Man of the Year. Lisa Ruff
“Lane has a point. The commercials that have been used during most major sporting events have featured any number of bikinis and skimpy attire to promote everything except swimwear and clothes. But how do we use them? We’re promoting a baseball team. Is that a different market than beer commercials target?”
Samantha sat back and let the others debate the issue. Ideas were tossed out randomly. Bikinis and beer led—by a very circuitous route—to nuclear reactors and life preservers. She let them mine the raw possibilities of each idea for a while then pushed them off in another direction. Brenda wrote furiously, so every speck and notion was documented for future reference. Ideas and patterns of ideas mentioned in this session might even prove useful later for a completely different product. Brenda was a storehouse of past brainstorming sessions, any of which she might mention without warning to send them off in a new direction.
The discussion returned to its start and an argument raged back and forth about the ethics of using bikinis to promote anything. The women opposed it, the men were for it, so long as good-looking female models wore them. Then Lane yelled something crazy about extraterrestrials and the brainstorming took a decidedly odd turn. Samantha laughed and broke into the ruckus.
“Okay, guys. That’s a little bizarre, even for me. I know I said nothing was too far-fetched, but come on, aliens in bikinis kidnapping a baseball team?”
“Sure, it’d be great,” Stuart said, adopting Lane’s brainchild for the moment. “Like Willie Mays meets ET. But with less cellulite.”
“Yeah. The players could be sucked up into this ship. Then weird creatures would operate on them and make them better players.” Carol picked up Stuart’s thought and gave it another twist.
When this craziness had run its course, Stuart asked the question Samantha had been waiting for. “What do you have in mind for this campaign, Samantha? We’ve been spilling our guts for over an hour, but you haven’t offered much yourself.”
“Well. I’ve heard some good ideas passed around today, except the one about aliens.” She shook a finger at Lane. He smirked. “But I want to focus a little tighter on the problem before we look for solutions. The Rainiers are a bunch of druggies and bullies, and no one wants to go to their games because they always lose. Right?” There were nods of agreement.
“To change that perception, we need to recast the Rainiers as a completely new team. The old is gone. Here’s this new gang of kids that no one knows anything about. It’s our job to introduce them and show how they’re starting out fresh.” She paused for emphasis. “So I think we should show what the players were like in grade school.”
“Grade school?” was the startled question from several people.
“Yep. Grade school.” Samantha went on to outline her idea as she had to Brenda. “What if we set them up as a sandlot team on the playground. Make their individual talents come from something they did then. Exaggerate to show how they started out in the game.”
This set everyone into another flurry. Ideas spun around the room like Frisbees.
“Like the kid that hits a home-run ball through the plate glass window two blocks away,” Lane said.
“Or a pitcher that used to hit birds with rocks,” Stuart added.
“No. That’s too mean. Besides, the animal-rights activists would have a cow,” Carol countered. “How about throwing newspapers on a paper route. Or winning all the Kewpie dolls at the county fair. Something like that.”
“But what about the aliens?” Lane asked plaintively. Everyone laughed.
The group’s creative juices flowed freely. Once a basic theme was set, their ideas began to mesh. At the end of the meeting Samantha knew they were on to something good. She divided her staff into two creative teams—Stuart and Lane in charge of one, Carol and Pam the other. Then she assigned several of the more urgent items on Brenda’s list.
“Everyone know where we’re going and what we’re doing?”
There was a chorus of acknowledgment.
“Good. I want both groups to work closely with one another on this. It all has to mesh. Let’s meet again on Wednesday afternoon to go over the preliminaries. If you have any questions, I plan to be in all week. Thanks, gang.” The meeting was over.
Samantha watched as they exited en masse. Pam and Carol were already sketching ideas in the air for the project. Between them, she knew she’d have some good, solid stuff by midweek. Samantha crossed her fingers and hoped the Rainiers would be just as excited.
The wait to find out how the Rainiers felt didn’t take long, or at least it seemed that way. The week flew by and before she knew it, she had delivered her pitch to Andrew Elliott and the rest of the Rainier managers and coaches.
“A skookum presentation! I like it.” Elliott pounded his cigar into the ashtray on his desk. He was about sixty years old with the energy of a teenager. His short, round frame and rosy cheeks held all the good humor of Santa Claus. Except when he was crossed. Then he could outdo both Scrooge and the Grinch. The cherubic exterior hid a core of pure steel.
“Thank you, Mr. Elliott. If you’re satisfied, we’ll get the first commercial ready to shoot in about a week.”
“It’s wonderful, Ms. James. The campaign’s shaping up to be a real corker. Just what this team needs.”
Samantha chuckled at his quaint colloquialism. “I’ll let your staff know where and when we begin shooting as soon as I make the final arrangements with the director and the camera people.” She shook Elliott’s soft, chubby hand. As gentle as his grasp felt, Samantha knew it cloaked the proverbial iron fist with which Elliott ruled his organization.
Before she won the contract with the Rainiers, Samantha had wondered why Elliott had let the organization run so far into the dirt. Fearlessly, she asked him that exact question early in their negotiations. She had a lot at stake by taking on a project this size. If the owner wasn’t committed to bringing the team up to par with the rest of the league, there was no reason to stick her company’s neck out. After all, the advertising contract only covered one season. If the team did well—that is, if the stands were full—it would be extended to the next season. The gamble was acceptable to Samantha only if Andrew Elliott had the wherewithal and desire to pull the team from the bottom of the standings. Otherwise, what was the point?
Her direct and candid question was one of the ways she had impressed Andrew Elliott. He admitted his mistake: turning too much power over to the wrong man. His confidence had been misplaced, and he had found out only after disaster struck. Consequently, ninety-nine percent of management had been fired—canned was his word. Now Elliott was making the decisions, and the team would change. Which was not saying it was a sure thing. If they didn’t improve, Elliott planned to put the whole kit and caboodle on the auction block and sell to the highest bidder. Samantha liked his honesty, and despite the high stakes, she had signed the contract.
“I’ll talk to you Monday morning. The team photos are scheduled for Tuesday. I left a copy of the details with your secretary.”
Once out of the office, Samantha did a little dance of elation. The campaign was going exactly as she had hoped. Impulsively, she decided to walk over to the ballpark. Where better to revel in this small success? Besides, inspiration had hit her there before. Maybe another bolt of ideas would come with a new visit. She still had to catch up to Boomer, too.
Management offices for the Rainiers were in a four-story structure just north of the stadium. As she strode toward the main entrance, she was struck by how little Sicks Stadium looked like a ballpark. With its brick-and-wood facade, the old structure looked more like a large factory. Inside, a pitched roof covered the horseshoe-shaped stands. Like other stadiums built in the early part of the last century, the playing field was open to the elements.
She showed her badge to the security guard and wound through the maze of tunnels to the field, following a path she had memorized on her first visit. She