That would be tennis. Originally known as lawn tennis back before the turn of the century. The game has changed little since then, other than a tie-breaker here and some electronic review technology there. The rules, the courts, the scorekeeping, all pretty much the same.
The thing that’s changed the most—and you’re welcome for pointing out the obvious—is the clothes on the players’ backs. For decades, it was a sport of the upper crust, and the blue bloods showed up at the Club wearing nothing but white. Male and female, boys and girls, it was improper to wear anything but.
They still roll that way at Wimbledon. It’s a nice custom, actually, but it may help explain why you couldn’t name more than five current famous tennis players. Go ahead.
Sharapova, Federer, Nadal, Williams S, Williams V. Who else you got? Ever hear of Dinara Safina? #1 ranked woman in the world.
This is not a good sign. Maybe the folks who wear white should listen to Sharapova, who has wondered out loud why Wimbledon can't “add a spark of fun” by letting players wear something other than white. If not the voice of tennis, she’s definitely the face. And I’ll bet she wouldn’t disagree if I told her this:
Tennis is the most unexciting exciting sport in the world. The action can be amazing. The buzz is almost nonexistent.
Don’t blame the sisters Williams. Whether it’s been a conscious effort or not, they’ve gone above and beyond to give their sport a modern image. They’re a strong African American presence in a mostly white (not just the clothes) sport, they’re outspoken, even controversial...and then there’s the clothes.
You’ve seen them; beautiful, bombastic, colorful, stylish. But always different and interesting, and always bringing with them talk value. And it’s led to a fashion explosion in tennis as other player catch on, making Nike and Adidas work harder, with the Fila’s and Lacoste’s trying to catch up. It’s a marketing bonanza waiting to happen.
Hope tennis can cash in.
PS:
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME.
TODAY MARKS ONE YEAR OF SPORTSCENTRIC!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A few words about Pure Joy
The main reason for the paucity of my recent blog entries has been the growth of my new business. As many of you probably know, it’s a lot easier to borrow a few minutes from The Man to scratch out a few thoughts on sports and marketing and still have enough time to do the work that makes The Man happy. But now I’m The Man, and it’s extremely time consuming to make The new Man happy. Hence the extremely sporadic entries of late.
However, the most recent two week gap in blog entries came as a result of the week I spent in Cooperstown, New York, and the four days I spent driving to get there (and a special thank you to the sheriff of Monroe County, NY, for the 15 minutes I spent waiting for you to write me a speeding ticket. Asshole.).
Cooperstown is a quaint two-block town, famously known for housing the Baseball Hall of Fame, along with a Main Street filled with souvenir shops, and one kickass restaurant (don’t let the lame website fool you).
I spent most of the time in Cooperstown at Dreams Park watching 12 year olds play baseball, although I still have doubts about the validity of some of the players’ birth certificates, especially some of the “12 year olds” from California and Texas. More on that later.
The eponymous Dreams Park truly was the Dream of founder Lou Presutti. He had a vision for a mini-baseball haven. It included the purchase of a massive piece of land in the middle of gorgeous rolling hills five miles from the Hall of Fame. On it, he built 22 baseball fields, complete with stands and dugouts, bunting and mini-green monsters; bathrooms, concession stands, and of course, gift shops; as well as a village for the players and umps, with row after row of bunk-bed-filled barracks, a dining hall, and an infirmary. It truly is a mini baseball-city where these players, coaches, umpires and officials live together for a week.
It’s nothing short of amazing.
The park is spotless, the staff is fearless. No adult gets in or out without a wristband, which means that players and coaches stay in and parents stay out. Which is just how we liked it.
And then there’s the baseball. 104 teams come every week, all summer long, from all over the country. That’s not a misprint: 104 teams, every week. 1,248 teams per season. They don’t build calculators big enough to count all that cash.
After opening ceremonies on Saturday, the teams play two games on Sunday, two on Monday, and two on Tuesday. Single elimination playoffs begin on Wednesday, with games at 10, 12, 3, 5:30, and 8, and the championship is played Thursday night after closing ceremonies (where the boys get their rings) and fireworks.
