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  Eventually it did, and it was Steve Race. “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “Oh you know,” Van Buskirk said, “everything, nothing, and the occasional something.” She had known Race for nearly five years now, and he still had a knack for both impressing and bewildering her with his brashness. They had met back in 1986 at Worlds of Wonder, when she was learning the ropes of the public relations game. He used to say that big things were in her future; she didn’t know if this was just something he said to everyone, but the way he said it made her believe it to be true. “I’m not up to much. Just home, watching TV, thinking about going for a run.”

  “I meant more generally,” he said. “Job-wise.”

  “Ah, okay. I’m managing a ski resort in Lake Tahoe.”

  “Oh,” he said, seemingly as surprised as she was that this was her job. “What about the rah-rah ladies’ PR agency?” Race was referring to Van Buskirk, Morris, Webster & Smith, a firm that she had formed in 1988 with three other female rising stars in the PR industry. It had begun with the best of intentions but had come apart a couple of years later amidst mistrust and finger-pointing. Van Buskirk wasn’t too pleased about how the agency had fallen apart, which explains why Race didn’t know that it had.

  “What happened with that?”

  “Long story,” she said with a familiar sigh. “But the short story version is that women are crazy. Myself included.”

  “I could have told you that!” Race bellowed.

  “I could have told myself that,” she replied. “Oh, well. Lesson learned.”

  “You sound borderline convincing, EB,” he said. “Anyway, this is good. Well, not for you, but for me. I need your help.” Race went on to provide a brief overview of Nilsen’s mall tour and then sold her hard on Sega, using many of the facts that Kalinske had been using on him. “I realize that the job is below your pay grade, but we’re about to give Nintendo a run for their money, and who knows what happens next?”

  “What’s the name of the company again?” Van Buskirk asked. She couldn’t believe it. Amazingly, an opportunity had come along at the eleventh hour, but why oh why did it have to be with a company she had never heard of before? The only thing she feared more than moving to Squaw Valley was taking a job with a company that would be extinct only a few months later. And even if this thing did work out, she was quite sure that “mall tour organizer” didn’t exactly pop off a résumé. “Can I think about it?”

  “Think about it? What are we, Greek philosophers?” Race retorted. “I prefer you talk about it, Lady Socrates. I’m setting you up on a lunch date with this Nilsen guy.”

  “Okay, cool,” she said, relieved. She thought the world of Race, loved how he could motivate people to walk through walls for him, but knew that he tended to charge in and out of companies, either because he’d grown bored with the lack of challenge or had worn out his welcome. As a result, she realized that even if she decided to join this Sega place, there was a chance that Race might already be gone, so she was happy to meet with someone who likely went through life and jobs in less of a hurry than Race did.

  Nilsen met Van Buskirk for lunch at a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco’s South City. Before going, he was given explicit instructions by Race to “reel her in.” Nilsen felt confident in his metaphorical fisherman skills but wasn’t sure that he’d need to use them. He urgently wanted someone to help bring his mall tour to life but was uncertain that he and Race valued the same qualities in a potential employee. Race was aggressive, impulsive, and unapologetic, leading Nilsen to half expect that he’d be meeting someone who looked and sounded just like Race, but with a ponytail and painted fingernails.

  She was, happily, nothing like that. Van Buskirk was elegant, insightful, and self-aware in the best way possible—not self-conscious, but gracefully conscious of herself. If Race ran through life as if it were a sprint, Van Buskirk moved with a well-measured marathon approach. After an exchange of names, biographies, and small talk, she handed Nilsen her portfolio, which was mostly filled with stuff about Squaw Valley. He opened it, scanned through it in a matter of seconds, and then handed it back to her.

  “That bad, huh?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth to respond but then decided not to, curious if this would ruffle her feathers. Nilsen liked testing people in small and strange ways, believing that most of life was small and strange and that things like this revealed a lot about a person. She didn’t seem bothered whatsoever, already happily discussing the etymology of the term “duck sauce.” “I thought it was such a strange name,” she said. “Soy sauce is made from soy, hot mustard is both hot and made of mustard, but duck sauce . . .”

