He was just naturallyunstylish.

Mynewheadofapparel.Iretreatedthatdaytomybaseball-mittchairandstaredoutthewindow

foralong,longtime.Sportsthings.Iknewwhatwascoming.And,oh,itcame.A few weeks later Nelson stood before us and made his formal

presentation of the first-ever line of Nike apparel. Beaming with pride,grinningwithexcitement,helaidallthenewclothesontheconferencetable.Soiledworkoutshorts,raggedT-shirts,wrinkledhoodies—eachputriditemlooked as if it had been donated to, or pilfered from, a Dumpster. Thetopper:Nelsonpulledeachitemfromadirtybrownpaperbag,whichlookedasifitalsocontainedhislunch.

Atfirstwewereinshock.Noneofusknewwhattosay.Finally,someonechuckled. Strasser, probably.Then someonehaw-hawed.Woodell,maybe.Thenthedamburst.Everyonewaslaughing,rockingbackandforth,fallingoutof their chairs.Nelson saw thathe’dgoofed, and inapaniche startedstuffingtheclothesbackintothepaperbag,whichrippedapart,whichmadeeveryonelaughharder.Iwaslaughing,too,harderthananyone,butatanymomentIfeltasifImightstartsobbing.

Shortly after that day I transferred Nelson to the newly formedproduction department, where his considerable accounting talents helpedhimdoagreat job.Then Iquietly shiftedWoodell toapparel.Hedidhistypicallyflawlessjob,assemblingalinethatgainedimmediateattentionand

respect in the industry. I asked myself why I didn’t just let Woodell doeverything.

Includingmyjob.MaybehecouldflybackeastandgettheFedsoffmyback.

AMID ALL THIS turmoil, amid all this uncertainty about the future, weneeded amorale booster, and we got it at the tail end of 1978, whenwefinallybroughtout theTailwind.Developed inExeter,made in Japan, thebrainchild of M. Frank Rudy was more than a shoe. It was a work ofpostmodern art. Big, shiny, bright silver, filled with Rudy’s patented airsoles, it featured twelve different product innovations.Wehyped it to theheavens,with a splashy ad campaign, and tied the launch to theHonoluluMarathon,wheremanyrunnerswouldbewearingit.

EveryoneflewouttoHawaiiforthelaunch,whichturnedintoadrunkenbacchanal,andamockcoronationofStrasser.Iwastransitioninghimfromlegaltomarketing,movinghimoutofhiscomfortzone,asIlikedtodowitheveryonenowandthen,topreventthemfromgrowingstale.TailwindwasStrasser’sfirstbigproject,sohefeltlikeMidas.“Nailedit,”hekeptsaying,and who could begrudge him a bit of chest-thumping. After its wildlysuccessful debut, Tailwind became a sales monster. Within ten days wethoughtitmighthaveachanceofeclipsingthewaffletrainer.

Thenthereportsbegantotricklein.Customerswerereturningtheshoetostores,indroves,complainingthatthethingwasblowingup,fallingapart.Autopsiesonthereturnedshoesrevealedafataldesignflaw.Bitsofmetalinthe silver paint were rubbing against the shoe’s upper, acting likemicroscopic razors, slicingand shredding the fabric.We issueda recall,ofsorts,andofferedfullrefunds,andhalfofthefirstgenerationofTailwindsendedupinrecyclingbins.

What began as a morale booster ended up being a body blow toeveryone’sconfidence.Eachpersonreactedinhisownway.Hayesdrovein

franticcirclesonabulldozer.Woodellstayedlongereachdayattheoffice.Itoggleddazedlybetweenmybaseballmittandmyrecliner.

In time we all agreed to pretend it was no big deal. We’d learned avaluablelesson.Don’tputtwelveinnovationsintooneshoe.Itaskstoomuchoftheshoe,tosaynothingofthedesignteam.Weremindedeachotherthattherewashonorinsaying,“Backtothedrawingboard.”WeremindedeachotherofthemanywaffleironsBowermanhadruined.

Next year,we all said.You’ll see.Next year.Thedwarf is going togetSnowWhite.

ButStrassercouldn’tgetpastit.Hestarteddrinking,showinguplatetowork.Hismodeofdresswasnowtheleastofmyproblems.Thismighthavebeenhisfirstrealfailure,ever,andI’llalwaysrememberthosedrearywintermornings,seeinghimshambleintomyofficewiththelatestbadnewsabouthisTailwind.Irecognizedthesigns.He,too,wasapproachingburnout.

The only person who wasn’t depressed about the Tailwind wasBowerman.Infact, itscatastrophicdebuthelpedpullhimoutoftheslumpinwhichhe’dbeenmiredsinceretiring.Howhelovedbeingabletotellme,totellusall,“Toldyouso.”

OUR FACTORIES INTaiwan and Korea were humming along, and weopened new ones that year in Heckmondwike, England, and Ireland.Industrywatcherspointed toournew factories, andour sales, and saidwewere unstoppable. Few imagined we were broke. Or that our head ofmarketingwaswallowinginadepression.Orthatourfounderandpresidentwassittinginagiantbaseballmittwithalongface.

Theburnoutspreadaroundtheofficelikemono.Andwhilewewereallburningout,ourmaninWashingtonwasflamingout.

Werschkul had done everything we’d asked of him. He’d buttonholedpoliticians.He’dpetitioned, lobbied,pleadedourcausewithpassion, ifnotalways with sanity. Day after day he’d run up and down the halls ofCongress, handing out free pairs of Nikes. Swag, with a side of swoosh.

(Knowingthatrepresentativeswerelegallyboundtoreportgiftsworthmorethan$35,Werschkulalways includedan invoice for$34.99.)Buteverypoltold Werschkul the same thing. Give me something in writing, son,somethingIcanstudy.Givemeabreakdownofyourcase.

SoWerschkul spent months writing a breakdown—and in the processsuffered a breakdown.What was supposed to be a summary, a brief, hadballooned into an exhaustive history, The Decline and Fall of the NikeEmpire,which ran tohundredsof pages. Itwas longer thanProust, longerthanTolstoy,andnota fractionasreadable.Itevenhadatitle.Withoutashred of irony Werschkul called it: Werschkul on American Selling Price,VolumeI.

Whenyouthoughtaboutit,whenyoureallythoughtaboutit,whatreallyscaredyouwasthatVolumeI.

I sent Strasser back east to rein inWerschkul, check him into a psychwardifnecessary.Justcalmthekiddown,Isaid.Thatfirstnighttheywenttoa localpubinGeorgetownforacocktailorthree,andattheendofthenightWerschkulwasn’tanycalmer.Onthecontrary.Hegotuponatableanddeliveredhisstumpspeechtothepatrons.HewentfullPatrickHenry.“GivemeNikeorgivemedeath!”Thepatronswerereadytovote forthelatter.Strasser tried tocoaxWerschkuldownoff thechair,butWerschkulwas just gettingwarmedup. “Don’t youpeople realize,”he shouted, “thatfreedomisontrialhere?FREEDOM!DidyouknowthatHitler’sfatherwasacustomsinspector?”

Ontheplusside,IthinkWerschkulscaredStrasserstraight.Heseemedlike the old Strasser when he returned and told me about Werschkul’smentalcondition.

We had a good laugh, a healing laugh.Then he handedme a copy ofWerschkul on American Selling Price, Volume I.Werschkul had even had itbound.Inleather.

Ilookedatthetitle:WASP.Howperfect.HowWerschkul.“Areyougoingtoreadit?”Strassersaid.“I’llwaitforthemovie,”Isaid,ploppingitonmydesk.

IknewrightthenthatI’dhavetostartflyingbacktoWashington,D.C.,takeonthisfightmyself.Therewasnootherway.

Andmaybeitwouldcuremyburnout.Maybethecureforanyburnout,Ithought,istojustworkharder.

1979

HeoccupiedateenyofficeattheTreasuryDepartment,aspaceaboutthe

sizeofmymother’slinencloset.Therewasbarelyroomforhisgovernment-issued gunmetal-gray desk, let alone the matching chair for infrequentvisitors.

Hepointedtothischair.Sit,hesaid.I sat. I looked around in disbelief.Thiswas the home base of theman

whokept sendingus thosebills for$25million? I lookednowathim, thisbeady-eyedbureaucrat.Whatcreaturedidheremindmeof?Notaworm.No, he was bigger than that. Not a snake.He was less simple than that.ThenIhadit.Johnson’spetoctopus.IrecalledStretchdraggingthehelplesscrabback to its lair.Yes, this bureaucratwas a kraken.Amicro-kraken.Abureau-kraken.

Smotheringthesethoughts,buryingallmyhostilityandfear,Iscrewedafakesmileontomyfaceandtriedinafriendlytonetoexplainthatthiswholethingwasagiganticmisunderstanding.Eventhebureau-kraken’scolleagueswithin theTreasuryDepartment sided with our position. I handed him adocument.“Youhaverighthere,”Isaid,“amemostatingthattheAmericanSelling Price does not apply to Nike shoes. The memo comes fromTreasury.”

“Hmm,”thebureau-krakensaid.Helookeditover,pusheditbackatme.“That’snotbindingonCustoms.”

Notbinding?Igrittedmyteeth.“Butthiswholecase,”Isaid,“isnothingbut the result of a dirty trick played by our competitors. We’re beingpenalizedforoursuccess.”

“Wedon’tseeitthatway.”“Bywe...whodoyoumean?”“TheU.S.government.”I found it hard to believe this . . .man . . . was speaking for theU.S.

government, but I didn’t say that. “I find it hard to believe that theU.S.government would want to stifle free enterprise,” I said. “That the U.S.government would want to be a party to this kind of deceit and trickery.That the U.S. government, my government, would want to bully a littlecompanyinOregon.Sir,withallrespect,I’vebeenallovertheworld,I’veseen corruptgovernments inundeveloped countries act thisway. I’ve seenthugs push around businesses, with arrogance, with impunity, and I can’tbelievemyowngovernmentwouldbehaveinsuchafashion.”

The bureau-kraken said nothing.A faint smirk flickered across his thinlips. It struck me all at once that he was grotesquely unhappy, as allfunctionariesare.WhenIstartedtospeakagain,hisunhappinessmanifesteditselfinarestless,manicenergy.Hejumpedupandpaced.Backandforthhedancedbehindhisdesk.Thenhesatdown.Thenhediditagain.Itwasn’tthepacingofathinker,buttheagitationofacagedanimal.Threemincingstepsleft,threehaltinglimpsright.

Sittingagain,hecutmeoffmidsentence.Heexplainedthathedidn’tcarewhat I said, or what I thought, or whether any of this was “fair,” or“American.” (Hemadeairquoteswithhisbony“fingers.”)He justwantedhismoney.Hismoney?

Iwrappedmyarmsaroundmyself.Eversincetheonsetofburnout,thisoldhabitwasbecomingmorepronounced.Ioftenlookedin1979asifIweretrying to keepmyself from flying apart, trying to keepmy contents fromspillingout.Iwantedtomakeanotherpoint,torebutsomethingthebureau-krakenhadjustsaid,butIdidn’ttrustmyselftospeak.Ifearedthatmylimbsmightgoflailing,thatImightbeginscreaming.ThatImightbeatthelivingtaroutofhistelephone.Wemadequiteapair,himwithhisfranticpacing,mewithmyfrenziedself-hugging.

Itbecameclearthatwewereatanimpasse.Ihadtodosomething.SoIcommenced kissing up. I told the bureau-kraken that I respected hisposition.Hehadajobtodo.Itwasaveryimportantjob.Itmustnotbeeasy,enforcing burdensome fees, dealingwith complaints all the time. I lookedaround his office-cell, as if to sympathize. However, I said, if Nike wasforcedtopaythisexorbitantsumofmoney,thestraighttruthwas,itwouldputusoutofbusiness.

“So?”hesaid.“So?”Isaid.“Yeah,” he said. “So . . . what? Mr. Knight, it’s my responsibility to

collectimportdutiesfortheU.S.Treasury.Forme,that’sasfarasitgoes.Whateverhappens...happens.”

I hugged myself so tight, I must have looked as if I was wearing aninvisiblestraitjacket.

ThenIreleasedmyself,stood.Gingerly,Ipickedupmybriefcase.Itoldthe bureau-kraken that Iwasn’t going to accept his decision, and Iwasn’tgoing togiveup. Ifnecessary Iwouldvisiteverycongressmanandsenatorand privately plead my case. I suddenly had the greatest sympathy forWerschkul. No wonder he’d come unhinged.Don’t you know that Hitler’sfatherwasacustomsinspector?

“Dowhatyougottado,”thebureau-krakensaid.“Goodday.”Heturnedbacktohisfiles.Hecheckedhiswatch.Gettingclosetofive.

