"I guess I'll see him," Myron said. "No use moping around."

Esperanza looked at him. No expression.

"Don't get so upset," he continued. "I'm okay."

"I'm putting on a brave front," she said.

Ms. Compassion.

When Myron opened me conference room door, Ned Tunwell charged like a happy puppy. He smiled brightly, shook hands, slapped Myron on the back. Myron half-expected him to jump in his lap and lick his face.

Ned Tunwell looked to be in his early thirties, around Myron's age. His entire persona was always upbeat, like a Hare Krishna on speed – or worse, a Family Feud contestant He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, khaki pants, loud tie, and of course, Nike tennis shoes. The new Duane Richwood line. His hair was yellow-blond and he had one of those milk-stain mustaches.

Ned finally calmed down enough to hold up a videotape. "Wait till you see this!" he raved. "Myron, you are going to love it. It's fantastic."

"Let's take a look."

"I'm telling you, Myron, it's fantastic. Just fantastic. Incredible. It came out better than I ever thought. Blows away the stuff we did with Courier and Agassi. You're gonna love it. It's fantastic. Fantastic, I tell you."

The key word here: fantastic.

Tunwell flipped the television on and put the tape in the VCR. Myron sat down and tried to push away the image of Valerie Simpson's corpse. He needed to concentrate. This – Duane's first national television commercial – was crucial. Truth was, an athlete's image was made more by these commercials than anything else – including how well he played or how he was portrayed by the media. Athletes became defined by the commercials. Everyone knew Michael Jordan as Air Jordan. Most fans couldn't tell you Larry Johnson played for the Charlotte Hornets, but they knew all about his Grand-mama character. The right campaign made you. The wrong one could destroy you.