The featured NBA personality of the past month has been Chris Paul, who was traded to the Lakers, then returned to the Hornets, then finally traded to the Clippers. Paired with Blake Griffin, Paul promises to mount an MVP-caliber season if he and Griffin keep their repaired knees healthy. One thing you can count on when the Clippers introduce Paul at their home opener will be his billing by the public address announcer: We will learn not that Paul was born and raised in the Winston-Salem, North Carolina area, nor that he played four pro seasons in New Orleans (and two in Oklahoma City), but that he attended Wake Forest University for two years. Throughout the league, university attendance, no matter the duration or the proximity to the player's hometown (in Paul's case, he attended college close to home, but many ballers do not), is made part of a player's brand. Of course, not every NBA player attended university -- at least those who entered the league before the 2005 Collective Bargaining Agreement. But team marketing staffs have thought of a simple solution for this problem: wherever LeBron James, for example, has played pro ball, he is billed at "6 foot 8, from St. Vincent - St. Mary's..." owing to his early entry to the NBA direct from high school. (Forward to 0:52 mark of video:)
Why, though, is a player's educational affiliation his most salient identifier? I tend not to introduce myself at parties by describing where I studied ten years ago; I might refer to my hometown, or what neighborhood I live in now. Minutiae like my high school or college are hardly relevant to my life today. Employers hardly care about my university affiliation, either: an adequate one is useful to get one's foot in the door, but for promotions and movement to different companies, it is recommendations and recent accomplishments that make the difference.
With my examples of Paul and James above, at least their schooling was only a few miles from their hometown, but top college basketball programs usually draw recruits from all around the country, or from other nations. Kevin Love, for example, spent his whole life in Oregon before passing through southern California for one college season after he finished high school in 2007. And following the '08 draft, he has lived in Minneapolis for over 3 years. Yet the Timberwolves announcer always reminds us that Love is from UCLA. Kevin Durant is a son of Maryland, yet his introduction pairs him with the University of Texas, where he spent approximately 7 months of his life, in the fall and winter of 2006-2007. Similarly, lifelong Torontonian Tristan Thompson, now of the Cavs, spent two prep years in New Jersey, one further high school season in Nevada, and a few collegiate months in Austin, Texas, before he entered the NBA draft last spring. Before each home game, Cavs fans will be reminded of the news that this Canadian is "from" Texas.
NBA fans with a moderately long memory will remember announcer Ray Clay's iconic introductory locution for Michael Jordan (backed by an addictive synthesizer hook from the Alan Parsons Project) before every game in Chicago: "From NORTH... Carolina... at guard, 6'6"... Michael... JORDAN!" At least in Jordan's case, the "North Carolina" appellation identified both his college and his homeland. But calling Tristan Thompson, of Brampton Ontario, a Texan is a bit of a stretch.
It is true that college is a singular moment in the lives of many young people: away from home for the first time, thrown together with young people with different backgrounds, staking their future on their ability to sit for exams and nail the answers, college students form very intense bonds with their new friends and with the institution. Years later, former students look first to their college ties for social connection and professional support; even Rudy Gay, who spent just one year at the U. of Connecticut, or Kyrie Irving, who played 10 games for Duke, look to their alma mater for a place to scrimmage in summertime.
Moreover, until twenty years ago, it was unusual for top young players to spend any fewer than two (and usually three) seasons in college ball; future MVPs Lew Alcindor, Bill Walton, Larry Bird, Hakeem Olajuwon, David Robinson, and Tim Duncan all spent four years on campus. Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, and Shaquille O'Neal spent three. When Chris Webber left college after his sophomore season in 1993, he began to stress the three-season norm for college ballers that had mirrored the NFL's explicit no-sophomores rule, and afterwards entry by high school seniors (beginning with Kevin Garnett in '95) or college freshmen became more typical. Perhaps there was once a feeling in NBA circles that college truly was the most formative place for a young lad to learn the game, but things change.
Today, of course, high school and college student-athletes spend most of their non-official time attending summer academies sponsored by apparel companies, AAU tournaments, and tours through China. It is risible to argue that a few months in Lexington, Kentucky was the most defining period of John Wall's pre-pro life, after he grew up in rural North Carolina in a challenged family. Yet...
My co-blogger H.O.S.S. suggests that teams ask players how they would like to be introduced. Barring that, the smartest approach I have seen is the Chicago Bulls' introduction of Derrick Rose, who spent his whole life before college (including a celebrated high school basketall career) in the city of Chicago. Rose passed through John Calipari's point guard factory at the University of Memphis for one season before joining the NBA in 2008 -- returning to his hometown in Cook County. The Bulls do not pretend that his college half-year was the most salient time in his life, instead pleasing the home crowd by simply calling him "From Chicago" (forward to 4:52 mark of video):
(Of late, Rose has spent more of his free offseason time in Los Angeles than in Chicago, but why let facts get in the way of a good story?)