The seeding for the playoffs is ingenious; the bottom teams start by playing each other (104 vs 103, etc), and the top teams get several byes. That way the teams that have been losing get a chance to get a W, and the teams at the top get rewarded by getting to rest.
Our team had a terrible/wonderful few days on the ball fields and should be the poster children for what makes the Dreams Park Tournament so great.
In our first game we played the SoCal Lumber Kings and lost 15-0. We managed to get one (bloop) hit. In our second game we played the American Avengers from Houston. They were an All-Star team culled down from a tryout of 1500 kids. Most of their players were bigger than our coaches. Over their first six games, they let up three runs. They went 6-0, earned the #1 seed, and eventually won the championship. They allegedly flew in a new pitcher and catcher for the final game. But we knew none of that yet.
All we knew was that they were leading us 15-0 after the first inning and 22-0 after the second. They mercied us 28-0. We got no hits. It was scary in many ways, biggest of which may have been my son nearly getting decapitated by a line drive from their #2 hitter, who went on to hit two homers in the championship.
The icing on the cake: because it rained all day on Sunday, and they don’t do rainouts at Dreams Park, we played our games at 8:30 and 11 that night and ended at 1:30 AM.
Still, the boys had smiles on their faces, and they were joking as they trudged back to the barracks for the first 2 AM showers of their lives. None of them had ever played baseball under a full moon in the middle of the night. And we all sensed that the team we played was something special. Ultimately, it was nice to know that we had played the very best of the 104 teams that week. At the time, though, we were just tired, beat down, and humbled.
The next three games are a blur. We lost them all. The teams we played were not like the Lumber Kings and Avengers; we could have beaten any of them. But we dropped easy fly balls and threw away throws to first and got picked off. It was bad baseball. The boys were exhausted and while they kept their spirits up and laughed and smiled after every game, those two opening losses were in their subconscious, creating doubts about their abilities. And the rankings didn’t help.
All tournament long, the teams are ranked 1-104 based on win-loss record and run differential. Every hour or two, new results are posted all over the village so you can track your progress.
After our first game, we were ranked 104th out of 104. Same after our second, and third, and fourth, and fifth. #104 out of #104. Dead last.
Going into our sixth and last pre-playoff game, one of the dads on our team overheard a kid on the opposing team say they were playing the worst team in the tournament. Now, we may have been the last place team, but we certainly didn’t think we were the worst. And after that game, we were neither.
We came back from deficits of 5-2 and 6-3, and scored seven runs in the sixth and final inning to win 13-6.
WE WON A GAME.
Our collective exhale could’ve put out a forest fire. Relief, yes, but also jubilation, happiness, congratulations all around.
But it was just the beginning. Because the playoffs started the next day.
We were scheduled to play our first game at 10 AM on Field 22. As the #99 seed (the lowest ranked 1-5 team), we were the home team against the #100 seed, which was one of five winless teams. They looked as beat-down as we had the previous day, and we won easily, 13-5.
We finished around 11:50, and our next game was at noon on the same field. The boys jogged from the third base to the first base dugout and once there, switched their shirts, belts and socks from the Home Reds to the Travel Blues. The coaches moved the equipment over and made out new lineups, and the parents began an afternoon-long series of trips between the concession stand and the dugout. It started with water and Gatorade and continued with chips and granola bars. Eventually, there was nothing but Skittles, gum and Starburst, in an effort to keep the boys standing up. Because, happily, we played a lot longer than many #99 seeds ever had.
Our next game, against a team from New Jersey, was a thrilling defensive and pitching gem. One of our boys went 5.1 innings—routine work for an Avengers pitcher, but the longest any pitcher on our team had ever lasted—and we supported him with two runs. It was all he needed. He gave up a solo homer in the sixth but we closed it out to win 2-1.
While it was the best game we played in the tournament, the best was yet to come.
In a tournament with 104 teams from around the country, where we got to play against boys from the East, West, North and South, our third game, at 3:00, was against a squad from Northbrook, a town literally across the street from us and arguably, our biggest rival. We had already played them twice in our travel season and had split the two games, one by two runs, one by one.