Notmuchtimebeforetheworkdayendedtoruinsomeoneelse’slife.

I BEGAN,MOREorless,commutingtoWashington.EverymonthI’dmeetwithpoliticians,lobbyists,consultants,bureaucrats,anyonewhomighthelp.Iimmersedmyselfinthatstrangepoliticalunderworld,andreadeverythingIcouldaboutcustoms.

IevenskimmedWASP,VolumeI.Nothingwasworking.

Lateinthesummerof1979Werschkulgotmeanappointmentwithoneof Oregon’s senators, Mark O. Hatfield.Well respected, well connected,Hatfieldwaschairmanof theSenateAppropriationsCommittee.Withonephone call hemight be able to get the bureau-kraken’s bosses to clear upthat $25 million discrepancy. So I spent days preparing, studying for themeeting,andhuddledseveraltimeswithWoodellandHayes.

“Hatfield’s just got to see it our way,”Hayes said. “He’s respected onboth sides of the aisle. SaintMark, some call him.He has no truck withabuse of power. He went toe-to-toe with Nixon on Watergate. And hefoughtlikeatigertogetfundingfordamsontheColumbia.”

“Soundslikeourbestshot,”Woodellsaid.“Maybeourlastshot,”Isaid.The night I arrived in Washington, Werschkul and I had dinner and

rehearsed. Like two actors running lines, we went through every possibleargumentHatfieldmight throwatus.Werschkulkept referring toWASP,Volume I.Sometimes he’d even referenceVolume II. “Forget that,” I said.“Let’sjustkeepitsimple.”

The next morning we walked slowly up the steps of the U.S. SenateOffice Building, and I looked up at that magnificent façade, at all thecolumns and all the shinymarble, and thebig flagoverhead, and Ihad topause. I thought of theParthenon, theTemple ofNike. I knew that this,too, would be one of the seminalmoments ofmy life.Nomatter how itturnedout,Ididn’twanttoletitpasswithoutembracingit,acknowledgingit. So I stared at the columns. I admired the sunlight bouncing off themarble.Istoodthereforthelongesttime...

“Youcoming?”Werschkulsaid.Itwas a blazing summer day.My hand, the one grippingmy briefcase,

was drenched with sweat.My suit was soaked through. I looked as if I’dwalkedthrougharainstorm.HowwasIgoingtomeetaU.S.senatorinthiscondition?HowwasIgoingtoshakehishand?

HowwasIgoingtothinkstraight?

We entered Hatfield’s outer office, and one of his aides led us into awaitingroom.Abullpen.Ithoughtofthebirthsofmytwosons.IthoughtofPenny. I thought of my parents. I thought of Bowerman. I thought ofGrelle.IthoughtofPre.IthoughtofKitami.IthoughtofJamestheJust.

“Thesenatorwillseeyounow,”theaidesaid.She ledus intoa large, refreshinglycooloffice.Hatfieldcameout from

behindhisdesk.Hewelcomeduscollegially,asfellowOregonians,andledus to a sitting areabyhiswindow.Weall sat.Hatfield smiled,Werschkulsmiled.ImentionedtoHatfieldthatweweredistantlyrelated.Mymother,Ibelieved,washisthirdcousin.WetalkedabitaboutRoseburg.

Then we all cleared our throats and the air conditioner soughed. “Ah,well,Senator,”Isaid,“thereasonwe’vecometoseeyoutoday—”

Hehelduphishand.“Iknowallaboutyoursituation.MystaffhasreadWerschkulonAmericanSellingPrice,andbriefedmeonit.WhatcanIdotohelp?”

Istopped,stunned.IturnedtoWerschkul,whosefacewasthecolorofhispink bow tie. We’d spent so much time rehearsing this negotiation,preparing to convince Hatfield of the rightness of our cause, we weren’tready for thepossibilityof . . . success.We leaned intoeachother. Inhalfwhispers we talked about different ways Hatfield might help. Werschkulthought he shouldwrite a letter to the president of theUnited States, ormaybetheheadofcustoms.Iwantedhimtopickupthephone.Wecouldn’tagree.Westartedtoargue.Theairconditionerseemedtobelaughingatus.Finally, I shushed Werschkul, shushed the air conditioner, turned toHatfield.“Senator,”Isaid,“wewerenotpreparedforyoutobesoobligingtoday.Thetruthis,wedon’tknowwhatwewant.We’llhavetogetbacktoyou.”

Iwalkedout,notlookingbacktoseeifWerschkulwascoming.

I FLEW HOME in time to preside over two milestones. In downtownPortland we opened a thirty-five-hundred-square-foot retail palace, which

was instantlymobbed.The lines at the cash registerswereendless.Peoplewereclamoringtotryon . . .everything.Ihadto jumpinandhelp.Foramoment I was back in my parents’ living room, measuring feet, fittingrunnerswiththerightshoes.Itwasaball,ablast,andatimelyreminderofwhywewereinthis.

Thenwemovedofficesagain.Weneededstillmorespace,andwefounditinaforty-six-thousand-square-footbuildingwithalltheamenities—steamroom,library,gym,andmoreconferenceroomsthanIcouldcount.Signingthelease,Irememberedthosenights,drivingaroundwithWoodell.Ishookmyhead.But Ihadno senseofvictory. “It canalldisappear tomorrow,” Iwhispered.

Wewerebig,therewasnodenyingit.Tomakesureweweren’ttoobigforour britches, asMomHatfield would have said, we moved the way we’dalwaysmoved. All three hundred employees came in on theweekend andpackeduptheirbelongingsintotheirowncars.Weprovidedpizzaandbeer,andsomeofthewarehouseguysloadedtheheavierstuffintovans,andthenweallslowlycaravanneddowntheroad.

Itoldthewarehouseguystoleavethebaseball-mittchairbehind.

INTHE FALLof1979IflewtoWashingtonforasecondmeetingwiththebureau-kraken.Thistimehewasn’tsofeisty.Hatfieldhadbeenintouch.AshadOregon’sothersenator,BobPackwood,chairmanoftheSenateFinanceCommittee,whichhadreviewauthorityonTreasury.“I’msick...andtired,”saidthebureau-kraken,pointingoneofhistentaclesatme,“ofhearingfromyourhigh-placedfriends.”

“Oh,sorry,”Isaid.“Thatmustn’tbeanyfun.Butyou’llbehearingfromthemuntilthissituationisresolved.”

“Doyourealize,”hehissed,“thatIdon’tneedthisjob?Doyouknowthatmywife...has...money!Idon’tneedtowork,youknow.”

“Goodforyou.Andher.”Thesooneryouretire,Ithought,thebetter.

But the bureau-kraken would never retire. In years to come, throughRepublicanandDemocraticadministrations,he’dremain.Onandon.Likedeath and taxes. In fact, one day in the distant future, he’d be among thesmall coterie of bureaucrats to give the disastrous green light that wouldsendfederalagentsstormingthecompoundatWaco.

WITHTHE BUREAU-KRAKENrattled,Iwasmomentarilyabletoturnmyattention back to our other existential threat, production. The sameconditions that brought down Japan—fluctuating currency, rising laborcosts, government instability—were beginning to coalesce in Taiwan andKorea.Thetimehadcome,yetagain,toseeknewfactories,newcountries.ThetimehadcometothinkofChina.

The question wasn’t how to get into China. One shoe company oranotherwasgoingtogetin,eventually,andthenalltheotherswouldfollow.The question was how to get in first. The first to get in would have acompetitive advantage that could last decades, not only in China’sproductionsector,but in itsmarkets,andwith itspolitical leaders.Whatacoup that would be. In our first meetings on the subject of China we’dalwayssay:Onebillionpeople.Two.Billion.Feet.

WehadonebonafideChinaexpertonourteam.Chuck.BesideshavingworkedalongsideHenryKissinger,hesatontheboardoftheAllenGroup,an auto-partsmanufacturerwith designs on theChinesemarket. ItsCEOwas Walter Kissinger, Henry’s brother. Chuck told us that Allen, in itsexhaustiveresearchintoChina,haddiscoveredaveryimpressiveChinahandnamedDavidChang.Chuck knewChina, and he knew peoplewho knewChina,butnooneknewChinalikeDavidChang.

“Putitthisway,”Chucksaid.“WhenWalterKissingerwantedtogetintoChina,andcouldn’t,hedidn’tcallHenry.HecalledChang.”

Ilungedforthephone.

THE CHANG DYNASTYat Nike didn’t start well. For starters, he waspreppy.I’dthoughtWerschkulwaspreppy,untilImetChang.Blueblazer,gold buttons, heavily starched gingham shirt, regimental necktie—and heworeitalleffortlessly.Shamelessly.Hewasthepaisley-heartedlovechildofRalphLaurenandLauraAshley.

Itookhimaroundtheoffice,introducedhimtoeveryone,andheshowedaremarkabletalentforsayingtheabsolutewrongthing.HemetHayes,whowas330pounds,andStrasser,whowas320,andJimManns,ournewCFO,whowasaMoundsbarawayfrom350.Changmadeacrackaboutour“halftonofuppermanagement.”

Somuchheft,hesaid,atanathleticcompany?No one laughed. “Maybe it’s your delivery,” I told him, hurrying him

along.Wewent down the hall and bumped intoWoodell, whom I’d recently

called back from the East Coast. Chang reached down, shookWoodell’shand.“Skiingaccident?”hesaid.

“What?”Woodellsaid.“Whenyougettingoutofthatchair?”Changasked.“Never,youdumbshit.”Isighed.“Well,”ItoldChang,“there’snowheretogofromherebutup.”

1980

Weallgathered in theconferenceroomandChanggaveushisbio.He

wasborninShanghai,andraisedinopulence.Hisgrandfatherwasthethird-largest soy saucemanufacturer innorthernChina, andhis fatherhadbeenthe third-highest-ranking member of the Chinese Ministry of ForeignAffairs.When Chang was a teenager, however, the revolution came. TheChangs fled to theUnited States, to Los Angeles, whereChang attendedHollywoodHigh.Heoftenthoughthe’dgoback,andhisparentsdidalso.TheykeptinclosetouchwithfriendsandfamilyinChina,andhismotherremained extremely close with Soong Ching-ling, the godmother of therevolution.

InthemeantimeChangattendedPrinceton,andstudiedarchitecture,andmovedtoNewYork.Helandedajobatagoodarchitecturalfirm,whereheworked on the Levittown project. Then he set up his own firm. He wasmakingdecentmoney,doinggoodwork,butboredstiff.Hewasn’thavinganyfun,andhedidn’tfeelhewasaccomplishinganythingreal.

OnedayaPrincetonfriendcomplainedaboutbeingunabletogetavisaforShanghai.Changhelpedhis friendget thevisa, andhelpedhimsetupappointmentswithbusinesscontacts,andfoundthatheenjoyedit.Beinganemissary,ago-between,wasabetteruseofhistimeandtalents.

Evenwithhishelp,Changcautioned,getting intoChinawasextremelydifficult.Theprocesswaslaborious.“Youcan’tjustapplyforpermissiontovisit China,” he said. “You have to formally request that the Chinesegovernmentinviteyou.Bureaucracydoesn’tbegintodescribeit.”

Iclosedmyeyesandpictured,somewhereontheothersideoftheworld,aChineseversionofthebureau-kraken.

Ialsothoughtoftheex-GIswho’dexplainedJapanesebusinesspracticestomewhen Iwas twenty-four. I’d followed their advice, to the letter, andnever regretted it. So, underChang’s direction,we put together awrittenpresentation.

Itwas long.Itwasalmostas longasWerschkulonAmericanSellingPrice,VolumeI.We,too,haditbound.

Oftenweaskedeachother:Isanyoneactuallygoingtoreadthisthing?Ohwell,wesaid.ThisishowChangsaysit’sdone.WesentitofftoBeijingwithouthope.

ATTHE FIRSTButtfaceof1980Iannouncedthat,thoughwe’dgainedtheupperhandwiththeFeds,itmightgoonforeverifwedidn’tdosomethingbold,somethingoutrageous.“I’vegiventhisalotofthought,”Isaid,“andIthinkwhatweneedtodois...AmericanSellingPriceourselves.”

TheButtfaceslaughed.Thentheystoppedlaughingandlookedateachother.We spent the rest of the weekend kicking it around.Was it possible?

Nah,itcouldn’tbe.Couldwe?Oh,noway.But...maybe?Wedecidedtogiveitatry.Welaunchedanewshoe,arunningshoewith

nylonuppers,andcalled itOneLine. Itwasaknockoff,dirtcheap,withasimplelogo,andwemanufactureditinSaco,atHayes’sancientfactory.Wepriceditlow,justabovecost.Nowcustomsofficialswouldhavetousethis“competitor”shoeasanewreferencepointindecidingourimportduty.