Saturday, December 24, 2011
On Player Introductions
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Film Marketing in the NBA Finals
Since 2009, ABC/ESPN has made a habit each year of selling heavy advertising promotion during the NBA Finals to one comedy film of questionable quality. The trouble with these advertising segments is not merely that the movies are bad, but that ABC constructs the features as "advertorials" that blur the line between the network's basketball coverage, on the one hand, and its revenue-generating function on the other.
In '09 we saw constant promos for the Jack Black stinker Year One, which hit theaters on June 19th that year. NBA fans hoping to learn how Orlando rookie SG Courtney Lee would oppose Kobe Bryant's offensive assault, or how the Lakers could deal with Hedo Turkoglu on the P&R, were instead subjected to this inane banter of Black and Michael Cera talkin' hoops:
On June 3, 2010, Adam Sandler, Chris Rock, Kevin James, and David Spade oddly showed up at courtside in Staples Center for Game 1 between the Lakers and Celtics. Getty Images published a pic, purportedly just another paparazzi snap, of the four actors enjoying themselves. But by more than wacky coincidence, these guys were ready to promote a new movie, Grown-Ups, set to debut on June 27th of that year. Finals viewers soon realized that they were booked for seven games worth of Sandler and his buds cracking jokes in ABC-branded promos during NBA airtime.
Last night, during Game 1 of Dallas-Miami, viewers saw (more than once) an ABC-branded promo for Kevin James's new film, Zookeeper, ready for release on July 8th. I am partial to cute animals, so I am not yet ready to call the movie stupid, but the previews have not looked compelling. If you couldn't get enough of James on a Segway in Mall Cop, James promises to bring even worse obloquy to the profession of wildlife caretaker. ESPN/ABC apparently thought that the NBA's talking-basketball promos from this season's playoffs were clever and iconic enough that a meta-ad featuring James, sitting next to a talking gorilla character from his movie, watching the talking-basketball ad on a television would be snappy. [The original talking basketball bits this spring were fairly amusing, but nothing like the "There Can Only Be One" campaign from 2008, also delivered by ad agency Goodby, Silverstein.]
Surprisingly, none of these movies were produced or owned by the Walt Disney Company (owner of ABC/ESPN); distribution rights for all three belonged to Sony/Columbia. Apparently Sony has a good deal with Disney and the former plans to milk the latter's NBA platform every June for summer movies with shaky pedigrees. Of course, film economics are hard to predict. Year One cost about $60 MM to produce, but earned only $43 MM at US theaters. The Sandler movie, missing any special effects that would drive up costs (though perhaps featuring too many high-salaried actors), earned over $160 MM domestically. Sony's marketing strategy may be an example of the sunk-cost fallacy: having spent a lot of money on a lemon of a project, the sponsor figures he needs to spend even more to gin up some revenue out of it. Sometimes this calculus works, but sometimes it doesn't. "Zookeeper" looks more like a "Year One" redux than a "Grown-Ups"-like hit. Meanwhile, NBA fans must gird for a couple weeks of Kevin James.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Mad Men Is An Apt Descriptor
Mad may not be the right word, but perhaps daft, silly, or full of hubris might better describe the advertising gurus who thought of the two ads shown below.
Below is LeBron James's follow-up to his romantic-comedy act from July wherein he entertained various suitors for seven days (after keeping them guessing for the previous two years) and then obnoxiously announced his Decision via a television special. In this new video, James seems to acknowledge that he angered his fans, and provocatively climbs aboard a literal bulldozer to represent what he did to their feelings last summer. So after James inappropriately and narcissistically drew attention to himself four months ago, he... does exactly the same thing, without even apologizing for the earlier behavior!
Then there is the new set of Adidas ads featuring actor Ken Jeong wearing a gold costume and calling himself "Slim Chin". We are led to believe, in some ironic sleight, that Slim's apparent riches are derived from his unusual fast-ness. Meanwhile, Derrick Rose reveals himself to be far faster than Slim, showing that shoes, in this ironic universe, can top natural talent.
This is fine as far as it goes, and defenders of the ad might say that everything is tongue-in-cheek, and Jeong's Hollywood reputation is sufficiently established that we can laugh with him, rather than at him. Still, Jeong's ken (pun intended) seems to extend only to roles in which he acts silly and mincing while emphasizing his exotically Asian bloodline. Recall his naked turn in The Hangover. I doubt that enough viewers of this new Adidas ad "get it" to render his minstrelsy innocuous.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Mad Melo Men
I’ve always thought that a good advertisement needs to be clever, memorable, and tell you something about the intrinsic qualities of the product. Even in a commodified industry where the product has little intrinsic to distinguish it from its competitors (really, what the hell is the difference between TAG body spray and AXE?) the “package” of the product can include an enticing set of cultural memories and associations. I still have no clue what makes Flintstone vitamins better than CVS brand, but their jingle is incredibly warming; why would I want to miss out on the 10 million strong and growing? And I almost feel like a New England aristocrat when I take the time to taste the Welch’s and savor all that Concord flavor.
