On September 24, I went to work. It was a new gig, just part-time. I’d never done anything like it before, but the people in charge said they’d pay for my time and effort, and that was all I needed to hear. The casual dress code didn’t hurt. The 5:30 a.m. start time did.

On September 24, you see, I was an extra in the now-famous LeBron James Nike commercial, “Together.”

I first heard about this gig on Twitter, through a retweet from one of my WFNY compatriots. The opportunity was not advertised as a chance to appear in a LeBron-centric national TV spot, just to be in a Cleveland sports commercial of intentionally vague nature. I e-mailed someone, they e-mailed me back, some information was exchanged, and I was told that I would soon be informed if my services were desired.



(adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); Misguided visions of my starring role and Hollywood future danced in my head like an overserved groomsman at an out-of-town wedding.

I got the official word on the evening of September 23. I was told to be at a parking lot downtown at 5:30 a.m. I was told to bring two casual fall outfits, which could but did not need to include Cavalier apparel. I was told I could wear generic casual shoes, but if I chose to wear sneakers, they needed to be Nikes.

That last bit was the tip that this ad might be something big. If it wasn’t a Nike commercial per se, then it was at least something affiliated with Nike, and Nike makes real money and real commercials. People would actually see this thing. Misguided visions of my starring role and Hollywood future danced in my head like an overserved groomsman at an out-of-town wedding.

I drove down to a parking lot near FirstEnergy Stadium, arriving in the morning twilight. Hundreds of cars were already there, along with a waiting caravan of buses—our chariots for the day. The buses filled, and from there we were shuttled to Public Auditorium, our holding area for the day.

The first order of business was paperwork, of which there was quite a bit. Confirm your name. Prove your identity via your driver’s license and Social Security number. Verify your address for payroll. Sign papers. Take numbers. Receive instructions. It was all standard stuff, but checking in a group of 500-plus people, only some of whom were wise enough to come armed with coffee, before 6 a.m., takes a while.

In time, we all got checked in. We got a delightfully average breakfast of bagels, muffins, almost-real eggs and almost-strong enough coffee. We were told to grab a seat at one of the few dozen tables around the auditorium. We waited, which would become a theme of the day.

Making bleary-eyed small talk at my table, I was surprised by how many extras were aspiring actors. They were in the Screen Actors Guild and everything. They spoke of their roles in local theatre productions and student films. They were there because this commercial was a springboard to greater productions.

Before we set off for our first location, we needed to get checked out by the wardrobe department to make sure that no one was foolhardy enough to sneak in any Reeboks or Filas. The wardrobe folks were professional and friendly, and looked exactly how you’d imagine wardrobe folks look: modish haircuts, slightly campy, wearing clothes with pockets and straps that would not be described as “tactical.”

Some extras had their non-Nike logos taped over, like the fellow wearing a Mitchell & Ness jersey. Others were given different clothes to wear, like myself. I was wearing an inoffensive plain wine-colored t-shirt, but the powers that be—read: one guy—decided that an Ohio State sweatshirt a size too small was more appropriate. I, of course, took this piece of clothing as a sign that I had the right stuff and I would be front and center in every single shot. Sadly, I had to return it at the end of the day.

A squadron of production assistants was on the move all day long. There were at least a dozen of them, each with an earpiece and a walkie-talkie and a hope that this was the job that would propel them to running a motion picture studio one day.

This was a major operation. We learned that the commercial was being produced by Wieden+Kennedy, the agency that has done many of the most prominent sports ad campaigns in recent memory: Bo Knows, Mars Blackmon, “I Am Not a Role Model,” the LeBrons, “This is Sportscenter.” I mean, these are the people that came up with “Just Do It.” W+K is to sports advertising what Quentin Tarantino is to bloody, non-linear filmmaking.

Once all of the ducks were in a straight-enough row, we were off to our first location: East 4th Street. We had been briefed on the premise of the commercial, and knew that we were going to be part of a citywide huddle. We were ready to go. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder and filled up the brick road. We put our arms around strangers. We stood by for direction. We continued standing by. We stood by a little bit more. And more. And more.

More than anything, I learned that there is a lot of waiting in the course of filming. Shots aren’t thrown together willy-nilly. They are scouted and studied and orchestrated. The cameras and microphones needed to be in just the right places. The extras needed to occupy the frame just so. The directors considered how each shot would fit into the narrative. It’s not easy.

And then, just like that, we were on. We ran through all of the postures you see in the commercial. First, we walked to our spots. Then we huddled. Then we huddled and swayed a little. Then we huddled and swayed more. Then we put our hands up. Then we put our hands down. We broke the huddle, shouting “Together” and “Cleveland” and “Hard work.” We did all of this again and again, in search of the perfect shot, the perfect sound, the perfect ethos.

We did it all again outside The Q. We ran in from a block away, moths hustling to the wine and gold flame. We ran across a bridge from a parking garage to the arena. We huddled inside the doors of the concourse. We huddled on the steps outside the arena. We broke the huddle and looked up. We broke the huddle and looked down. We broke the huddle and cheered. We broke the huddle and went silent. We broke the huddle in every way that a group can break a huddle.

We did it all again on the Mall, converging on the War Memorial Fountain. By this point it was after 5 p.m. and the crowd was getting a little punchy. We’d had lunch, but we’d also gotten a promise of a 12-hour day, not 14, and there was still the post-shoot paperwork to handle. Wishful conversations of happy hour cropped up as the natives got restless.

Between the size of the crowd, the number of assistants, and the sound quality of megaphones, it was tough for everyone to hear the same instructions throughout the day. The temperature had dropped by the time we got to the Mall, and those of us nearest the fountain struggled to maintain game faces while being sprayed with cold, dirty mist. The emotion in the last few “togethers” (around the 1:30 mark) was closer to ire than exultation.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6S1JoCSVNU

It was boring and difficult at times, but it was absolutely fun. It was joyous. It felt like we were privy to an inside joke at a private party celebrating LeBron’s return. Every extra was a true Cleveland fan or a good enough actor to fake it. We wanted to provide the directors and producers with an authentic sense of what Cleveland fandom looked and sounded like. They appreciated that, and in turn we appreciated their appreciation.

I was impressed by the editing job when I saw the ad, because we extras did not always do a great job of selling the action. Much of the group did not seem to have extensive huddle-breaking experience. Often when we counted to three and let out our battle cry, it sounded more like a chorus line than a hoops team. Instead of terse and guttural, the collective shout was gleeful and drawn out: “1-2-3: Togetherrrrr!”

The editors also did a good job of working around people who were angling too hard to get into the shots. I know this because I was one of those people. I took care to find the cameras and aligned myself accordingly, hoping that I could sneak into frame. I was optimistic that my height would give me a fighting chance.

Alas, I was left on the cutting room floor. I take a strange pride in that. After all, this ad wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about any of the extras. It wasn’t even about LeBron.

It was about Cleveland. It was about all of us. Together.