  Nilsen inspected the tiny bowl of orange sauce. “I venture to say that no ducks were harmed in the making of this sauce.”

  “My thoughts exactly!” she said. “So I went to the library and looked this up. Turns out that in Hong Kong and southern China, whenever you order roast duck it comes with this sauce. They give it out to mask the gamy duck flavor and also hide the occasional taste of fat. So even though it’s actually made with pickled plums, sugar, vinegar, and occasionally pickled pits, they called it duck sauce, and the name just stuck.”

  Nilsen was impressed. Not only did Van Buskirk crave answers to the most wonderfully inane questions, but she actually went the extra mile to get answers. From there, he bombarded her with a barrage of questions. The more he liked what she said, the harder the questions got. He didn’t want good, he wanted awesome.

  “Where’s the best place to start the mall tour?”

  “You want me to say New York or Los Angeles,” she said, “but I’d opt for somewhere close to Nintendo. Seattle, maybe?”

  “There’s a mall in Bellevue, Washington,” he said with a smile. “Five miles from Nintendo’s headquarters.” Since initially conceiving the idea, Nilsen had added some flourishes to his master plan. For one, he wanted to open the Sega World Tour in his competitor’s backyard. Another change was that he didn’t just want mall-goers to see Sonic vs. Mario and get the point; he wanted that point to be reportable and irrefutable. To accomplish this, visitors would not only play both games but also be asked to vote on which was better. “Players Enjoy Sega 16-Bit System at Mall” would have made for a nice story, but “80 percent Choose Sega over Nintendo” would be a headline for the ages. With this alteration to the plan, whoever ran the mall tour would not only have to serve as executioner but also arrange for a judge and jury.

  After lunch, Nilsen met with Race to talk it over. They agreed that she was overqualified for the job, but both thought that she was wise enough to see the potential of Sega. After a pleasantly awkward moment where both men realized they were in a rare state of complete agreement, Race gave Nilsen the green light to hire Van Buskirk.

  “What about approval from Tom and Paul?” Nilsen asked.

  “No problem,” Race said. “I already spoke with them.”

  “When?” Nilsen asked, not quite sure when that could have happened, but happy to have the answer he wanted.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Race said. “We’re good.”

  Nilsen set up another meeting with EBVB and started off by handing her a small box. “What’s this?” she asked. Again he ignored her, and again she passed the test she didn’t know she was taking by opening the box with curiosity as opposed to caution. Inside was a big fishing lure. She turned to Nilsen, not knowing what to make of this.

  Nilsen sported an isn’t-it-obvious smile. “I’ve been told to reel you in.”

  Van Buskirk laughed, then smiled, and then did both at the same time. There was no logical reason to join Sega, but then again, there was the fishing lure in her hand, and the fun, puns, and blissful insanity that it no doubt symbolized. How could she resist?

  Week 14: Rolling Thunder

  From his office across the hall, Kalinske couldn’t make out many of the words between Al and Paul, but he could hear the thunder of their conversation. Al wanted money for
something, and Paul was responding in his normal frigid, frugal manner. Normally, Kalinske didn’t mind hearing Rioux’s bad-cop routine, but today he didn’t want to deal with any distractions. With the Super Nintendo launch just around the corner, time was feeling less like an abstract concept and more like a noose. He knew that they needed to have a new commercial ready soon if they wanted to avoid being hung. He had been working with the ad guys at Bozell but continued to be less than pleased with their work. They were good guys with good ideas, but the days of “good enough” had burned away with the summer. Kalinske thought about switching agencies, as he had been (reluctantly) green-lit to do by Nakayama and the board of directors in Japan. But a proper agency review takes months and a good chunk of money, two resources that Sega couldn’t afford at the moment.