Thatwasthejab.Thatwasjusttogettheirattention.Thenwethrewtheleft hook. We produced a TV commercial telling the story of a littlecompanyinOregon,fightingthebigbadgovernment.Itopenedonarunnerdoinghislonelyroadwork,asadeepvoiceextolledtheidealsofpatriotism,liberty, theAmericanway.And fighting tyranny. Itgotpeoplepretty firedup.

Then we threw the haymaker. On February 29, 1980, we filed a $25millionantitrustsuitintheU.S.DistrictCourtfortheSouthernDistrictofNewYork, alleging that our competitors, and assorted rubber companies,throughunderhandedbusinesspractices,hadconspiredtotakeusout.

Wesatback,waited.Weknewitwouldn’ttakelong,andindeeditdidn’t.Thebureau-krakencrackedup.Hethreatenedtogonuclear,whateverthatmeant.Itdidn’tmatter.Hedidn’tmatter.Hisbosses,andhisbosses’bosses,didn’twant this fight anymore.Our competitors, and their accomplices inthegovernment,realizedthatthey’dunderestimatedourwill.

Immediatelytheyinitiatedsettlementtalks.

DAY IN,DAYout,ourlawyerswouldphone.Fromsomegovernmentoffice,someblue-chiplawfirm,someconferenceroomontheEastCoast,meetingwiththeotherside, they’dtellmethe latestsettlementofferbeingfloated,andI’drejectitoutofhand.

Onedaythelawyerssaidwecouldsettlethewholething,withnofuss,nocourtroomdrama,forthetidysumof$20million.

Notachance,Isaid.Anotherdaytheyphonedandsaidwecouldsettlefor$15million.Don’tmakemelaugh,Isaid.As the number crept lower, I had several heated conversations with

Hayes,andStrasser,andmyfather.Theywantedmetosettle,bedonewiththis.“What’syouridealnumber?”they’dask.Zero,I’dsay.

Ididn’twanttopayonepenny.Evenonepennywouldbeunfair.But Jaqua, andCousinHouser, andChuck,whowere all consultingon

the case, satmedownoneday and explained that the governmentneededsomething to save face. They couldn’t walk away from this fight withnothing.Asnegotiationsgroundtoahalt,Imetone-on-onewithChuck.Heremindedme that until this fight was behind us, we couldn’t think aboutgoing public, and if we didn’t go public we continued to risk losingeverything.

Ibecamepetulant.Imoanedaboutfairness.Italkedaboutholdingout.IsaidmaybeIdidn’twanttogopublic—ever.YetagainIexpressedmyfearthat going public would changeNike, ruin it, by turning over control toothers.WhatwouldhappentothecultureofOregonTrack,forinstance,ifit was subject to shareholder votes or corporate raider demands? We’dgotten a little taste of that scenario with the small group of debentureholders.Scalingup and letting in thousandsof shareholders—itwould be athousand timesworse. Above all, I couldn’t bear the thought of one titanbuyingupshares,becomingabehemothontheboard.“Idon’twanttolosecontrol,”IsaidtoChuck.“That’smygreatestfear.”

“Well...theremightbeawaytogopublicwithoutlosinganycontrol,”hesaid.

“What?”“You could issue two classes of stock—class A and class B. The public

wouldgetclassBs,whichwouldcarryonevotepershare.Thefoundersandinner circle, and your convertible debenture holders, would get class As,whichwouldentitlethemtonamethree-quartersoftheboardofdirectors.In other words, you raise enormous sums of money, turbocharge yourgrowth,butensurethatyoukeepcontrol.”

Ilookedathim,dumbstruck.“Canwereallydothat?”“It’s not easy. But the New York Times and theWashington Post and a

coupleofothershavedoneit.Ithinkyoucandoit.”Maybe itwasn’t satori,orkensho, but itwas instant enlightenment. Ina

flash.The breakthrough I’d been seeking for years. “Chuck,” I said, “thatsoundslike...theanswer.”

At thenextButtface I explained theconceptof classAandclassB, andeveryonehadthesamereaction.Atlonglast.ButIcautionedtheButtfaces:Whether or not this was the solution, we needed to do something, rightnow, fix our cash flowproblemonce and for all, because ourwindowwasclosing.Icouldsuddenlyseearecessiononthehorizon.Sixmonths,ayearatthemax.Ifwewaited,triedtogopublicthen,themarketwouldgiveusfarlessthanwewereworth.

Iaskedforashowofhands.Goingpublic...allinfavor?Itwasunanimous.Themomentweresolvedourlongstandingcoldwarwithourcompetitors

andtheFeds,wewouldinitiateapublicoffering.

THE SPRING FLOWERSwereupbythetimeourlawyersandgovernmentofficialshadsettledonanumber:$9million.Itstillsoundedwaytoohigh,buteveryonetoldmetopay it.Takethedeal, theykeptsaying.Ispentanhourstaringoutmywindow,mulling.Theflowersandthecalendarsaiditwas spring,but thatday thecloudswereeye-level,dishwatergray,and thewindwascold.

Igroaned.IgrabbedthephoneanddialedWerschkul,whohadtakentheroleofleadnegotiator.“Let’sdoit.”

I told Carole Fields to cut the check. She brought it to me for mysignature.We looked at each other and of course we were both thinkingaboutthetimeI’dwrittenthatcheckfor$1million,whichIcouldn’tcover.NowIwaswritingacheckfor$9million,andtherewasnowayitwasgoingto bounce. I looked at the signature line. “Nine million,” I whispered. Icouldstillremembersellingmy1960MGwithracingtiresandatwincamforelevenhundreddollars.Likeyesterday.Leadmefromtheunrealtothereal.

THE LETTERARRIVEDatthestartofsummer.TheChinesegovernmentrequeststhepleasureofavisit...

I spent a month deciding who would go. It has to be the A Team, Ithought, so I satwithayellow legalpad inmy lap,making listsofnames,scratchingthemout,makingnewlists.

Chang,ofcourse.Strasser,naturally.Hayes,surely.I notified everyone who was going on the trip to get their papers and

passports and affairs in order. Then I spent the days leading up to our

departurereading,crammingonChinesehistory.TheBoxerRebellion.TheGreatWall.OpiumWars.Mingdynasty.Confucius.Mao.

AnddarnedifIwasgoingtobetheonlystudent.Imadeasyllabusforallmembersofourtravelingparty.

InJuly1980weboardedaplane.Beijing,herewecome.Butfirst,Tokyo.Ithoughtitwouldbeagoodideatostoptherealongtheway.Justtocheckin. Sales were starting to grow again in the Japanese market. Also, JapanwouldbeanicewaytoeaseeveryoneintoChina,whichwasgoingtobeachallenge for all of us. Baby steps. Penny and Gorman—I’d learned mylesson.

Twelve hours later,walking the streets ofTokyo, alone,mymind keptspinning back to 1962.MyCrazy Idea.Now I was back, on the verge oftaking that idea into amammothnewmarket. I thoughtofMarcoPolo. IthoughtofConfucius.ButIalsothoughtofallthegamesI’dseenthroughthe years—football, basketball, baseball—whenone teamhad a big lead inthefinalseconds,orinnings,andrelaxed.Ortightened.Andthereforelost.

Itoldmyselftostoplookingback,keepmygazeforward.Weatea fewwonderful Japanesedinners, andvisiteda fewold friends,

and after two or three days, rested and ready, wewere all set to go.OurflighttoBeijingwasthenextmorning.

Wehadone lastmeal together in theGinza,washeddownwith severalcocktails,andeveryoneturnedinearly.Itookahotshower,phonedhome,andpouredmyselfintobed.AfewhourslaterIwoketofranticknocking.Ilookedattheclockonthenightstand.Twoa.m.“Who’sthere?”

“DavidChang!Letmein!”Iwent to thedoorand foundChang lookingveryun-Chang.Rumpled,

harried,regimentaltieaskew.“Hayesisn’tgoing!”hesaid.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“Hayesisdownstairsinthebarandhesayshecan’tdoit,hecannotget

onthatplane.”“Whynot?”“He’shavingsomekindofpanicattack.”

“Yes.Hehasphobias.”“Whatkindofphobias?”“Hehas...allthephobias.”Istartedtogetdressed,togodowntothebar.ThenIrememberedwhoit

wasweweredealingwith.“Gotobed,”IsaidtoChang.“Hayeswillbethereinthemorning.”

“But—”“He’llbethere.”Firstthinginthemorning,dull-eyed,deathlypale,Hayeswasstandingin

thelobby.Ofcourse,hemadesure topackenough“medicine” forhisnextattack.

Hours later, going through customs inBeijing, I heardbehindme a greatcommotion.Theroomwasbare,withplywoodpartitions,andontheothersideofonepartitionseveralChineseofficerswereshouting.Iwentaroundthe partition and found two officers, agitated, pointing at Hayes and hisopensuitcase.

Iwalkedover.StrasserandChangwalkedover.LyingatopHayes’sgiantunderwearweretwelvequartsofvodka.

Noonesaidanythingforthelongesttime.ThenHayesheavedasigh.“That’sforme,”hesaid.“Youguysareonyourown.”

OVER THE NEXTtwelvedayswetraveledalloverChina,inthecompanyofgovernmenthandlers.TheytookustoTiananmenSquareandmadesurewestoppedalongtimeinfrontofthegiantportraitofChairmanMao,whohaddiedfouryearsearlier.TheytookustotheForbiddenCity.Theytookus to the Ming tombs. We were fascinated, of course, and curious—toocurious.Wemade our handlers excruciatingly uncomfortable with all ourquestions.

AtonestopIlookedaroundandsawhundredsofpeopleinMaosuitsandflimsy black shoes, which seemed made of construction paper. But a fewchildrenwerewearingcanvassneakers.Thatgavemehope.

What we wanted to see, of course, were factories. Our handlersreluctantlyagreed.Theytookusbytraintoremotetowns,farfromBeijing,wherewesawvastandterrifyingindustrialcomplexes,smallmetropolisesoffactories,eachonemoreoutdatedthanthelast.Old,rusted,decrepit,thesefactoriesmadeHayes’sancientSacoruinlookstate-of-the-art.

Aboveall,theywerefilthy.Ashoewouldrollofftheassemblylinewithastain, a swath of grime, and nothing would be done. There was nooverarchingsenseofcleanliness,norealqualitycontrol.Whenwepointedoutadefectiveshoe,theofficialsrunningthefactorieswouldshrugandsay:“Perfectlyfunctional.”

Nevermindaesthetics.TheChinesedidn’tseewhythenylonorcanvasinapairofshoesneededtobethesameshadeintheleftshoeandtheright.Itwascommonpracticeforaleftshoetobelightblueandarightshoetobedarkblue.

Wemetwithscoresoffactoryofficials,andlocalpoliticians,andassorteddignitaries. We were toasted, feted, queried, monitored, talked at, andalmostalwayswelcomedwarmly.Weatepoundsofseaurchinandroastedduck,andatmanystopsweweretreatedtothousand-year-oldeggs.Icouldtasteeveryoneofthosethousandyears.

OfcoursewewereservedmanyMaotais.AfterallmytripstoTaiwan,Iwasprepared.My liverwasseasoned.WhatIwasn’tpreparedforwashowmuchHayeswouldlikethem.Witheachsiphesmackedhislipsandaskedformore.

Neartheendofourvisitwetookanineteen-hourtrainridetoShanghai.Wecould’veflown,butIinsistedonthetrain.Iwantedtosee,toexperiencethe countryside.Within the first hour themenwere cursingme.Thedaywasdrippinghotandthetrainwasnotair-conditioned.

Therewas oneold fan in the corner of our train car, the blades barelymoving the hot dust around. To get cool, Chinese passengers thoughtnothing of stripping down to their underwear, and Hayes and Strasserthought thisgavethemlicensetodothesame.If I live tobetwohundredyearsold,Iwon’tforgetthesightofthoseleviathanswalkingupanddown

the train car in their T-shirts and BVDs. Nor will any Chinese man orwomanwhowasonthetrainthatday.

BeforeleavingChinawehadafinalerrandortwoinShanghai.ThefirstwastosecureadealwiththeChinesetrack-and-fieldfederation.Thismeantsecuring a deal with the government’s Ministry of Sports. Unlike theWestern world, where every athlete made his own deal, China itselfnegotiated endorsement deals for all its athletes. So, in an old Shanghaischoolhouse,inaclassroomwithseventy-five-year-oldfurnitureandahugeportrait of Chairman Mao, Strasser and I met with the ministryrepresentative. The first severalminutes the representative lectured us onthe beauties of communism. He kept saying that the Chinese like to dobusiness with “like-minded people.” Strasser and I looked at each other.Like-minded? What gives? Then the lecture abruptly stopped. TherepresentativeleanedforwardandinalowvoicethatstruckmeasaChineseversionofuberagentLeighSteinbergheasked:“Howmuchyouoffering?”

