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"Tracy is like a goddess," explains an agent friend of mine. "She's this little golden fountain of Nike." She's been the toast of the town for more than a decade. She is greeted at film festivals, air-kissed in restaurants, waved onto studio lots. The secret of her appeal? Free stuff. If you make Tracy's A-list, you have a standing invitation to visit her L.A. emporium, where you'll be treated with all the respect due a busy insider--including the assistance of a personal shopper. While the exterior of the building is unmarked, inside it is set up like a real NikeTown--complete with basketball court. As you make your way past the displays, you have only to point at gear and it's loaded into your shopping cart. Best of all, you're hanging with your own crowd: moguls, actors and sports stars--all-out exercising one of the most cherished prerogatives in Hollywood.
So why would an industry heavyweight making a gazillion a year blow off a few hours of his day just to pick up a few pairs of sneakers? Human nature, I'm guessing--free stuff just smells so good. But some honchos really are too busy, and for them Tracy has set up a Nike outreach program. It is by all accounts her most impressive achievement.
The first house call anyone can remember the Nike Lady making was to the Seinfeld set. Her impact was immediate--especially on the show's star, who apparently had an unambiguous sense of entitlement. Seinfeld's appetite for free sneakers became legendary. His office overflowed with shoe boxes, and one ex-writer remembers Jerry emerging "like Evita, tossing extra sneakers to the staff." In time the staff members too became hooked, and for them Tracy provided a catalog in which they could check off whatever they wanted. "It was everything--running shoes, hiking boots, sandals. People were taking up extreme sports just to get the shoes."
How would Tracy know when to come by? "She just knew," the writer recalls wistfully. "If you wished for her, she was there. Never far from your heart. She could sense when there was a shortage. She was like a drug dealer." Few hit shows were immune. Mad About You's Helen Hunt and Paul Reiser were soon seen in spanking new Nikes, and the shoes started popping up on air all over the networks--in effect, unpaid product placements.
While none of this is remotely illegal (assuming IRS lack of interest), industry figures are extremely reluctant to comment. One studio head who had agreed to an interview backed out at the last minute. Was he embarrassed, I asked? Not at all--he just didn't want his pass revoked.