  What they could afford, just barely, was a head-to-head against Nintendo. There was still a decent chance that Japan would pull the commercial after Toyoda revealed what Sega of America had planned, and there was also a chance that Nintendo would sue them for showing Nintendo products in their ad, but Kalinske was intent on moving forward with an ad they referred to as “The Salesman.” In the spot, a pushy salesman ferociously tries to hawk the Super Nintendo to a customer who keeps getting distracted by the many benefits of the Genesis: cheaper, faster, et cetera. Though he felt that Bozell’s execution was a bit hokey, he believed that it did the trick of throwing down the gauntlet at Nintendo’s feet. With the what, where, and when coming together, his remaining concern was the who. Whom did Sega want to identify as their ideal customer? The teen wearing the leather jacket? The jock wearing the sweaty uniform? The curvy college coed?

  Kalinske was contemplating this and looking over the storyboard when he heard footsteps approaching his office. It was probably Rioux, headed his way with someone’s head on a platter. Or maybe it was Nilsen, bursting in with another idea about how to get Nintendo’s goat. Or maybe it was Race, pissed off by another roadblock in his way. Unless it was Burns, with new Sega of America sales data to send down to Wal-Mart. Or Toyoda, with new Sega of Japan sales data and a grenade of disappointment they’d have to fall on. Or maybe it was . . .

  Anyone. That was the answer Kalinske had been seeking. Nintendo wanted kids, but Sega wanted anyone, and that’s exactly what the commercial should show. If the ad was shot from the perspective of the customer, then the customer would be anyone—the teen, the jock, the college coed, and millions of others. The ad that Bozell had readied accomplished this perfectly. Though the salesman in the ad looked like he’d graduated from the University of Used Car Salesmen, by having the customer be no one instead of someone, Sega’s ideal customer would be anyone and everyone.

  As the commercial went through postproduction, Sega of America worked on a plan to deploy their head-to-head missile. For budgetary reasons and out of fear that Japan would pull the plug, they developed a strategy called “Rolling Thunder.” Instead of evenly broadcasting the commercial over several weeks or spacing it out for a slow build of momentum, they would air it as much as possible at first, and then sporadically after that. Start with a bolt of lightning, make sure everyone notices it, and then reinforce the message with smaller thunderclaps in the following weeks.

  Well, assuming that Shinobu Toyoda could successfully hold off Sega of Japan.

  Week 15: Coke vs. Pepsi

  The moment of truth was upon him. For months, Toyoda had been watering down information and finagling reports to Nakayama and Sega of Japan so that he and his colleagues could proceed as they saw fit. This was true not only in regard to the new commercial but also when it came to Sega of America’s unabashedly aggressive attitude in general (CES, the mall tour, and so on). Now, however, with the Super Nintendo about to be released and Sega of America’s plans too far along to be stopped, the time to come clean had finally arrived.

  It was just after midnight, and as usual, Toyoda was the last one left at the office. He searched for a comfortable position in his desk chair and prepared for his nightly update call to Nakayama, who would just be waking up. Toyoda was not one to assume the worst, but given Nakayama’s tendency to be temperamental, he knew there was a chance this could be his last day at Sega. He looked around the office, filled with Sonic mementos and photos of his family, and felt good about all that he had done. If he wasn’t fired outright, there was also a chance he’d be recalled back to Japan. If so, he’d likely be forced to endure the cultural practice of murahachibu, in which a dissenting employee is overtly shunned by his colleagues until it is decided that he’s paid the price for his transgression or has appropriately demonstrated his loyalty.

  Whatever the outcome, Toyoda had decided that he would not let this deter his American dream. No matter what, he would find a way to stay in America, provide for his family, and elevate himself through effort, excellence, and entrepreneurial spirit.

  Toyoda called up Nakayama and spoke clearly and confidently, revealing everything as if he had just now learned of these details. Once it was done, he instinctively adjusted the collar of his shirt, bracing for the worst. It was all out in the open now, and even as the ensuing silence chipped away at Toyoda’s confidence, he regretted nothing. This was America, the land of opportunity.

  “Very interesting,” Nakayama said in a perky tone. “Those are good ideas!”