Within two hours we had ourselves a deal. Four years later, in LosAngeles, the Chinese track-and-field team would walk into an OlympicstadiumforthefirsttimeinnearlytwogenerationswearingAmericanshoesandwarm-ups.

Nikeshoesandwarm-ups.Our finalmeetingwaswith theMinistry of ForeignTrade.Aswith all

previousmeetings, there were several rounds of long speeches,mainly byofficials.Hayeswasboredduringthefirstround.Bythethirdroundhewassuicidal. He started playing with the loose threads on the front of hispolyester dress shirt. Suddenly he became annoyed with the threads. Hetookouthislighter.Asthedeputyministerofforeigntradewashailingusasworthypartners,hestoppedandlookeduptoseethatHayeshadsethimselfonfire.Hayesbeatontheflamewithhishands,andmanagedtoputitout,butonlyafterruiningthemoment,andthespeaker’smojo.

It didn’tmatter. Just beforegettingon theplanehomewe signeddealswith two Chinese factories, and officially became the first Americanshoemakerintwenty-fiveyearstobeallowedtodobusinessinChina.

It seemswrong to call it “business.” It seemswrong to throw all thosehectic days and sleepless nights, all those magnificent triumphs anddesperate struggles, under that bland, generic banner: business.What wewere doing felt like so much more. Each new day brought fifty newproblems, fifty toughdecisions thatneededtobemade,rightnow,andwewerealwaysacutelyawarethatonerashmove,onewrongdecisioncouldbetheend.Themarginforerrorwasforevergettingnarrower,whilethestakeswere forever creeping higher—and none of us wavered in the belief that“stakes” didn’tmean “money.” For some, I realize, business is the all-outpursuitofprofits,period, full stop,but forusbusinesswasnomore aboutmakingmoney than being human is aboutmaking blood.Yes, the humanbodyneedsblood.Itneedstomanufactureredandwhitecellsandplateletsandredistribute themevenly, smoothly, toall the rightplaces,on time,orelse. But that day-to-day business of the human body isn’t ourmission ashuman beings. It’s a basic process that enables our higher aims, and lifealwaysstrivestotranscendthebasicprocessesofliving—andatsomepointin the late 1970s, I did, too. I redefinedwinning, expanded it beyondmyoriginaldefinitionofnotlosing,ofmerelystayingalive.Thatwasnolongerenough to sustainme,ormycompany.Wewanted, as all greatbusinessesdo,tocreate,tocontribute,andwedaredtosaysoaloud.Whenyoumakesomething, when you improve something, when you deliver something,whenyou add somenew thingor service to the livesof strangers,makingthemhappier,orhealthier,orsafer,orbetter,andwhenyoudoitallcrisplyandefficiently,smartly,thewayeverythingshouldbedonebutsoseldomis—you’re participatingmore fully in thewhole grandhumandrama.Morethan simply alive, you’re helping others to live more fully, and if that’sbusiness,allright,callmeabusinessman.

Maybeitwillgrowonme.

THEREWAS NOtimetounpack.Therewasnotimetogetoverourpost-Chinajetlag,whichwasprofound.AswereturnedtoOregon,theprocessof

goingpublicwas in full swing.Big choicesneeded tobemade.Especially:whowasgoingtomanagetheoffering.

Public offerings don’t always succeed. On the contrary, whenmismanaged,theyturnintotrainwrecks.Sothiswasacriticaldecisionrightout of the blocks. Chuck, having worked at Kuhn, Loeb, still had strongrelationshipswiththeirpeople,andthoughtthey’dbebest.WeinterviewedfourorfiveotherfirmsbutintheenddecidedtogowithChuck’sinstincts.Hehadn’tsteereduswrongyet.

Nextwehadtocreateaprospectus.Ittookfiftydrafts,atleast,togetitlookingandsoundingthewaywewanted.

Finally, at the tail endof summer,wehanded all our paperwork to theSecurities and Exchange Commission, and at the start of September wereleased the formalannouncement.Nikewillbecreating20millionsharesofclassAstockand30millionsharesofclassB.Thepriceofthestock,wetold the world, would be somewhere between eighteen and twenty-twodollarsashare.TBD.

Of50million shares, total, almost 30millionwouldbeheld in reserve,andabout2millionclassBswouldbesoldtothepublic.Oftheroughly17million remaining class A shares, the preexisting shareholders, or insiders,meaningme, Bowerman, the debenture holders, and the Buttfaces, wouldown56percent.

Ipersonallywouldownabout46percent.Itneededtobethatmuch,weallagreed,because thecompanyneededtoberunbyoneperson, to speakwithonefirmandsteadyvoice—comewhatmay.Therecouldbenochanceofalliancesorbreakawayfactions,noexistentialstrugglesforcontrol.Totheoutsider the division of shares might have seemed disproportionate,unbalanced,unfair.TotheButt-facesitwasanecessity.Therewasn’tawordofdissentorcomplaint.Ever.

WE HIT THEroad.Daysbeforetheofferingwewentouttosellpotentialinvestors on the worthiness of our product, our company, our brand.

Ourselves.AfterChina,weweren’tinanymoodtotravel,buttherewasnoother way. We had to do what Wall Street calls a dog-and-pony show.Twelvecities,sevendays.

First stop, Manhattan. Breakfast meeting with a roomful of hard-eyedbankers,whorepresentedthousandsofpotential investors.Hayesrose firstandsaidafewintroductorywords.Hesummedupthenumberssuccinctly.Hewasquitegood.Forceful,sober.Johnsonthenstoodandspokeabouttheshoesthemselves,whatmadethemdifferentandspecial,howthey’dcometobesoinnovative.Hewasneverbetter.

Iclosed.Italkedaboutthecompany’sorigins,itssoulandspirit.Ihadanotecardwithafewwordsscribbledonit,butIdidn’tlookatitonce.IhadnouncertaintyaboutwhatIwantedtosay.I’mnotsureIcould’veexplainedmyselftoaroomfulofstrangers,butIhadnotroubleexplainingNike.

IstartedwithBowerman.ItalkedaboutrunningforhimatOregon,thenformingapartnershipwithhimasakidinmymid-twenties.Italkedabouthis brains, his bravery, his magic waffle iron. I talked about his booby-trappedmailbox.Itwasafunnystory,anditneverfailedtogetalaugh,butithadapoint.IwantedtolettheseNewYorkersknowthatthoughwehailedfromOregon,wewerenottobetrifledwith.

Thecowardsneverstartedandtheweakdiedalongtheway.Thatleavesus,ladiesandgentlemen.Us.

That first night we gave the same presentation at a formal dinner, inMidtown,beforetwiceasmanybankers.Cocktailswereservedbeforehand.Hayeshadonetoomany.Thistime,whenhestoodtospeak,hedecidedtoimprovise, to free-style.“I’vebeenaroundtheseguysa longtime,”hesaid,laughing,“thecoreofthecompany,youmightsay,andI’mheretotellyou,haha,they’reallchronicunemployables.”

Drycoughs.Athroatinthebackwascleared.Alonecricketchirped.Thendied.Somewhere,faroff,onepersonlaughedlikealoon.TothisdayIthinkit

wasJohnson.

Moneywasnolaughingmattertothesepeople,andapublicofferingofthis sizewasnot theoccasion for jokes. I sighed, lookeddownatmynotecard.IfHayeshaddrivenabulldozerthroughtheroom,itcouldhardlyhavebeenworse.LaterthatnightItookhimasideandtoldhimIthoughtitwasbest if he didn’t speak anymore. Johnson and I would handle the formalpresentations.Butwe’dstillneedhimfortheQandAsessions.

Hayes lookedatme,blinkedonce.Heunderstood.“I thoughtyouweregoingtosendmehome,”hesaid.“No,”Isaid,“youneedtobepartofthis.”

We continued to Chicago, then Dallas, then Houston, then SanFrancisco.WewentontoLosAngeles,thenSeattle.Ateachstopwegrewmore tired, almostweepywith fatigue. Johnsonand I especially.A strangesentimentalitywas stealingoverus.On theairplanes, in thehotelbars,wetalkedaboutoursaladdays.Hisendlessletters.Pleasesendencouragingwords.Mysilence.WetalkedaboutthenameNikecomingtohiminadream.Wetalked about Stretch, andGiampietro, and theMarlboroMan, and all thedifferenttimesI’djerkedhimbackandforthacrossthecountry.WetalkedaboutthedayhewasalmoststrungupbyhisExeteremployees,whentheirpaycheckshadbounced.“Afterallthat,”Johnsonsaidonedayinthebackofatowncar,headedtothenextmeeting,“andnowwe’rethetoastsofWallStreet.”

Ilookedathim.Thingsdochange.Buthehadn’t.Henowreachedintohisbag,tookoutabook,andbegantoread.

TheroadshowendedthedaybeforeThanksgiving.Ivaguelyrememberaturkey,somecranberries,myfamilyaroundme.Ivaguelyrememberbeingaware that it was an anniversary of sorts. I’d first flown to Japan onThanksgivingDay,1962.

Over dinner my father had a thousand questions about the publicoffering. My mother had none. She said she’d always known it wouldhappen, ever since the day she bought a pair of seven-dollarLimberUps.They were understandably feeling reflective, congratulatory, but I quicklyhushedthem,beggedthemnottobepremature.Thegamewasstillon.Theracewasafoot.

WE CHOSE A datefortheoffering.December2,1980.Thelastremaininghurdlewassettlingonaprice.

Thenightbefore theofferingHayescame intomyoffice. “TheguysatKuhn,Loebarerecommendingtwentydollarspershare,”hesaid.

“Toolow,”Isaid.“It’sinsulting.”Well,itcan’tbetoohigh,hecautioned.Wewantthedamnthingtosell.Thewholeprocesswascrazy-making,becauseitwasimprecise.Therewas

no rightnumber. It was all a matter of opinion, feeling, selling. Selling—that’swhatI’dbeendoingformuchof these lasteighteenyears,andIwastiredof it. Ididn’twant to sell anymore.Our stockwasworth twenty-twodollars a share. That was the number. We’d earned that number. Wedeservedtobeonthehighendofthepricerange.AcompanycalledApplewas alsogoingpublic that sameweek, and selling for twenty-twodollars ashare, andwewereworthasmuchas them, I said toHayes. If abunchofWallStreetguysdidn’t see it thatway, Iwasready towalkaway fromthedeal.

IglaredatHayes. Iknewwhathewas thinking.Herewegoagain.PayNisshofirst.

THE NEXT MORNINGHayes and I drovedowntown toour law firm.Aclerk showed us into the senior partner’s office. A paralegal dialedKuhn,LoebinNewYork,thenclickedabuttononaspeakerinthemiddleofthebigwalnutdesk.HayesandIstaredatthespeaker.Disembodiedvoicesfilledthe room.One of the voices grew louder, clearer. “Gentlemen . . . goodmorning.”

“Goodmorning,”wesaid.The loud voice took the lead. It gave a long and careful explanationof

Kuhn,Loeb’sreasoningonthestockprice,whichwasjabberwocky.Andso,theloudvoicesaid,wecan’tgoanyhigherthantwenty-onedollars.

“No,”Isaid.“Ournumberistwenty-two.”

We heard the other voices murmuring. They came up to twenty-one-fifty.“I’mafraid,”saidtheloudvoice,“that’sourfinaloffer.”

“Gentlemen,twenty-twoisournumber.”Hayesstaredatme.Istaredatthespeaker.Cracking silence. We could hear heavy breaths, pops, scrapes. Papers

beingshuffled.Iclosedmyeyesandletallthatwhitenoisewashoverme.Irelivedeverynegotiationinmylifetothatpoint.

So,Dad,yourememberthatCrazyIdeaIhadatStanford...?Gentlemen,IrepresentBlueRibbonSportsofPortland,Oregon.Yousee,Dot,IlovePenny.AndPennylovesme.Andifthingscontinueinthis

vein,Iseeusbuildingalifetogether.“I’msorry,”theloudvoicesaidangrily.“We’llhavetocallyouback.”Click.We sat. We said nothing. I took long deep breaths. The clerk’s face

slowlymelted.Fiveminutespassed.Fifteenminutes.SweatrandownHayes’sforeheadandneck.Thephonerang.Theclerklookedatus,tomakesurewewereready.We

nodded.Hepressedthebuttononthespeaker.“Gentlemen,”theloudvoicesaid.“Wehaveadeal.We’llsenditoutto

marketthisFriday.”I drove home. I remember the boys were outside playing. Penny was

standinginthekitchen.“Howwasyourday?”shesaid.“Hm.Okay.”“Good.”“Wegotourprice.”Shesmiled.“Ofcourseyoudid.”Iwentforalongrun.ThenItookahot,hotshower.ThenIhadaquickdinner.ThenItuckedintheboysandgavethemastory.