I’m not going to go into too much detail, but suffice to say, it was one of those games that, whoever won, would be remembered as a Great One. A seesaw battle, we went up 3-0, they came back to 3-2 and tied it 3-3. We went up 4-3 in the top of the fifth inning and in the bottom they tied it, then went ahead 6-4 on a home run that sent their team and fans into insane jubilation and made us feel like our crazy ride of destiny was over. We felt like we’d been punched in the gut. Everyone in the park thought it was over and Northbrook had it won. But improbably, we scratched out two runs in the top of the sixth to send it to extra innings, scratched out one run in the eighth, and held them in the bottom to win it 7-6.
Joy.
Pure, Unadulterated, Boundless Joy.
After that win, the next game seemed anticlimactic. The boys sat glassy eyed on the bench while the coaches hastily made out a lineup for a 5:30 game we never thought we’d be playing. No matter how many Skittles and Starbursts they popped, the kids just couldn’t muster the energy. We lost to the #17 seeded Sarasota team 11-0, but in a last stand full of heart and pride that exemplified the day, we held them scoreless in the last two innings, and therefore avoided getting beat by the 12-run mercy rule.
It was 7:30 PM. The boys had been playing on the same field for 9 ½ hours. We had the same umpire crew for all four games and they fell in love with our team, and the parents fell in love with them for loving our boys. The sun was setting but we didn’t need it to warm the back of our necks; we would have felt the glow if the temperature had dropped 20 degrees. Some of the parents had checked out of hotels and their packed cars were still waiting in a much emptier parking lot for departures that were expected to have begun hours ago.
We lined up the team and coaches and umps against the fence and took pictures while the boys could still stand. Even though many of the people snapping photos had hoped to be in Ohio by then, I can guarantee you that there was nowhere else they’d rather have been at that moment.
Dreams Park, indeed.
However, the most recent two week gap in blog entries came as a result of the week I spent in Cooperstown, New York, and the four days I spent driving to get there (and a special thank you to the sheriff of Monroe County, NY, for the 15 minutes I spent waiting for you to write me a speeding ticket. Asshole.).
Cooperstown is a quaint two-block town, famously known for housing the Baseball Hall of Fame, along with a Main Street filled with souvenir shops, and one kickass restaurant (don’t let the lame website fool you).
I spent most of the time in Cooperstown at Dreams Park watching 12 year olds play baseball, although I still have doubts about the validity of some of the players’ birth certificates, especially some of the “12 year olds” from California and Texas. More on that later.
The eponymous Dreams Park truly was the Dream of founder Lou Presutti. He had a vision for a mini-baseball haven. It included the purchase of a massive piece of land in the middle of gorgeous rolling hills five miles from the Hall of Fame. On it, he built 22 baseball fields, complete with stands and dugouts, bunting and mini-green monsters; bathrooms, concession stands, and of course, gift shops; as well as a village for the players and umps, with row after row of bunk-bed-filled barracks, a dining hall, and an infirmary. It truly is a mini baseball-city where these players, coaches, umpires and officials live together for a week.
It’s nothing short of amazing.
The park is spotless, the staff is fearless. No adult gets in or out without a wristband, which means that players and coaches stay in and parents stay out. Which is just how we liked it.
And then there’s the baseball. 104 teams come every week, all summer long, from all over the country. That’s not a misprint: 104 teams, every week. 1,248 teams per season. They don’t build calculators big enough to count all that cash.
After opening ceremonies on Saturday, the teams play two games on Sunday, two on Monday, and two on Tuesday. Single elimination playoffs begin on Wednesday, with games at 10, 12, 3, 5:30, and 8, and the championship is played Thursday night after closing ceremonies (where the boys get their rings) and fireworks.
The seeding for the playoffs is ingenious; the bottom teams start by playing each other (104 vs 103, etc), and the top teams get several byes. That way the teams that have been losing get a chance to get a W, and the teams at the top get rewarded by getting to rest.
Our team had a terrible/wonderful few days on the ball fields and should be the poster children for what makes the Dreams Park Tournament so great.