  “You think?” Toyoda asked, unsure if Nakayama was being sincere. After all, Sega’s head honcho had a flair for the dramatic, and nothing made for better drama than building someone up before watching him fall.

  “Most certainly,” Nakayama explained. “I have just finished reading this great book by Mr. John Scully, who is now the president of Apple, and before this he was the president of PepsiCo. He talks at length about making bold moves to go head-to-head against market leader Coca-Cola. Our Sonic against Mario, it is very much like the taste-test challenge that he describes.”

  “Oh, yes,” Toyoda said. “I can see how they are similar.” He was so relieved that he was amazed he could even speak. Nakayama was not always the easiest man to deal with, but at this moment Toyoda felt overwhelmingly fortunate to be working for him. He was a rare breed, one of the few Japanese business leaders who not only had an admiration for Western business tactics but was willing to admit it. With Nakayama in Japan and Kalinske in America, Toyoda saw no reason that Sega would not dominate for decades to come.

  Week 16: After the Summer Comes the Fall

  Shortly after Toyoda’s surprising conversation with Nakayama, Kalinske enjoyed an unexpected one of his own. He was in his office reading the September 2 issue of Forbes. Well, not reading so much as rereading the same sentence over and over. “We don’t regard [Sega] as a competitor in the U.S.,” Nintendo’s Yamauchi had said in a recent interview. Kalinske chuckled at the words and then began to read them again when he was interrupted by a call from Wal-Mart’s electronics merchant. And, as was always the case, the man spoke with a level of stress-induced grouchiness that Kalinske had nearly come to appreciate.

  “My nemesis,” Kalinske said, sitting upright. “To what do I owe the honor of receiving a call from the beloved 501 area code?”

  In addition to sending Wal-Mart a packet of sales reports and news clippings each week, Kalinske had been calling the merchant to share marketing plans and product development information, attempting to walk the fine line between persistence and pestering. This was no easy thing, particularly in light of the fact that he never acknowledged that Sega had been trying to take over Bentonville, Arkansas, for almost a year now. The endless struggle sometimes got to Kalinske, and on his worst days he viewed himself as Don Quixote pathetically tilting at windmills with a sword made of rubber. Still, despite the occasional doubt, something deep inside him welcomed the challenge. Kalinske had never tried so hard to get a retailer on board, and as a result, he had never wanted it so badly. “Did you get the latest figures I faxed—”

  “Look,” the electronics merchant said, interrupting without remorse. “We give up. We�
�ll carry Sega. Just close that damn store already and stop all the advertising in Bentonville. My boss and his boss are driving me crazy with questions about why we’re not carrying the Genesis, and I can’t take it anymore. You win.”

  And just like that, Sega was in Wal-Mart. Not all stores at first, just initial test regions, but where the product was sold mattered less than the fact that it was being sold at all. If mighty Wal-Mart was carrying Sega products, then other retailers had no excuse not to do the same. The curse had been broken.

  It had been a long summer, but things were really starting to come together. Electronic Arts enjoying their most profitable quarter to date, and Nakayama had recently persuaded Acclaim to risk Nintendo’s wrath and start publishing games for both systems; it was only a matter of time before all the third parties followed suit. And any retailers, third-party publishers, or consumers who remained unconvinced of the future that Sega promised would be swayed soon enough—if not with games or advertisements, then by EBVB’s execution of Nilsen’s fantasy.

  “You did it,” Nilsen said, smiling like a proud papa bear whose cub has just swiped his first fish out of the water. He was standing toward the front of a rapidly growing crowd as Sega’s side-by-side world tour was getting started at the Alderwood Mall in Seattle. In the center of the hubbub, below a giant Genesis banner, was a black-on-black stage set up with several stations for people to discover the difference between Sonic and Mario. In just a few moments, kids, teens, and adults of all ages would be invited to step right up and see for themselves which 16-bit system was worth buying. “It’s like you found a secret portal into my mind, took photos of my imagination, and then brought what you saw to life in a way that actually made sense.”