The year was 1773. Privates Matt and Travis were fighting under thecommand ofGeneralWashington.Cold, tired, hungry, their uniforms in tatters,they camped for thewinteratValleyForge,Pennsylvania.They slept in loghuts,wedgedbetweentwomountains:MountJoyandMountMisery.Morningtillnight,bitter coldwinds sliced through themountainsandbarreled through the chinks inthehuts.Foodwasscarce;onlyathirdofthemenhadshoes.

Whenevertheywalkedoutside,theyleftbloodyfootprintsinthesnow.Thousandsdied.ButMattandTravisheldon.Finally,springcame.ThetroopsgotwordthattheBritishhadretreated,andthe

Frenchwerecomingtotheaidofthecolonists.PrivatesMattandTravisknewfromthenonthattheycouldlivethroughanything.MountJoy,MountMisery.

Theend.Goodnight,boys.Night,Dad.I turnedout the lightandwentand sat in frontof theTVwithPenny.

Neitherofuswasreallywatching.ShewasreadingabookandIwasdoingcalculationsinmyhead.

BythistimenextweekBowermanwouldbeworth$9million.Cale—$6.6million.Woodell,Johnson,Hayes,Strasser—eachabout$6million.Fantasy numbers. Numbers that meant nothing. I never knew that

numberscouldmeansomuch,andsolittle,atthesametime.“Bed?”Pennysaid.Inodded.Iwentaroundthehouse,turningofflights,checkingdoors.ThenIjoined

her.Foralongtimewelayinthedark.Itwasn’tover.Farfromit.Thefirstpart,Itoldmyself,isbehindus.Butit’sonlythefirstpart.

Iaskedmyself:Whatareyoufeeling?Itwasn’tjoy.Itwasn’trelief.IfIfeltanything,itwas...regret?GoodGod,Ithought.Yes.Regret.BecauseIhonestlywishedIcoulddoitalloveragain.

Ifellasleepforafewhours.WhenIwokeitwascoldandrainy.Iwenttothewindow.The treesweredrippingwater.Everythingwasmist and fog.Theworldwasthesameasithadbeenthedaybefore,asithadalwaysbeen.Nothinghadchanged,leastofallme.AndyetIwasworth$178million.

Ishowered,atebreakfast,drovetowork.Iwasatmydeskbeforeanyoneelse.

N IGHT

We love going to themovies.We always have. But tonight we have a

dilemma.We’veseenalltheviolentmovies,whichPennylikesbest,sowe’regoingtohavetoventureoutsideourcomfortzone,trysomethingdifferent.Acomedy,maybe.

I leaf through the paper. “How aboutTheBucketList—at theCentury?JackNicholsonandMorganFreeman?”

Shefrowns:Iguess.It’sChristmastime,2007.

THE BUCKET LIST turns out to be anything but a comedy. It’s a movieaboutmortality.Twomen,NicholsonandFreeman,bothterminallyillwithcancer, decide to spend their remaining days doing all the fun things, thecrazy things, they’ve alwayswanted to do, tomake themost of their timebeforetheykickthebucket.Anhourintothemovie,there’snotachuckletobehad.

Therearealsomanystrange,unsettlingparallelsbetweenthemovieandmy life. First, Nicholson always makes me think of One Flew Over theCuckoo’sNest,whichmakesme thinkofKesey,which takesmeback tomydays at the University of Oregon. Second, high on the bucket list ofNicholson’s character is seeing the Himalayas, which transports me toNepal.

Above all,Nicholson’s character employs apersonal assistant—a sort ofsurrogate son—named Matthew. He even looks a bit like my son. Same

scruffygoatee.When themovie ends,when the lights comeup,Penny and I are both

relievedtostandandreturntothebrightglareofreallife.The theater is a new sixteen-screen colossus in the heart of Cathedral

City, just outsidePalmSprings.These dayswe spendmuch of thewinterthere, hiding from the chilly Oregon rains. Walking through the lobby,waiting foroureyes to adjust,we spot two familiar faces.At firstwecan’tplace them.We’re still seeingNicholson and Freeman in ourminds. Butthese faces are equally familiar—equally famous.Nowwe realize. It’s BillandWarren.GatesandBuffett.

Westrollover.Neithermaniswhatyou’dcallaclosefriend,butwe’vemetthemseveral

times, at social events and conferences. And we have common causes,commoninterests,afewmutualacquaintances.“Fancymeetingyouhere!”Isay.ThenIcringe.DidIreallyjustsaythat?IsitpossiblethatI’mstillshyandawkwardinthepresenceofcelebrities?

“Iwasjustthinkingaboutyou,”oneofthemsays.We shake hands, all around, and talkmostly about Palm Springs. Isn’t

this place lovely? Isn’t itwonderful to get out of the cold?We talk aboutfamilies, business, sports. I hear someone behind us whisper, “Hey, look,BuffettandGates—who’sthatotherguy?”

Ismile.Asitshouldbe.In my head I can’t help doing some quick math. At the moment I’m

worth $10 billion, and each of thesemen isworth five or six timesmore.Leadmefromtheunrealtothereal.

Pennyasksiftheyenjoyedthemovie.Yes,theybothsay,lookingdownattheir shoes, though itwas a bit depressing.What’s on your bucket lists? Inearly ask, but I don’t. Gates and Buffett seem to have done everythingthey’veeverwantedinthislife.Theyhavenobucketlists,surely.

Whichmakesmeaskmyself:HaveI?

AT HOME PENNYpicks up her needlepoint and I pourmyself a glass ofwine.Ipulloutayellowlegalpadtolookatmynotesandlistsfortomorrow.Forthefirsttimeinawhile...it’sblank.

Wesitinfrontoftheeleveno’clocknews,butmymindisfar,faraway.Drifting,floating,time-traveling.Afamiliarfeelingoflate.

I’m apt to spend long stretches of the day walking around in mychildhood. For some reason I think a lot about my grandfather, BumpKnight.Hehadnothing, lessthannothing.Andyethemanagedtoscrimpandsaveandbuyabrand-newModelT,inwhichhemovedhiswifeandfivekids from Winnebago, Minnesota, all the way to Colorado, then on toOregon.Hetoldmethathedidn’tbothertogethisdriver’slicense,hejustup andwent.Descending theRockies in that rattling, shudderingpieceoftin,herepeatedlyscoldedit.“Whoa,WHOA,yousonofabitch!”Iheardthisstorysomanytimesfromhim,andfromauntsandunclesandcousins,IfeelasthoughIwasthere.Inaway,Iwas.

Bump later bought a pickup, and he loved putting us grandkids in thebackofit,drivingusintotownonerrands.Alongthewayhe’dalwaysstopby Sutherlin Bakery and buy us a dozen glazed doughnuts—each. I needonlylookupattheblueskyorthewhiteceiling(anyblankscreenwilldo)andIseemyself,danglingmybarefeetoverhistruckbed,feelingthefreshgreenwind onmy face, licking glaze off a warm doughnut.Could I haveriskedasmuch,daredasmuch,walkedtherazor’sedgeofentrepreneurshipbetweensafetyandcatastrophe,withouttheearlyfoundationofthatfeeling,thatblissofsafetyandcontentment?Idon’tthinkso.

AfterfortyyearsI’vesteppeddownasNikeCEO,leavingthecompanyingoodhands,Ithink,andgoodshape,Itrust.Saleslastyear,2006,were$16billion.(Adidaswas$10billion,butwho’scounting?)Ourshoesandclothesareinfivethousandstoresworldwide,andwehavetenthousandemployees.OurChineseoperation inShanghaialonehas sevenhundred. (AndChina,oursecond-largestmarket,isnowourlargestproducerofshoes.Iguessthat1980trippaidoff.)

ThefivethousandemployeesattheworldheadquartersinBeavertonarehousedonanEdeniccollegiatecampus,withtwohundredacresofwoodedwilderness, laced by rolling streams, dotted by pristine ball fields. Thebuildingsarenamedafterthemenandwomenwhohavegivenusmorethantheirnamesandendorsements.JoanBenoitSamuelson,KenGriffeyJr.,MiaHamm, TigerWoods, Dan Fouts, Jerry Rice, Steve Prefontaine—they’vegivenusouridentity.

AschairmanIstillgomostdaystomyoffice.I lookaroundatall thosebuildings,andIdon’tseebuildings,Iseetemples.Anybuildingisatempleifyoumakeitso.IthinkoftenofthatmomentoustripwhenIwastwenty-four.IthinkofmyselfstandinghighaboveAthens,gazingattheParthenon,andIneverfailtoexperiencethesensationoftimefoldinginonitself.

Amid the campus buildings, along the campus walkways, there areenormous banners: action photos of the super athletes, the legends andgiantsandtitanswho’veelevatedNiketosomethingmorethanabrand.

Jordan.Kobe.Tiger.Again,Ican’thelpbutthinkofmytriparoundtheworld.TheRiverJordan.MysticalKobe,Japan.ThatfirstmeetingatOnitsuka,pleadingwiththeexecutivesfortheright

tosellTigers...Canthisallbeacoincidence?I thinkof thecountlessNikeoffices around theworld.Ateachone,no

matterthecountry,thephonenumberendsin6453,whichspellsoutNikeonthekeypad.But,bypurechance,fromrighttoleftitalsospellsoutPre’sbesttimeinthemile,tothetenthofasecond:3:54.6.

I say by pure chance, but is it really?Am I allowed to think that somecoincidencesaremorethancoincidental?CanIbeforgivenforthinking,orhoping, that theuniverse,or someguidingdaemon,hasbeennudgingme,whisperingtome?Orelsejustplayingwithme?Canitreallybenothingbut

aflukeofgeographythattheoldestshoeseverdiscoveredareapairofnine-thousand-year-oldsandals...salvagedfromacaveinOregon?

Istherenothingtothefactthatthesandalswerediscoveredin1938,theyearIwasborn?

I ALWAYS FEELa thrill, a shot of adrenaline, when I drive through theintersection of the campus’s two main streets, each named after a NikeFounding Father. All day, every day, the security guard at the front gategivesvisitorsthesamedirections.WhatyouwannadoistakeBowermanDriveallthewayuptoDelHayesWay...Ialsotakegreatpleasureinstrollingpasttheoasisatthecenterofcampus,theNisshoIwaiJapaneseGardens.Inonesenseour campus is a topographicalmapofNike’s history andgrowth; inanotherit’sadioramaofmylife.Inyetanothersenseit’saliving,breathingexpression of that vital human emotion,maybe themost vital of all, afterlove.Gratitude.

The youngest employees atNike seem to have it. In abundance.Theycare deeply about the names on the streets and buildings, and about thebygonedays.LikeMatthewbeggingforhisbedtimestory, theyclamorforthe old tales. They crowd the conference room whenever Woodell orJohnsonvisits.They’ve even formedadiscussiongroup, an informal thinktank,topreservethatoriginalsenseofinnovation.TheycallthemselvesTheSpiritof72,whichfillsmyheart.

But it’s not just the young people within the company who honor thehistory.IthinkbacktoJuly2005.Inthemiddleofsomeevent,Ican’trecallwhich,LeBronJamesasksforaprivateword.

“Phil,canIseeyouamoment?”“Ofcourse.”“When I first signed with you,” he says, “I didn’t know all that much

aboutthehistoryofNike.SoI’vebeenstudyingup.”“Oh?”“You’rethefounder.”

“Well.Cofounder.Yes.Itsurprisesalotofpeople.”“AndNikewasbornin1972.”“Well.Born—?Yes.Isuppose.”“Right.SoIwent tomy jewelerandhadthemfindaRolexwatch from

1972.”Hehandsmethewatch.It’sengraved:Withthanksfortakingachanceon

me.Asusual,Isaynothing.Idon’tknowwhattosay.Itwasn’tmuchofachance.Hewasprettyclosetoasurething.Buttaking

a chance on people—he’s right. You could argue that’s what it’s all beenabout.

I GO OUTto the kitchen, pour another glass of wine. Returning to myrecliner,IwatchPennyneedlepointforawhileandthementalimagescometumblingfasterandfaster.AsifI’mneedlepointingmemories.