The Powerade ad reminded me of two other recent ad campaigns that involved no creativity. In 2005, Fidelity Investments signed up Paul McCartney to license stock footage of his image and music in several print and TV ads, and a few years earlier Accenture signed Tiger Woods for similar purposes. You’ve probably seen the Accenture ads at airports: an image of Woods playing golf and looking thoughtful, with a lame caption like “10% imagination, 90% perspiration”. Any company on the planet could publish that ad, so why should I believe that Accenture is uniquely resonant with the Woods ethos?
For each of these campaigns, one can always find business school professors or marketing practitioners willing to drop fancy quotes about brand synergy or strategic partnerships. But my first question when I see one of these ads is, why was the star willing to sell out his image for cold cash and nothing more? If a representative of Coca-Cola or BMW came to me and asked to use my name and likeness in advertising, I would insist that they craft a brilliant campaign around me, possibly involving me training first to put on 20 pounds of muscle and to sing classical opera. I would not say, “Sure, how much?” While I am sure Woods’s agents have carefully negotiated how Accenture may and may not depict him, he creates no new self for the campaign. We learn nothing new about him from the arrangement.
Ads with basketball stars, though, are not known for this frozen depiction of the talent. The best ad campaigns involving NBA players have drawn upon real feuds, real character, and real charisma. I think everyone who watched the 1992 Super Bowl remembers the one with Jordan and Bird attempting to make increasingly outlandish shots, each attempt ending with the brash prediction, “Nothing but net.” The early irreverence of Young Shaq was summarily dealt with in an ad by his shoe company where he paid proper homage to the great bigs of old. More recently, Nike and even VitaminWater have rather expertly employed the acting chops of LeBron James in varying roles including messiah, CEO, and crusading litigator. I don’t know a thing about LeBron as a person (other than that he named his first son LeBron Jr., which at age 19 was fairly obnoxious), but from his ads I have acquired the impression that he is a cool guy, and it makes me want to follow his career and buy his stuff.
So why do we see these lame campaigns involving McCartney, Tiger, and Carmelo? Why didn’t the client bother to obtain a measure of creativity, rather than just sticking the likeness of some famous dude on a billboard or a video? There is a school that holds advertising to be nothing more than a conspicuous form of money-burning: a way for high-quality sellers to signal their goodness in a market where consumers can’t tell the difference between VitaminWater and Kool-Aid. The theory is that high-quality sellers anticipate repeat business, so expensive advertising is worth it for them, but it’s not worthwhile for low-quality sellers; thus, if you see ostentatious advertising, it must be a high-quality seller. Many Super Bowl ads are like this. Only one Internet domain name registrar advertised during the 2006 Super Bowl, and their ad, while clever, said very little about the product. And what could they say? You go to a website, you type in your desired URL, you give your credit card number. There’s not a lot to sell there.
So what motivated Fidelity and Accenture here? I can’t imagine it’s because the client was stingy with its advertising budget and didn’t want to pay the ad agency to spend the time thinking of something creative and producing the content; the hourly rates charged by the ad firms surely are dwarfed, or at least equalled, by the compensation given to these athletes and entertainers. Presumably the advertising houses came up with these ideas and somehow convinced the marketing chiefs at the companies to sign off. The marketing chiefs apparently think that a display of pure money-burning, with no obvious effort to entertain, must be enough. It’s certainly not enough for me; I find myself actively repulsed from such a campaign.
More importantly, there is a great onus upon the star himself to decide how his persona shall be constructed and interpreted in the public square. Tiger Woods has been content since becoming a superstar to remain a mystery: he rarely talks of anything other than golf. The Accenture deal thus seems perfect for him. McCartney, I think, has shepherded his image very carefully (even trying to change the old “Lennon-McCartney” songwriting credits to “McCartney-Lennon” on the songs where he deemed that appropriate) so it is less clear why he would turn everything over to Team Fidelity. Perhaps at age 63, he just didn’t care anymore.
Carmelo, though, has no excuse. He is hardly a folk hero, after he lost face with bourgeois America in the Stop Snitching episode and he lost all his street cred when he slapped Mardy Collins (who?) and quickly ran away before Collins could parry. This is a time for Carmelo to rebuild his image, particularly after successfully bringing a gold medal home. He should not agree to have his image in lights doing nothing, allowing others to shine their own avatar of Carmelo Anthony upon bus stop shelters across the land. He should actively be sketching a new Melo. Why does LeBron get all the cool ads? My impression from watching Melo’s interviews is that he is less articulate and outgoing than LeBron, but surely a campaign could be crafted that relied on his non-verbal strengths. If Colin Powell is now a revered elder statesman once more after lying at the UN, anyone can have a second chance, no?