In our first game we played the SoCal Lumber Kings and lost 15-0. We managed to get one (bloop) hit. In our second game we played the American Avengers from Houston. They were an All-Star team culled down from a tryout of 1500 kids. Most of their players were bigger than our coaches. Over their first six games, they let up three runs. They went 6-0, earned the #1 seed, and eventually won the championship. They allegedly flew in a new pitcher and catcher for the final game. But we knew none of that yet.
All we knew was that they were leading us 15-0 after the first inning and 22-0 after the second. They mercied us 28-0. We got no hits. It was scary in many ways, biggest of which may have been my son nearly getting decapitated by a line drive from their #2 hitter, who went on to hit two homers in the championship.
The icing on the cake: because it rained all day on Sunday, and they don’t do rainouts at Dreams Park, we played our games at 8:30 and 11 that night and ended at 1:30 AM.
Still, the boys had smiles on their faces, and they were joking as they trudged back to the barracks for the first 2 AM showers of their lives. None of them had ever played baseball under a full moon in the middle of the night. And we all sensed that the team we played was something special. Ultimately, it was nice to know that we had played the very best of the 104 teams that week. At the time, though, we were just tired, beat down, and humbled.
The next three games are a blur. We lost them all. The teams we played were not like the Lumber Kings and Avengers; we could have beaten any of them. But we dropped easy fly balls and threw away throws to first and got picked off. It was bad baseball. The boys were exhausted and while they kept their spirits up and laughed and smiled after every game, those two opening losses were in their subconscious, creating doubts about their abilities. And the rankings didn’t help.
All tournament long, the teams are ranked 1-104 based on win-loss record and run differential. Every hour or two, new results are posted all over the village so you can track your progress.
After our first game, we were ranked 104th out of 104. Same after our second, and third, and fourth, and fifth. #104 out of #104. Dead last.
Going into our sixth and last pre-playoff game, one of the dads on our team overheard a kid on the opposing team say they were playing the worst team in the tournament. Now, we may have been the last place team, but we certainly didn’t think we were the worst. And after that game, we were neither.
We came back from deficits of 5-2 and 6-3, and scored seven runs in the sixth and final inning to win 13-6.
WE WON A GAME.
Our collective exhale could’ve put out a forest fire. Relief, yes, but also jubilation, happiness, congratulations all around.
But it was just the beginning. Because the playoffs started the next day.
We were scheduled to play our first game at 10 AM on Field 22. As the #99 seed (the lowest ranked 1-5 team), we were the home team against the #100 seed, which was one of five winless teams. They looked as beat-down as we had the previous day, and we won easily, 13-5.
We finished around 11:50, and our next game was at noon on the same field. The boys jogged from the third base to the first base dugout and once there, switched their shirts, belts and socks from the Home Reds to the Travel Blues. The coaches moved the equipment over and made out new lineups, and the parents began an afternoon-long series of trips between the concession stand and the dugout. It started with water and Gatorade and continued with chips and granola bars. Eventually, there was nothing but Skittles, gum and Starburst, in an effort to keep the boys standing up. Because, happily, we played a lot longer than many #99 seeds ever had.
Our next game, against a team from New Jersey, was a thrilling defensive and pitching gem. One of our boys went 5.1 innings—routine work for an Avengers pitcher, but the longest any pitcher on our team had ever lasted—and we supported him with two runs. It was all he needed. He gave up a solo homer in the sixth but we closed it out to win 2-1.
While it was the best game we played in the tournament, the best was yet to come.
In a tournament with 104 teams from around the country, where we got to play against boys from the East, West, North and South, our third game, at 3:00, was against a squad from Northbrook, a town literally across the street from us and arguably, our biggest rival. We had already played them twice in our travel season and had split the two games, one by two runs, one by one.
