I'm inside George Bush, and as you might expect, it’s all a little hazy. My mind has fogged up worse than a postprom limo, burdened with the feeling I’m forgetting something. I’m running through the laundry list in my head, that garagedoorisclosed- backdoorislocked-toasterisunplugged psychosis that shouldn’t be bothering a Stanford student on this kind of adventure. Yet as I walk further and further inside Bush, in what feels like a truly Malkovichian moment, I can’t help but think that something is very off.
And then it hits me.
Left in an overhead bin on Continental Airlines’ service from San Jose (Costa Rica, not California), docked at Gate D3 at George Bush (the Houston airport, not the former president) is a red Nike bag. My red Nike bag. With a swoosh on the front and my name on the back, this bag holds any varsity soccer player’s most prized possessions, his Nike cleats, and I’m not about to let them miss my connection.
I book it back to the gate, ditching my teammates as they walk to our connecting flight, all 24 players in matching white Nike polo shirts and red Nike sweatpants, strolling out of sync in brand-new white Nike Pegasus cross trainers. I, of course, am dressed the same, with the added advertisement of a red Nike jacket tied around my waist, a swoosh flapping in my wake.
But I keep running, darting on and off moving walkways, past newsstands and coffee shops, past American-flag T-shirts and carry-on baggage that redefines the meaning of “22 inches long.” I slide by sweaty seats, swivel around wobbly toddlers, and hurdle over huddled masses. Yearning to break free, I pivot past Pumas, rush by Reeboks, and accelerate aside Adidas.
And all the while, I am being used.
I am an advertisement, a telegenic clip of a young athlete racing a plane to retrieve a logo. Pure speed and kinetic editing. I am Lance. I am Tiger. I am Ronaldo. All of us racing through life wearing a swoosh and a smile.
You’ve seen the commercials. You’ve seen Lance race against everyone—geese, Hell’s Angels, cancer and little farm boys as he cuts across countryside. You’ve heard the melodic acoustic guitar in the background, a rhythm for life and nothing more. You’ve heard the silence—no dialogue, no text, no story. Just the image—the austerity of what dominates in sport. In the last second of the commercial, as Lance looks back on all that he’s accomplished in the minute-long spot, the simple yellow swoosh appears. He smiles.
Isn’t that what the swoosh is? A smile. Look at the logo and tell me it isn’t grinning right back, smirking, full of mirth, joy and maybe just a hint of trickery. That logo is my Stanford brand, the sizzling imprint of a big-time University and its prime stock of scholar-athletes.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
When I walked on to the varsity soccer team at the end of my sophomore year, the culmination of six long quarters of individual lifting sessions, solo sprints in winter and endless self-doubt, I knew what riches awaited my arrival. There were the obvious treasures: the team, the camaraderie, the friends, the game, the respect. There was the cosmetic gain: the gear, the cleats, the fields, the jerseys and the jersey chasers. But never beyond my thoughts, there was the pride.
I opened my locker, the only locker ever to have had my name engraved on the front. It was the very first day of preseason, and I was shaking like a 7-year-old on his first solo in a public restroom. But when the Cardinal door swung toward me, admitting me to the world of the Stanford student-athlete, I was proud to see a thousand dollars of free Nike gear stacked before me. Cross trainers, shorts, shirts, jerseys, polos, cleats, gloves, guards, socks, pants, jackets and sleeves, all waiting before me, proclaiming that I was worthy to wear the swoosh.
From then on, every time I have pulled on my Dri-FIT top, every time I’ve zipped up my varsity jacket, and every time I’ve pulled up my swooshed-out socks, I’ve been filled with an overwhelming sense of pride. That swoosh may be corporate. It may be money-drenched. It may be a symbol of global-economy evil. But the swoosh represents all that’s powerful in sport, and I’m not about to let it miss my connection.
SPENCER PORTER, '05, is an American Studies major and a varsity soccer goalie.