I watch Pete Sampras crush every opponent at one of his manyWimbledons.After the final point he tosses his racket into the stands—tome!(Heovershootsandhitsthemanbehindme,whosues,ofcourse.)

I see Pete’s archrival, AndreAgassi, win theU.S.Open, unseeded, andcometomyboxafterthefinalshot,intears.“Wedidit,Phil!”

We?IsmileasTigerdrainsthefinalputtatAugusta—orisitSt.Andrews?He

hugsme—andholdsonformanysecondslongerthanIexpect.Irollmymindbackoverthemanyprivate,intimatemomentsI’veshared

with him, and with Bo Jackson, and with Michael Jordan. Staying atMichael’s house in Chicago, I pick up the phone next to the bed in theguestroomanddiscoverthatthere’savoiceontheline.MayIhelpyou?It’sroomservice.Genuine,round-the-clock,whatever-your-heart-desiresroomservice.

Isetdownthephone,mymouthhangingopen.

They’realllikesons,andbrothers—family.Noless.WhenTiger’sfather,Earl, dies, the church in Kansas holds fewer than one hundred, and I’mhonored tobe included.WhenJordan’s father ismurdered, I fly toNorthCarolinaforthefuneralanddiscoverwithashockthataseatisreservedformeinthefrontrow.

Allofwhichleadsmeback,ofcourse,toMatthew.Ithinkofhislong,difficultsearchformeaning,foridentity.Forme.His

searchoftenlookedsofamiliar,eventhoughMatthewdidn’thavemyluck,or my focus. Nor my insecurity. Maybe if he’d had a little moreinsecurity...

Inhisquesttofindhimself,hedroppedoutofcollege.Heexperimented,dabbled,rebelled,argued,ranaway.Nothingworked.Then,atlast,in2000,he seemed to enjoy being a husband, a father, a philanthropist. He gotinvolved in Mi Casa, Su Casa, a charity building an orphanage in ElSalvador.Ononeofhisvisitsthere,afterafewdaysofhard,satisfyingwork,hetookabreak.HedrovewithtwofriendstoIlopango,adeep-waterlake,togoscubadiving.

Forsomereasonhedecidedtoseehowdeephecouldgo.Hedecidedtotakeariskthatevenhisrisk-addictedfatherwouldnevertake.

Somethingwentwrong.At150feetmysonlostconsciousness.IfIweretothinkaboutMatthewinhisfinalmoments,fightingforair,I

believemy imagination couldgetmevery close tohowhemusthave felt.AfterthethousandsofmilesI’veloggedasarunner,Iknowthatfeelingoffightingforthatnextbreath.ButIwon’tletmyimaginationgothere,ever.

Still, I’ve talked to the two friends who were with him. I’ve readeverythingI’vebeenabletogetmyhandsonaboutdivingaccidents.Whenthings go wrong, I’ve learned, a diver often feels something called “themartini effect.” He thinks everything is okay. Better than okay. He feelseuphoric.ThatmusthavehappenedtoMatthew,Itellmyself,becauseatthelastsecondhepulledouthismouthpiece.Ichoosetobelievethiseuphoriascenario, tobelieve thatmy sondidn’t suffer at theend.Thatmy sonwashappy.Ichoose,becauseit’stheonlywayIcangoon.

Pennyand Iwere at themovieswhenwe foundout.We’dgone to thefiveo’clockshowingofShrek2. Inthemiddleof themovieweturnedandsawTravisstandingintheaisle.Travis.Travis?

Hewaswhisperingtousinthedark.“Youguysneedtocomewithme.”Wewalkeduptheaisle,outofthetheater,fromdarknesstolight.Aswe

emergedhesaid,“IjustgotaphonecallfromElSalvador...”Pennyfelltothefloor.Travishelpedherup.Heputhisarmaroundhis

motherand I staggeredaway, to theendof thehallway, tears streaming. Irecall seven strange unbidden words running through my head, over andover,likeafragmentofsomepoem:Sothisisthewayitends.

BY THE NEXTmorning the news was everywhere. Internet, radio,newspapers,TV, all blaring the bare facts. Penny and I pulled the blinds,lockedthedoors,cutourselvesoff.ButnotbeforeournieceBritneymovedinwithus.TothisdayIbelievethatshesavedourlives.

EveryNikeathletewrote,emailed,phoned.Everysingleone.ButthefirstwasTiger.Hiscallcameinat7:30a.m.Iwillnever,everforget.AndIwillnotstandforabadwordspokenaboutTigerinmypresence.

Another early caller was Alberto Salazar, the ferociously competitivedistancerunnerwhowonthreestraightNewYorkCityMarathonsinNikes.I will always love him for many things, but above all for that show ofconcern.

He’s a coach now, and recently he brought a few of his runners toBeaverton. They were having a light workout, in themiddle of Ro-naldoField,whensomeoneturnedandsawAlbertoontheground,gaspingforair.Aheart attack.Hewas legallydead for fourteenminutes,untilparamedicsrevivedhimandrushedhimtoSt.Vincent’s.

Iknowthathospitalwell.MysonTraviswasbornthere,mymotherdiedthere,twenty-sevenyearsaftermyfather.InhisfinalsixmonthsIwasableto take my father on a long trip, to put to rest the eternal question ofwhether he was proud, to show him that Iwas proud of him. We went

around the world, sawNikes in every country we visited, and with everyappearance of a swoosh his eyes shone. The pain of his impatience, hishostility to my Crazy Idea—it had faded. It was long gone. But not thememory.

Fathersandsons,it’salwaysbeenthesame,sincethedawnoftime.“Mydad,”ArnoldPalmeronceconfidedtomeattheMasters,“didallhecouldtodiscouragemefrombeingaprofessionalgolfer.”Ismiled.“Youdon’tsay.”

VisitingAlberto,walkingintothelobbyofSt.Vincent’s,Iwasovercomewithvisionsofbothmyparents.Ifeltthematmyelbow,atmyear.Theirswasastrainedrelationship,Ibelieve.But,aswithaniceberg,everythingwasbelow the surface. In their house on Claybourne Street, the tension wasconcealed, and calm and reason almost always prevailed, because of theirlove for us. Love wasn’t spoken, or shown, but it was there, always. MysistersandIgrewupknowingthatbothparents,differentastheywerefromeach other, and from us, cared. That’s their legacy. That’s their lastingvictory.

I walked to the cardiac unit, saw the familiar sign on the door: NoAdmittance.Isailedpastthesign,throughthedoor,downthehall,andfoundAlberto’sroom.Heliftedhisheadoffthepillow,managedapainedsmile.Ipattedhisarmandwehadagoodtalk.ThenIsawthathewasfading.“Seeyou soon,” I said. His hand shot out and grabbed mine. “If somethinghappenstome,”hesaid,“promisemeyou’lltakecareofGalen.”

Hisathlete.Theonehe’dbeentraining.Whowasjustlikeasontohim.Igotit.Oh,howIgotit.“Ofcourse,”Isaid.“Ofcourse.Galen.Consideritdone.”I walked out of the room, barely hearing the beeping machines, the

laughing nurses, the patient groaning down the hall. I thought of thatphrase,“It’sjustbusiness.”It’sneverjustbusiness.Itneverwillbe.Ifiteverdoesbecomejustbusiness,thatwillmeanthatbusinessisverybad.

TIMEFORBED,Pennysays,packingupherneedlepoint.

Yes,Itellher.I’llbealonginaminute.IkeepthinkingofonelineinTheBucketList.“Youmeasureyourselfby

thepeoplewhomeasurethemselvesbyyou.”IforgetifitwasNicholsonorFreeman.Thelineissotrue,soverytrue.AndittransportsmetoTokyo,totheofficesofNissho.Iwastherenotlongagoforavisit.Thephonerang.“Foryou,” the Japanese receptionist said, extending the receiver. “Me?” Itwas Michael Johnson, the three-time gold medalist, holder of the worldrecord in the 200meters and 400meters.He did it all in our shoes.Hehappened tobe inTokyo,he said, andheard Iwas, too. “Doyouwant tohavedinner?”heasked.

Iwasflattered.ButItoldhimIcouldn’t.Nisshowashavingabanquetforme.Iinvitedhimtocome.Hourslaterweweresittingtogetheronthefloor,beforeatablecoveredwithshabu-shabu,toastingeachotherwithcupaftercup of sake.We laughed, cheered, clinked glasses, and something passedbetweenus,thesamethingthatpassesbetweenmeandmostoftheathletesIworkwith.Atransference,acamaraderie,asortofconnection.It’sbrief,butitnearlyalwayshappens,andIknowit’spartofwhatIwassearchingforwhenIwentaroundtheworldin1962.

Tostudytheselfistoforgettheself.Micasa,sucasa.Oneness—in someway, shape,or form, it’swhateveryperson I’veever

methasbeenseeking.

I THINK OFothers who didn’t make it this far. Bowerman died onChristmas Eve, 1999, in Fossil. He’d gone back to his hometown, as wealways suspected hewould.He still owned his house on themountaintopabove campus, but he chose to quit it, tomovewithMrs.Bowerman to aFossil retirement home. He needed to be where he started—did he tellsomeonethat?OramIimagininghimmutteringittohimself?

I remember when I was a sophomore, we had a dual meet withWashington State, in Pullman, and Bowerman made the bus driver gothrough Fossil so he could show us. I immediately thought of that

sentimentaldetourwhenIheardthathe’dlaindownonthebedandnevergotup.

It was Jaqua who phoned. I was reading the paper, theChristmas treeblinkingblinkingblinking.Youalwaysrememberthestrangestdetailsfromsuchmoments. I choked into thephone, “I’ll have to call youback,” thenwalkedupstairstomyden.Iturnedoutallthelights.Eyesshut,Ireplayedamillion different moments, including that long-ago lunch at theCosmopolitanHotel.

Deal?Deal.An hour passed before I could go back downstairs. At some point that

night I gave up theKleenex and just draped a towel overmy shoulder. AmoveIlearnedfromanotherbelovedcoach—JohnThompson.

Strasserpassedsuddenly,too.Heartattack,1993.Hewassoyoung,itwasa tragedy, all the more so because it came after we’d had a falling out.StrasserhadbeeninstrumentalinsigningJordan,inbuildinguptheJordanbrand andwrapping it aroundRudy’s air soles. Air Jordan changedNike,tookustothenextlevel,andthenext,butitchangedStrasser,too.Hefeltthat he should no longer be taking orders from anyone, including me.Especiallyme.Weclashed,toomanytimes,andhequit.

Itmighthavebeenokayifhe’djustquit.ButhewenttoworkforAdidas.An intolerable betrayal. I never forgave him. (Though I did recently—happily, proudly—hire his daughter, Avery. Twenty-two years old, sheworksinSpecialEvents,andshe’ssaidtobethriving.It’sablessingandajoytoseehernameinthecompanydirectory.)IwishStrasserandIhadpatchedthings up before he died, but I don’t know that it was possible.Wewerebothborn tocompete,andwewerebothbadat forgiving.Forbothofus,betrayalwasextrapotentkryptonite.

I felt that same sense of betrayal when Nike came under attack forconditions in our overseas factories—the so-called sweatshop controversy.Whenever reporters said a factorywas unsatisfactory, they never said howmuchbetteritwasthanthedaywefirstwentin.Theyneversaidhowhard

we’dworkedwithourfactorypartnerstoupgradeconditions,tomakethemsaferandcleaner.Theyneversaidthesefactoriesweren’tours,thatwewererenters,oneamongmanytenants.Theysimplysearcheduntiltheyfoundaworkerwithcomplaintsaboutconditions,andtheyusedthatworkertovilifyus,andonlyus,knowingournamewouldgeneratemaximumpublicity.

Of coursemy handling of the crisis onlymade itworse. Angry, hurt, Ioften reacted with self-righteousness, petulance, anger. On some level Iknewmyreactionwas toxic,counterproductive,butIcouldn’t stopmyself.It’sjustnoteasytoremaineven-keeledwhenyouwakeuponeday,thinkingyou’re creating jobs and helping poor countries modernize and enablingathletes to achieve greatness, only to find yourself being burned in effigyoutsidetheflagshipretailstoreinyourownhometown.

ThecompanyreactedasIdid.Emotionally.Everyonewasreeling.Manylate nights in Beaverton, you’d find all the lights on, and soul-searchingconversationstakingplaceinvariousconferenceroomsandoffices.Thoughweknew thatmuchof the criticismwasunjust, thatNikewas a symbol, ascapegoat,more than the trueculprit, allof thatwasbeside thepoint.Wehadtoadmit:Wecoulddobetter.