I’m not going to go into too much detail, but suffice to say, it was one of those games that, whoever won, would be remembered as a Great One. A seesaw battle, we went up 3-0, they came back to 3-2 and tied it 3-3. We went up 4-3 in the top of the fifth inning and in the bottom they tied it, then went ahead 6-4 on a home run that sent their team and fans into insane jubilation and made us feel like our crazy ride of destiny was over. We felt like we’d been punched in the gut. Everyone in the park thought it was over and Northbrook had it won. But improbably, we scratched out two runs in the top of the sixth to send it to extra innings, scratched out one run in the eighth, and held them in the bottom to win it 7-6.
Joy.
Pure, Unadulterated, Boundless Joy.
After that win, the next game seemed anticlimactic. The boys sat glassy eyed on the bench while the coaches hastily made out a lineup for a 5:30 game we never thought we’d be playing. No matter how many Skittles and Starbursts they popped, the kids just couldn’t muster the energy. We lost to the #17 seeded Sarasota team 11-0, but in a last stand full of heart and pride that exemplified the day, we held them scoreless in the last two innings, and therefore avoided getting beat by the 12-run mercy rule.
It was 7:30 PM. The boys had been playing on the same field for 9 ½ hours. We had the same umpire crew for all four games and they fell in love with our team, and the parents fell in love with them for loving our boys. The sun was setting but we didn’t need it to warm the back of our necks; we would have felt the glow if the temperature had dropped 20 degrees. Some of the parents had checked out of hotels and their packed cars were still waiting in a much emptier parking lot for departures that were expected to have begun hours ago.
We lined up the team and coaches and umps against the fence and took pictures while the boys could still stand. Even though many of the people snapping photos had hoped to be in Ohio by then, I can guarantee you that there was nowhere else they’d rather have been at that moment.
Dreams Park, indeed.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Not the best an ad can get
As a marketer, there’s a lot to like about this commercial for Gillette.
An enduring tagline that’s been used for years and works on many levels. “The Best A Man Can get” can refer to the product and the way a person feels when he uses the product, and it also works across several different products at once. And they’ve been using it forever, from back in the days when the gusty jingle singer belted it out in song. (some intrigue there; more on that later).
Their cast is diverse in many ways, from skin color to home country.
The music is ambitious.
And they seem to have a solid strategy: no matter who you are, from superstar to everyman, you have doubts inside you, and you have confidence inside you; these products will make you look and feel good so the confident side can win.
A lot going for this ad. I just wish I could like it.
Gillette has spent years using sports stars in their ads, and to their credit, they’ve used the best of the best, across the globe: Federer, Woods, Jeter, Henry…all champions in their respective sports.
People want to watch them and be like them.
I just wish Gillette would do something more interesting with them.
Ricky Rubio is an interesting new addition to the lineup, but these spots continue to follow a fairly uninspired formula.
They play a little sports, they mug with each other, they hit the sink and shave a little, and they come out looking really well groomed. They get the girls, too. They’re superstars and on the field and in the bathroom. And since they can win, you can win.
It must be working, because it doesn’t seem to be changing. At least the music is a little different; feels like they’re trying to update a bit and get away from the jingle-driven spots of their past.
That’s good stuff.
I couldn’t get this song out of my head for about seven years, it was so prevalent back in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s. What I didn’t know was that there was another “non-advertising” version, and there’s some controversy surrounding the question of which version is the original. What do you think?
Either way I think it’s stuck in my head for another seven years…
An enduring tagline that’s been used for years and works on many levels. “The Best A Man Can get” can refer to the product and the way a person feels when he uses the product, and it also works across several different products at once. And they’ve been using it forever, from back in the days when the gusty jingle singer belted it out in song. (some intrigue there; more on that later).
Their cast is diverse in many ways, from skin color to home country.
The music is ambitious.
And they seem to have a solid strategy: no matter who you are, from superstar to everyman, you have doubts inside you, and you have confidence inside you; these products will make you look and feel good so the confident side can win.
A lot going for this ad. I just wish I could like it.
Gillette has spent years using sports stars in their ads, and to their credit, they’ve used the best of the best, across the globe: Federer, Woods, Jeter, Henry…all champions in their respective sports.
People want to watch them and be like them.
I just wish Gillette would do something more interesting with them.
