Shoe Dog

Auteur

Phil Knight

Texte du rabat

"In this young reader's edition of the New York Times bestseller, Nike founder and board chairman Phil Knight "offers a rare and revealing look at the notoriously media-shy man behind the swoosh" (Booklist, starred review), opening up about how he went from being a track star at an Oregon high school to the founder of a brand and company that changed everything"--Publisher's marketing.

Résumé
“An eye-opening look into the story of Knight before his multibillion dollar company.” —School Library Journal

“A great story about how an ambition turned into a business…serves as a guide for accomplishing great things.” —VOYA

In this young reader’s edition of the New York Times bestseller, Nike founder and board chairman Phil Knight “offers a rare and revealing look at the notoriously media-shy man behind the swoosh” (Booklist, starred review), opening up about how he went from being a track star at an Oregon high school to the founder of a brand and company that changed everything.

You must forget your limits.

It was only when Nike founder Phil Knight got cut from the baseball team as a high school freshman that his mother suggested he try out for track instead. Knight made the track team and found that not only could he run fast but also, more importantly, he liked it.

Ten years later, young and searching, Knight borrowed fifty dollars from his father and launched a company with one simple mission: import high quality running shoes from Japan. Selling the shoes from the trunk of his car to start, he and his gang of friends and runners built one of the most successful brands ever.

Phil Knight encountered risks and setbacks along the way, but always followed his own advice. Just keep going. Don’t stop. Whatever comes up, don’t stop. Filled with wisdom, humanity, humor, and heart, the young readers edition of the bestselling Shoe Dog is a story of determination that inspires all who read it.

The Young Readers Edition is an abridged version of the internationally bestselling adult book and it features original front matter and back matter, including a new introduction and “A Letter to the Young Reader” containing advice from Phil Knight for budding entrepreneurs.

Échantillon de lecture
Shoe Dog

1962

When I broached the subject with my father, when I worked up the nerve to speak to him about my Crazy Idea, I made sure it was in the early evening. That was always the best time with Dad. He was relaxed then, well fed, stretched out in his vinyl recliner in the TV nook. I can still tilt back my head and close my eyes and hear the sound of the audience laughing, the tinny theme songs of his favorite shows, Wagon Train and Rawhide.

His all-time favorite was The Red Buttons Show from the 1950s. Every episode began with Red singing: Ho ho, hee hee . . . strange things are happening.

I set a straight-backed chair beside him and gave a wan smile and waited for the next commercial. I’d rehearsed my spiel, in my head, over and over, especially the opening. Sooo, Dad, you remember that Crazy Idea I had at Stanford . . . ?

It was one of my final classes, a seminar on entrepreneurship. I’d written a research paper about shoes, and the paper had evolved from a run-of-the-mill assignment to an all-out obsession. Being a runner, I knew something about running shoes. Being a business buff, I knew that Japanese cameras had made deep cuts into the camera market, which had once been dominated by Germans. Thus, I argued in my paper that Japanese running shoes might do the same thing. The idea interested me, then inspired me, then captivated me. It seemed so obvious, so simple, so potentially huge.

I’d spent weeks and weeks on that paper. I’d moved into the library, devoured everything I could find about importing and exporting, about starting a company. Finally, as required, I’d given a formal presentation of the paper to my classmates, who reacted with formal boredom. Not one asked a single question. They greeted my passion and intensity with labored sighs and vacant stares.

The professor thought my Crazy Idea had merit: He gave me an A. But that was that. At least, that was supposed to be that. I’d never really stopped thinking about that paper. Through the rest of my time at Stanford, through every morning run and right up to that moment in the TV nook, I’d pondered going to Japan, finding a shoe company, pitching them my Crazy Idea, in the hopes that they’d have a more enthusiastic reaction than my classmates, that they’d want to partner with a shy, pale, rail-thin kid from sleepy Oregon.

I’d also toyed with the notion of making an exotic detour on my way to and from Japan. How can I leave my mark on the world, I thought, unless I get out there first and see it? Before running a big race, you always want to walk the track. A backpacking trip around the globe might be just the thing. I wanted to visit the planet’s most beautiful and wondrous places.

And its most sacred. Of course I wanted to taste other foods, hear other languages, dive into other cultures, but what I really craved was “connection” with a capital “C.” I wanted to experience what the Chinese call Tao, the Greeks call Logos, the Hindus call Jñāna, the Buddhists call Dharma. What the Christians call Spirit. Before setting out on my own personal life voyage, I thought, let me first understand the greater voyage of humankind. Let me explore the grandest temples and churches and shrines, the holiest rivers and mountaintops. Let me feel the presence of . . . God?

Yes, I told myself, yes. For want of a better word, God.

But first, I’d need my father’s approval. More, I’d need his cash.

I’d already mentioned making a big trip, the previous year, and my father seemed open to it. But surely he’d forgotten. And surely I was pushing it, adding to the original proposal this Crazy Idea, this outrageous side trip—to Japan? To launch a company? Talk about boondoggles.

Surely he’d see this as a bridge too far.

And a bridge too darned expensive. I had some savings from the Army and from various part-time jobs over the last several summers. On top of which, I planned to sell my car, a cherry-black 1960 MG with racing tires and a twin cam. All of which amounted to fifteen hundred dollars, leaving me a grand short, I now told my father. He nodded, uh-huh, mmhmm, and flicked his eyes from the TV to me and back again, while I laid it all out.

Remember how we talked, Dad? How I said I want to see the world?

The Himalayas? The Pyramids?

The Dead Sea, Dad? The Dead Sea?

Well, ha-ha, I’m also thinking of stopping off in Japan, Dad. Remember my Crazy Idea? Japanese running shoes? Right? It could be huge, Dad. Huge.

I was laying it on thick, putting on the hard sell, extra hard, because I always hated selling and because this particular sell had zero chance. My father had just forked out hundreds of dollars to the University of Oregon, thousands more to Stanford. He was the publisher of the Oregon Journal, a solid job that paid for all the basic comforts, including our spacious white house on Claybourne Street, in Portland’s quietest suburb, Eastmoreland. But the man wasn’t made of money.

Also, this was 1962. The earth was bigger then. Though humans were beginning to orbit the planet in capsules, 90 percent of Americans still had never been on an airplane. The average man or woman had never ventured farther than one hundred miles from his or her own front door, so the mere mention of global travel by airplane would unnerve any father, and especially mine, whose prede…