Wetoldourselves:Wemustdobetter.Then we told the world: Just watch.We’ll make our factories shining

examples.Andwedid. In the ten years since thebadheadlines and lurid exposés,

we’veusedthecrisistoreinventtheentirecompany.Forinstance.Oneoftheworstthingsaboutashoefactoryusedtobethe

rubber room,whereuppers and soles arebonded.The fumesare choking,toxic,cancer-causing.Soweinventedawater-basedbondingagentthatgivesoffno fumes, therebyeliminating97percentof thecarcinogens in theair.Thenwegave this invention toourcompetitors,handed itover toanyonewhowantedit.

Theyalldid.Nearlyallofthemnowuseit.Oneofmany,manyexamples.

We’vegonefromatargetofreformerstoadominantplayerinthefactoryreformmovement.Today the factories thatmakeourproducts are amongthebestintheworld.AnofficialattheUnitedNationsrecentlysaidso:Nikeisthegoldstandardbywhichwemeasureallapparelfactories.

Out of the sweatshop crisis also came the Girl Effect, a massive Nikeefforttobreakthegenerationalcyclesofpovertyinthebleakestcornersofthe world. Along with the United Nations and other corporate andgovernmentpartners,theGirlEffect isspendingtensofmillionsofdollarsinasmart,tough,globalcampaigntoeducateandconnectandliftupyounggirls.Economists,sociologists,nottomentionourownhearts,tellusthat,inmanysocieties,younggirlsarethemosteconomicallyvulnerable,andvital,demographic. So helping them helps all. Whether striving to end childmarriageinEthiopia,orbuildingsafespacesforteenagegirlsinNigeria,orlaunching a magazine and radio show that deliver powerful, inspiringmessages toyoungRwandans, theGirlEffect ischangingmillionsof lives,and the best days ofmyweek,month, year, are those when I receive theglowingreportsfromitsfrontlines.

I’ddo anything togoback, tomake somanydifferentdecisions,whichmightormightnothaveavertedthesweatshopcrisis.ButIcan’tdenythatthecrisishas ledtomiraculouschange, insideandoutsideNike.ForthatImustbegrateful.

Of course, there will always be the question of wages. The salary of aThird World factory worker seems impossibly low to Americans, and Iunderstand.Still,wehavetooperatewithinthelimitsandstructuresofeachcountry,eacheconomy;wecan’tsimplypaywhateverwewishtopay.Inonecountry,which shall be nameless,whenwe tried to raisewages,we foundourselvescalledonthecarpet,summonedtotheofficeofatopgovernmentofficial and ordered to stop. We were disrupting the nation’s entireeconomicsystem,hesaid.It’ssimplynotright,heinsisted,orfeasible,thatashoeworkermakesmorethanamedicaldoctor.

Changenevercomesasfastaswewantit.

I think constantly of the poverty I sawwhile traveling theworld in the1960s.Iknewthenthattheonlyanswertosuchpovertyisentry-leveljobs.Lots of them. I didn’t form this theoryonmyown. I heard it fromeveryeconomics professor I ever had, at both Oregon and Stanford, andeverythingIsawandreadthereafterbackeditup.Internationaltradealways,alwaysbenefitsbothtradingnations.

Another thing I often heard from those same professors was the oldmaxim: “When goods don’t pass international borders, soldiers will.”ThoughI’vebeenknowntocallbusinesswarwithoutbullets,it’sactuallyawonderful bulwark against war. Trade is the path of coexistence,cooperation.Peacefeedsonprosperity.That’swhy,hauntedasIwasbytheVietnamWar,IalwaysvowedthatsomedayNikewouldhaveafactoryinornearSaigon.

By1997wehadfour.Iwas veryproud.Andwhen I learned thatwewere tobehonored and

celebrated by the Vietnamese government as one of the nation’s top fivegeneratorsofforeigncurrency,IfeltthatIsimplyhadtovisit.

Whatawrenchingtrip.Idon’tknowifI’dappreciatedthefulldepthofmyhatredforthewarinVietnamuntilIreturnedtwenty-fiveyearsafterthepeace, until I joined hands with our former antagonists. At one pointmyhostsgraciouslyaskedwhattheycoulddoforme,whatwouldmakemytripspecialormemorable.Igotalumpinmythroat.Ididn’twantthemtogotoanytrouble,Isaid.

Buttheyinsisted.Okay, I said, okay, I’d like to meet eighty-six-year-old General Võ

Nguyên Giáp, the Vietnamese MacArthur, the man who single-handedlydefeatedtheJapanese,theFrench,theAmericans,andtheChinese.

My hosts stared in amazed silence. Slowly they rose and excusedthemselvesandstoodoffinacorner,conversinginfranticVietnamese.

Afterfiveminutestheycameback.Tomorrow,theysaid.Onehour.Iboweddeeply.Thencountedtheminutesuntilthebigmeeting.

ThefirstthingInoticedasGeneralGiápenteredtheroomwashissize.This brilliant fighter, this genius tactician who’d organized the TetOffensive,who’dplannedthosemilesandmilesofundergroundtunnels,thisgiantofhistory,cameuptomyshoulders.Hewas,maybe,fivefootfour.

Andhumble.NocorncobpipeforGiáp.Irememberthatheworeadarkbusinesssuit,likemine.Irememberthat

hesmiledasIdid—shyly,uncertainly.Buttherewasanintensityabouthim.I’dseenthatkindofglitteryconfidenceingreatcoaches,andgreatbusinessleaders,theeliteoftheelite.Ineversawitinamirror.

HeknewIhadquestions.Hewaitedformetoaskthem.Isaidsimply:“Howdidyoudoit?”IthoughtIsawthecornersofhismouthflicker.Asmile?Maybe?Hethought.Andthought.“Iwas,”hesaid,“aprofessorofthejungle.”

THOUGHTS OF ASIA always leadbacktoNissho.WhereonearthwouldwehavebeenwithoutNissho?AndwithoutNissho’sformerCEO,MasuroHayami. Igot toknowhimwellafterNikewentpublic.Wecouldn’thelpbutbond:Iwashismostprofitableclient,andhismostavidpupil.AndhewasperhapsthewisestmanIeverknew.

Unlikemanyotherwisemen,hedrewgreatpeacefromhiswisdom.Ifedoffthatpeace.

Inthe1980s,wheneverIwenttoTokyo,Hayamiwouldinvitemefortheweekendtohisbeachhouse,nearAtami,theJapaneseRiviera.We’dalwaysleaveTokyolateFriday,byrail,andhaveacognacalongtheway.Withinanhour we’d be at the Izu Peninsula, where we’d stop at some marvelousrestaurantfordinner.Thenextmorningwe’dplaygolf,andSaturdaynightwe’d have a Japanese-style barbecue in his backyard. We’d solve all theworld’sproblems,orI’dgivehimmyproblemsandhe’dsolvethem.

OnonetripweendedtheeveninginHayami’shottub.Irecall,abovethefoamingwater,thesoundofthedistantoceanslappingtheshore.Irecallthecool smell of the wind through the trees—thousands and thousands of

coastaltrees,dozensofspeciesnotfoundinanyOregonforest.Irecallthejungle crows cawing in thedistance aswediscussed the infinite.Then thefinite.Icomplainedaboutmybusiness.Evenaftergoingpublic,therewereso many problems. “We have so much opportunity, but we’re having aterrible time gettingmanagers who can seize those opportunities.We trypeoplefromtheoutside,buttheyfail,becauseourcultureissodifferent.”

Mr.Hayaminodded.“Seethosebambootreesupthere?”heasked.“Yes.”“Nextyear...whenyoucome...theywillbeonefoothigher.”Istared.Iunderstood.When I returned to Oregon I tried hard to cultivate and grow the

management teamwehad, slowly,withmorepatience,withaneyetowardmoretrainingandmorelong-termplanning.Itookthewider,longerview.It worked. The next time I sawHayami, I told him. Hemerely nodded,once,hai,andlookedoff.

ALMOST THREE DECADESago Harvard and Stanford began studyingNike, and sharing their researchwithotheruniversities,whichhas createdmany opportunities for me to visit different colleges, to take part instimulating academic discussions, to continue to learn. It’s always a happyoccasion to be walking a campus, but also bracing, because while I findstudents todaymuch smarter andmore competent than inmy time, I alsofindthemfarmorepessimistic.Occasionallytheyaskindismay:“Whereisthe U.S. going? Where is the world going?” Or: “Where are the newentrepreneurs?”Or:“Arewedoomedasasocietytoaworsefutureforourchildren?”

ItellthemaboutthedevastatedJapanIsawin1962.ItellthemabouttherubbleandruinsthatsomehowgavebirthtowisemenlikeHayamiandItoandSumeragi.Itellthemabouttheuntappedresources,naturalandhuman,thattheworldhasatitsdisposal,theabundantwaysandmeanstosolveits

manycrises.Allwehavetodo,Itellthestudents, isworkandstudy,studyandwork,hardaswecan.

Putanotherway:Wemustallbeprofessorsofthejungle.

I TURNOUTthelights,walkupstairstobed.Curledupwithabookbesideher, Penny has drifted off.That chemistry, that in-sync feeling fromDayOne,Accounting101,remains.Ourconflicts,suchastheyare,havecenteredmostly on work versus family. Finding a balance. Defining that word“balance.” At ourmost tryingmoments, we’vemanaged to emulate thoseathletes I most admire.We’ve held on, pressed through. And now we’veendured.

I slideunder the covers, gingerly, so asnot towakeher, and I thinkofotherswho’ve endured.Hayes lives on a farm in theTualatinValley, 108rolling acres, with a ridiculous collection of bulldozers and other heavyequipment.(HisprideandjoyisaJohnDeereJD-450C.It’sbrightschool-bus yellow and as big as a one-bedroom condo.) He has some healthproblems,buthebulldozesahead.

WoodelllivesincentralOregonwithhiswife.Foryearsheflewhisownprivate airplane, giving the middle finger to everyone who said he’d behelpless.(Aboveall,flyingprivatemeantheneveragainhadtoworryaboutanairlinelosinghiswheelchair.)

He’s one of the best storytellers in the history of Nike. My favorite,naturally,istheoneaboutthedaywewentpublic.Hesathisparentsdownandtoldthemthenews.“Whatdoesthatmean?”theywhispered.“Itmeansyouroriginaleight-thousand-dollarloantoPhilisworth$1.6million.”Theylookedateachother, lookedatWoodell. “Idon’tunderstand,”hismothersaid.

Ifyoucan’ttrustthecompanyyoursonworksfor,whocanyoutrust?When he retired from Nike, Woodell became head of the Port of

Portland, managing all the rivers and the airports. A man immobilized,

guiding all that motion. Lovely. He’s also the leading shareholder anddirectorofasuccessfulmicrobrewery.Healwaysdidlikehisbeer.

But whenever we get together for dinner, he tells me, of course, hisgreatestjoyandproudestaccomplishmentishiscollege-boundson,Dan.

Woodell’s old antagonist, Johnson, lives slap in themiddle of aRobertFrost poem, somewhere in the wilderness of New Hampshire. He’sconvertedanoldbarnintoafive-storymansion,whichhecallshisFortressofSolitude.Twicedivorced,he’sfilledtheplacetotherafterswithdozensofreadingchairs,andthousandsandthousandsofbooks,andhekeepstrackofthemallwithanextensivecardcatalog.Eachbookhasitsownnumberanditsownindexcard,listingauthor,dateofpublication,plotsummary—anditspreciselocationinthefortress.

Ofcourse.Scampering and prancing around Johnson’s spread are countless wild

turkeys and chipmunks,mostofwhomhe’snamed.Heknows themall sowell,sointimately,hecantellyouwhenoneislateinhibernating.Beyond,inthedistance,nestled ina fieldof tallgrassandswayingmaples,Johnsonhasbuiltasecondbarn,asacredbarn,whichhe’spaintedandlacqueredandfurnishedand filledwithoverflow fromhispersonal library,pluspalletsofusedbookshebuysatlibrarysales.Hecallsthisbookutopia“Horders,”andhekeepsitlighted,open,free,twenty-fourhoursaday,foranyandallwhoneedaplacetoreadandthink.

That’sFull-timeEmployeeNumberOne.InEurope, I’m told, there areT-shirts that read,Where is Jeff Johnson?

LikethefamousopeninglinefromAynRand,WhoisJohnGalt?Theansweris,Rightwhereheshouldbe.

WHEN IT CAMErollingin,themoneyaffectedusall.Notmuch,andnotforlong,becausenoneofuswaseverdrivenbymoney.Butthat’sthenatureofmoney.Whetheryouhaveitornot,whetheryouwantitornot,whether

youlikeitornot,itwilltrytodefineyourdays.Ourtaskashumanbeingsisnottoletit.