Ricky Rubio is an interesting new addition to the lineup, but these spots continue to follow a fairly uninspired formula.
They play a little sports, they mug with each other, they hit the sink and shave a little, and they come out looking really well groomed. They get the girls, too. They’re superstars and on the field and in the bathroom. And since they can win, you can win.
It must be working, because it doesn’t seem to be changing. At least the music is a little different; feels like they’re trying to update a bit and get away from the jingle-driven spots of their past.
That’s good stuff.
I couldn’t get this song out of my head for about seven years, it was so prevalent back in the ‘80’s and ‘90’s. What I didn’t know was that there was another “non-advertising” version, and there’s some controversy surrounding the question of which version is the original. What do you think?
Either way I think it’s stuck in my head for another seven years…
Friday, July 17, 2009
Wow! No, sham-wow.
I have never hidden my love for Shamwow’s Vince, and this latest gem makes me want to profess my love for him by doing a little break dancing.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Could this win the next Grand Prix at Cannes?
Probably not, because it’ll be such old news by next June. But oddly enough, it’s made possible by the little race going on just up the road in France, the Tour de Lance.
For most Americans, it might as well be called that. When he’s in it, we’re interested. When he’s off galavanting with the latest Hollywood Hottie du jour, he’s fun fodder for People magazine, but it doesn’t do a whole lot for Americans turning their attention to guys riding bikes in France.
I don’t know about you, but I’d rather watch Manny Ramirez than NOCENTINI Rinaldo. That’s how they roll with the surnames across the pond; last name first IN CAPS, first name last. NOCENTINI wears the yellow jersey right now by virtue of his performance in yesterday’s seventh stage, 224 kilometers through the Pyranees, covered in about 6 hours.
And you thought baseball games took too long.
Anyway.
The Americans who are probably most interested in Lance riding in the Tour are the fine folks in Beaverton, OR with the swooshes on their clothes. They’re also the people who now bring you Chalkbot.
You may have seen it already, but if not, take a look.
Saying it’s simple, smart, and a great way of promoting Nike as the thought leader in sports and causes would be stating the obvious. It also engages real people and pulls them in, gets them involved with very little effort (other than the time and brainwork needed to build the damn machine).
It may or may not win any huge awards next year in the South of France, but at least it'll help motivate more folks in our great land to watttchh mmmore bikknngng...
Oops, woah, fell asleep for a sec there while I was watching the bike race thing. Sorry. Won't happen again. Promise.
For most Americans, it might as well be called that. When he’s in it, we’re interested. When he’s off galavanting with the latest Hollywood Hottie du jour, he’s fun fodder for People magazine, but it doesn’t do a whole lot for Americans turning their attention to guys riding bikes in France.
I don’t know about you, but I’d rather watch Manny Ramirez than NOCENTINI Rinaldo. That’s how they roll with the surnames across the pond; last name first IN CAPS, first name last. NOCENTINI wears the yellow jersey right now by virtue of his performance in yesterday’s seventh stage, 224 kilometers through the Pyranees, covered in about 6 hours.
And you thought baseball games took too long.
Anyway.
The Americans who are probably most interested in Lance riding in the Tour are the fine folks in Beaverton, OR with the swooshes on their clothes. They’re also the people who now bring you Chalkbot.
You may have seen it already, but if not, take a look.
Saying it’s simple, smart, and a great way of promoting Nike as the thought leader in sports and causes would be stating the obvious. It also engages real people and pulls them in, gets them involved with very little effort (other than the time and brainwork needed to build the damn machine).
It may or may not win any huge awards next year in the South of France, but at least it'll help motivate more folks in our great land to watttchh mmmore bikknngng...
Oops, woah, fell asleep for a sec there while I was watching the bike race thing. Sorry. Won't happen again. Promise.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Time Out for a laugh
Despite all kinds of basketball and hockey free agent news, the Cubs playing a pivotal series against the Brewers (please call me if you'd like to give me tickets for Saturday's game), and lots and lots of travel baseball in my world, let's take a breather from sports to enjoy a good guffaw.
This is what makes this country great. Happy fourth of July.
