December 2004. I had just started dating someone, My Mr. Big, and he had asked me to attend a dinner party held at this very extravagant country club. We arrived at the function and since I was nervous, began to drink heavily, a habit I was quite fond of during that time in my life. We all had assigned seats for dinner. MMB and I were sitting at different ends of the table, not by choice. Surpisingly, I was able to carry on clever and charming conversation all the while disguising as a lovely, sober woman. Knowing how I was back then, I am sure I was well on my way to drunkville.
Desert was accompanied by a horrific announcement- everyone was required to share a personal story, more specifically, a personal sports story (the company is made up of mostly men, so go fig). Instantly I began to freak out and fought back hot tears that desperately wanted to roll down my face. I have a fear of failure and sounding stupid to begin with. The fact I was so not that sober and sitting at a table filled with genius millionaires almost made me want to vomit. I had no real stories about sports because the only game I truly have ever played/ mastered is the dating game- or so I thought.
My head started screaming inside of my brain, yelling over numerous, sweet stories that included everything from coaching children’s baseball leagues to completing multiple triathlons. Suddenly, it was my turn. I opened up my mouth to talk and this very unsure, mousy voice takes over.
Out of nowhere, I began telling my story. Mind you, it’s all very true.
“Every July, as you all are well aware, the Peachtree Road race occurs. One summer in the early 80's, a photographer by the name of Chuck Rogers was given a Nike assignment. He decided to take a picture of random runners who had just finished the race. Mr. Rogers did not assign any models nor did he know anything about the runners before he shot the scene. The picture was as random but as perfect as any photographer can hope for. Before the ad could successfully be published, Mr. Rogers researched the stories behind the men in the pictures. What he found out was astonishing. The man who is on the ground and wearing a bright yellow shirt, collapsed immediately after the race, dying from heat stroke just minutes after the picture was taken. Runners passed by and thought this man was merely resting. The man, who stands in front of the picture bare chest, looking up to the sky, is mentally handicapped. This race marked his first successful accomplishment. He did not know the man on the ground. And the man who is in the not so distant background, wearing black shorts, a white polo shirt tucked in, Nikes (without socks) and holding a steaming hot cup of coffee, is my father. The actual ad has a clearer vision of my father. The ad was so successful; it won many awards and went international. I remember seeing it one year while I was still living in Paris. A large copy can also be seen in the movie, St Elmo's Fire (or so I’ve heard- never seen the movie. Heard it wasn’t very good). Nike contacted my father with the story and a check, however my humble father declined any financial handouts. Therefore, in lieu of money, Nike sent my father a framed poster, which in turn hung proudly in my father's IBM office until the day he retired. It now hangs in my brother's.”
I had only heard that story once before. The day it was told to me I was quite certain I was in another world and could not have even remembered my best friend's name if you had asked me. I'm surprised I was able to remember any of details at the Christmas party. Needless to say, my story was by far the best in the room.
Moral of the story? There are no such things as coincidences.
Loves,
mer