IboughtaPorsche.ItriedtobuytheLosAngelesClippers,andwoundupinalawsuitwithDonaldSterling.Iworesunglasseseverywhere,indoorsand out.There’s a photo ofme in a ten-gallon gray cowboy hat—I don’tknow where or when or why. I had to get it all out of my system. EvenPenny wasn’t immune. Overcompensating for the insecurity of herchildhood, shewalked aroundwith thousands of dollars in her purse. Sheboughthundredsofstaples,likerollsoftoiletpaper,atatime.

Itwasn’tlongbeforewewerebacktonormal.Now,totheextentthatsheandIeverthinkaboutmoney,wefocusoureffortsonafewspecificcauses.Wegiveaway$100millioneachyear,andwhenwe’regonewe’llgiveawaymostofwhat’sleft.

Atthemomentwe’reinthemidstofbuildingagleamingnewbasketballfacilityattheUniversityofOregon.TheMatthewKnightArena.Thelogoathalf courtwillbeMatthew’sname in the shapeofa toriigate.Fromtheprofanetothesacred . . .We’realsofinishingconstructiononanewathleticfacility, which we plan to dedicate to our mothers, Dot and Lota. On aplaquenexttotheentrancewillgoaninscription:Becausemothersareourfirstcoaches.

Who can say how differently everything would have turned out if mymotherhadn’tstoppedthepodiatristfromsurgicallyremovingthatwartandhobblingmeforanentiretrackseason?Orifshehadn’ttoldmeIcouldrunfast?Orifshehadn’tboughtthatfirstpairofLimberUps,puttingmyfatherinhisplace?

Whenever I go back to Eugene, and walk the campus, I think of her.WheneverIstandoutsideHaywardField,Ithinkofthesilentracesheran.Ithinkofallthemanyracesthateachofushaverun.Ileanagainstthefenceandlookatthetrackandlistentothewind,thinkingofBowermanwithhisstring tie blowing behind him. I think of Pre, God love him. Turning,looking over my shoulder, my heart leaps. Across the street stands the

WilliamKnight Law School. A very serious-looking edifice.No one everjackassesaroundinthere.

I CAN’T SLEEP.Ican’tstopthinkingaboutthatblastedmovie,TheBucketList.Lyinginthedark,Iaskmyselfagainandagain,What’sonyours?

Pyramids?Check.Himalayas?Check.Ganges?Check.So...nothing?I thinkabout the few things Iwant todo.Helpacoupleofuniversities

changetheworld.Helpfindacureforcancer.Besidesthat,it’snotsomuchthingsIwanttodoasthingsI’dliketosay.Andmaybeunsay.

ItmightbenicetotellthestoryofNike.Everyoneelsehastoldthestory,ortriedto,buttheyalwaysgethalfthefacts,ifthat,andnoneofthespirit.Orviceversa.Imightstartthestory,orendit,withregrets.Thehundreds—maybe thousands—of bad decisions. I’m the guywho saidMagic Johnsonwas“aplayerwithoutaposition,who’llnevermakeitintheNBA.”I’mtheguy who tabbed Ryan Leaf as a better NFL quarterback than PeytonManning.

It’seasytolaughthoseoff.Otherregretsgodeeper.NotphoningHirakuIwanoafterhequit.NotgettingBoJacksonrenewedin1996.JoePaterno.

Notbeingagoodenoughmanager to avoid layoffs.Three times in tenyears—atotaloffifteenhundredpeople.Itstillhaunts.

Of course, above all, I regret not spending more time with my sons.Maybe,ifIhad,Icould’vesolvedtheencryptedcodeofMatthewKnight.

AndyetIknowthatthisregretclasheswithmysecretregret—thatIcan’tdoitalloveragain.

God,howIwishIcouldrelivethewholething.Shortofthat,I’dliketosharetheexperience,theupsanddowns,sothatsomeyoungmanorwoman,somewhere,goingthroughthesametrialsandordeals,mightbeinspiredor

comforted.Orwarned.Someyoungentrepreneur,maybe, someathleteorpainterornovelist,mightpresson.

It’sallthesamedrive.Thesamedream.Itwouldbenicetohelpthemavoidthetypicaldiscouragements.I’dtell

themtohitpause,thinklongandhardabouthowtheywanttospendtheirtime,andwithwhomtheywanttospenditforthenextfortyyears.I’dtellmenandwomenintheirmidtwentiesnottosettleforajoboraprofessionor even a career.Seek a calling.Even if youdon’t knowwhat thatmeans,seekit.Ifyou’refollowingyourcalling,thefatiguewillbeeasiertobear,thedisappointmentswillbefuel,thehighswillbelikenothingyou’veeverfelt.

I’d like to warn the best of them, the iconoclasts, the innovators, therebels,thattheywillalwayshaveabull’s-eyeontheirbacks.Thebettertheyget,thebiggerthebull’s-eye.It’snotoneman’sopinion;it’salawofnature.

I’dliketoremindthemthatAmericaisn’ttheentrepreneurialShangri-Lapeoplethink.Freeenterprisealways irritatesthekindsoftrollswholivetoblock, to thwart, to say no, sorry, no. And it’s always been this way.Entrepreneurshave alwaysbeenoutgunned,outnumbered.They’ve alwaysfoughtuphill,andthehillhasneverbeensteeper.Americaisbecominglessentrepreneurial,notmore.AHarvardBusinessSchoolstudyrecentlyrankedall the countries of the world in terms of their entrepreneurial spirit.AmericarankedbehindPeru.

And those who urge entrepreneurs to never give up? Charlatans.Sometimesyouhavetogiveup.Sometimesknowingwhentogiveup,whento try something else, is genius. Giving up doesn’t mean stopping. Don’teverstop.

Luckplaysabigrole.Yes,I’dliketopubliclyacknowledgethepowerofluck.Athletesgetlucky,poetsgetlucky,businessesgetlucky.Hardworkiscritical,agoodteamisessential,brainsanddeterminationareinvaluable,butluck may decide the outcome. Some people might not call it luck. TheymightcallitTao,orLogos,orJñāna,orDharma.OrSpirit.OrGod.

Putitthisway.Theharderyouwork,thebetteryourTao.Andsincenoonehas ever adequately definedTao, I now try to go regularly tomass. I

wouldtellthem:Havefaithinyourself,butalsohavefaithinfaith.Notfaithasothersdefineit.Faithasyoudefineit.Faithasfaithdefinesitselfinyourheart.

InwhatformatdoIwanttosayallthis?Amemoir?No,notamemoir.Ican’timaginehowitcouldallfitintooneunifiednarrative.

Maybeanovel.Oraspeech.Oraseriesofspeeches.Maybejustalettertomygrandkids.

Ipeerintothedark.Somaybethereissomethingonmybucketlistafterall?

AnotherCrazyIdea.Suddenlymymindisracing.PeopleIneedtocall,thingsIneedtoread.

I’llhavetogetintouchwithWoodell.IshouldseeifwehaveanycopiesofthoselettersfromJohnson.Thereweresomany!Somewhereinmyparents’house,wheremysisterJoannestilllives,theremustbeaboxwithmyslidesfrommytriparoundtheworld.

Somuchtodo.Somuchtolearn.SomuchIdon’tknowaboutmyownlife.

NowIreallycan’tsleep.Igetup,grabayellowlegalpadfrommydesk.Igotothelivingroomandsitinmyrecliner.

Afeelingofstillness,ofimmensepeace,comesoverme.I squint at themoon shiningoutsidemywindow.The samemoon that

inspired the ancientZenmasters toworry about nothing. In the timeless,clarifyinglightofthatmoon,Ibegintomakealist.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’ve spent a fair portion of my life in debt. As a young entrepreneur I

becamedistressinglyfamiliarwiththatfeelingofgoingtosleepeachnight,waking up each day, owing many people a sum far greater than I couldrepay.

Nothing,however,hasmademefeelquiteso indebtedasthewritingofthisbook.

Just as there’s no end to my gratitude, there seems no proper, logicalplace tobegintoexpress it.Andso.AtNike, Iwishto thankmyassistant,Lisa McKillips, for doing everything—I mean everything—perfectly,cheerfully,andalwayswithherdazzlingsmile;oldfriendsJeffJohnsonandBob Woodell for making me remember, and being patient when Iremembereditdifferent;historianScottReamesfordeftlysiftingfactsfrommyths;andMariaEitelforapplyingherexpertisetoweightiestmatters.

Of course, my biggest and most emphatic thanks to the 68,000 Nikeemployees worldwide for their daily efforts and their dedication, withoutwhichtherewouldbenobook,noauthor,nonothing.

At Stanford, I wish to thank the mad genius and gifted teacher AdamJohnsonforhisgoldenexampleofwhatitmeanstobeaworkingwriterandafriend;AbrahamVerghese,whoinstructsashewrites—quietly,effortlessly;andnumberlessgraduatestudentsImetwithwhilesittinginthebackrowofwritingclasses—each inspiredmewithhisorherpassion for languageandcraft.

At Scribner, thanks to the legendary Nan Graham for her steadfastsupport;BrianBelfiglio,RozLippel,SusanMoldow,andCarolynReidyfortheirbracing,energizingenthusiasm;KathleenRizzoforkeepingproductionmoving smoothly forwardwhile alwaysmaintaining a sublime calm; aboveall, thanks to my supremely talented and razor-sharp editor, ShannonWelch,who gaveme the affirmation I needed,when I needed it, withouteitherofusfullyappreciatinghowmuchIneededit.Herearlynoteofpraiseandanalysisandprecociouswisdomwaseverything.

Randomly,innoorder,thankstothemanypalsandcolleagueswhowereso lavish with their time, talent, and advice, including super agent BobBarnett, poet-administrator extraordinaire Eavan Boland, Grand Slammemoirist Andre Agassi, and number artist Del Hayes. A special andprofound thank-you to memoirist-novelist-journalist-sportswriter-muse-friend J. R.Moehringer, whose generosity and good humor and enviablestorytellinggiftsIreliedonthroughthemany,manydraftsofthisbook.

Last, I wish to thank my family, all of them, but particularly my sonTravis,whosesupportandfriendshipmeant—andmean—theworld.And,ofcourse,afull-throated,full-heartedthankstomyPenelope,whowaited.Andwaited.Shewaitedwhile I journeyed, and shewaitedwhile Igot lost.Shewaited night after night while Imademymaddeningly slow way home—usually late, the dinner cold—and she waited the last few years while Irelived it all, aloud, and inmy head, and on the page, even though therewerepartsshedidn’tcaretorelive.Fromthestart,goingonhalfacentury,she’swaited,andnowatlastIcanhandherthesehard-foughtpagesandsay,aboutthem,aboutNike,abouteverything:“Penny,Icouldn’thavedoneitwithoutyou.”

A BOUT THE AUTHOR

Oneof theworld’smost influential business executives,PhilKnight is thefounderofNike,Inc.HeservedasCEOofthecompanyfrom1964to2004and continues to this day as board chairman.He lives inOregonwith hiswife,Penny.

MEETTHEAUTHORS,WATCHVIDEOSANDMOREAT

SimonandSchuster.comAuthors.SimonandSchuster.com/Phil-Knight

WehopeyouenjoyedreadingthisScribnereBook.

Signupforournewsletterandreceivespecialoffers,accesstobonuscontent,andinfoonthelatestnewreleasesandothergreateBooksfromScribnerandSimon&Schuster.

CLICKHERETOSIGNUP

orvisitusonlinetosignupateBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

SCRIBNERAnImprintofSimon&Schuster,Inc.

1230AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,NY10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Certainnameshavebeenchanged.

Copyright©2016byPhilKnight

Allrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyformwhatsoever.Forinformation,addressScribnerSubsidiaryRightsDepartment,1230Avenueofthe

Americas,NewYork,NY10020.

FirstScribnerhardcovereditionApril2016

SCRIBNERanddesignareregisteredtrademarksofTheGaleGroup,Inc.,usedunderlicensebySimon&Schuster,Inc.,thepublisherofthiswork.

Forinformationaboutspecialdiscountsforbulkpurchases,pleasecontactSimon&SchusterSpecialSalesat1-866-506-1949orbusiness@simonandschuster.com.

TheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureaucanbringauthorstoyourliveevent.Formoreinformationortobookanevent,contacttheSimon&SchusterSpeakersBureauat1-866-248-3049orvisitour

websiteatwww.simonspeakers.com.

InteriordesignbyKyleKabelJacketdesignbyJayaMiceliandJonathanBush

SwooshcourtesyofNike

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataisavailable.

ISBN978-1-5011-3591-0ISBN978-1-5011-3593-4(ebook)