This is what makes this country great. Happy fourth of July.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
In awe of Lance
Once again, Nike and Lance Armstrong have found a way to inspire us.
Powerful. Gripping. The images are singular and relentless in their ability to make you feel sympathy for these courageous people; the music grabs your heart and twists and wrenches it, as it climaxes with pounding drumbeats. The ending is surprising and compelling.
It provides a fascinating contrast to a thematically similar commercial done several years earlier, also featuring Lance and with Nike as it’s sponsor.
No music that builds to a climax, no images of anyone battling a terrible disease. Just a very vulnerable, very determined young athlete.
But so powerful. So inspiring.
The twist here, of course, is that he did exactly what he promised, despite cancer in his testicles, abdomen, lungs, and brain. He beat the disease, he rode again as a professional cyclist, and he did pretty well.
More inspiring than the new spot? Who’s to say. They’re both amazing. But I will say this:
In the new spot, the tone in his voice feels different. His attitude towards humanity feels different. He just seems tired.
In each of the spots, Lance is at the center of what inspires us. And he does inspire us.
But in the new spot, his voice seems affected by his years of being chased by paparazzi, accused of doping, and living the life of a true rock-star-dating, tabloid-filling celebrity, who has left cycling behind and transcended the world of sports to become a bigger than life figure, for better or worse.
And it comes off as just slightly less sincere. To me, it doesn’t seem as fresh as this spot, done as part of the same campaign.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am awed by Lance Armstrong and the things he has accomplished since his cancer announcement of October, 1996: he won the Tour de France seven times, and he raised both awareness and enormous sums of money for cancer and cancer research. He ran the New York and Boston Marathons.
And perhaps most incredible, he fathered a son, Max, through natural conception, just under a month ago, even though it was assumed that it could never happen.
This guy is incredible. He is truly special.
But being the sportsguy that I am, the Lance Armstrong I like most is the less famous, pre-Sheryl, more hard-core athlete. The guy who did a This is Sportscenter commercial that’s arguably one of the best ever made.
Not in the same class as the ads above, but for people who create great sports marketing, work this good is pretty damn inspiring.
Powerful. Gripping. The images are singular and relentless in their ability to make you feel sympathy for these courageous people; the music grabs your heart and twists and wrenches it, as it climaxes with pounding drumbeats. The ending is surprising and compelling.
It provides a fascinating contrast to a thematically similar commercial done several years earlier, also featuring Lance and with Nike as it’s sponsor.
No music that builds to a climax, no images of anyone battling a terrible disease. Just a very vulnerable, very determined young athlete.
But so powerful. So inspiring.
The twist here, of course, is that he did exactly what he promised, despite cancer in his testicles, abdomen, lungs, and brain. He beat the disease, he rode again as a professional cyclist, and he did pretty well.
More inspiring than the new spot? Who’s to say. They’re both amazing. But I will say this:
In the new spot, the tone in his voice feels different. His attitude towards humanity feels different. He just seems tired.
In each of the spots, Lance is at the center of what inspires us. And he does inspire us.
But in the new spot, his voice seems affected by his years of being chased by paparazzi, accused of doping, and living the life of a true rock-star-dating, tabloid-filling celebrity, who has left cycling behind and transcended the world of sports to become a bigger than life figure, for better or worse.
And it comes off as just slightly less sincere. To me, it doesn’t seem as fresh as this spot, done as part of the same campaign.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am awed by Lance Armstrong and the things he has accomplished since his cancer announcement of October, 1996: he won the Tour de France seven times, and he raised both awareness and enormous sums of money for cancer and cancer research. He ran the New York and Boston Marathons.
And perhaps most incredible, he fathered a son, Max, through natural conception, just under a month ago, even though it was assumed that it could never happen.
This guy is incredible. He is truly special.
But being the sportsguy that I am, the Lance Armstrong I like most is the less famous, pre-Sheryl, more hard-core athlete. The guy who did a This is Sportscenter commercial that’s arguably one of the best ever made.
Not in the same class as the ads above, but for people who create great sports marketing, work this good is pretty damn inspiring.
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