In Utah’s cold on a January day,
A man named Gary was led the way.
To an old food plant, long left to rust,
Where silence reigned, and hopes were dust.
With guards around on every side,
No place to run, nowhere to hide.
But Gary didn’t want to flee,
He walked with calm, acceptingly.
Inside the plant—so vast, so bare,
One lonely chair just waited there.
No tools, no noise, just empty gloom,
Like death had claimed the entire room.
He knew that chair was meant for him,
The lights above were cold and dim.
He crossed the floor, sat down with grace,
No fear or tears upon his face.
The guards then strapped him, leg and hand,
While silently, he took his stand.
Across the room, a curtain tall,
Hid five men armed behind its wall.
Through cutouts there, no faces shown,
Yet Gary knew he wasn’t alone.
Five rifles aimed with fate aligned,
For Gary’s end had been designed.
Convicted, sentenced months before,
For taking lives and breaking law.
The courts had ruled: he’d face the squad,
And Gary nodded, gave a nod.
His mother pleaded, lawyers fought,
But Gary didn’t want what they sought.
No prison life ’til he grew old,
He wanted out, his choice was bold.
He chose his death, no blindfold tight,
By bullet, not by poison night.
The chaplain came to read a prayer,
Gary breathed the factory air.
“Any last words?” the chaplain said,
As silence draped around the dead.
And calmly, with no hint of fear,
Gary said: “Let’s do it” — clear.
The chaplain stepped away with grace,
The rifles rose to find their place.
A flash, a fire, then all went black,
Gary never would come back.
Ten years on, in ’87’s light,
A man named Dan worked late at night.
A marketer with dreams to grow,
With Nike’s name still far from known.
His team sat stuck, no plan in hand,
No slogan yet, no bold new brand.
But then Dan’s mind began to drift,
To Gary’s tale, that solemn gift.
He thought of Gary’s final breath,
The way he calmly faced his death.
And though it seemed a random thought,
A spark of genius it had brought.
He changed the words, but kept them near,
The essence sharp, the message clear.
He took those final words so true—
And shaped them fresh for something new.
A slogan born from darkest flame,
Would light the world and build a name.
“Just Do It” — simple, strong, and bold,
A phrase that turned mere shoes to gold.
From one man’s end came someone’s start,
A tragic tale gave rise to art.
Now echoed loud in every land,
Born from a soul who made his stand.
So next time Nike’s words you hear,
Remember what once sparked that cheer.
For history hides in slogan might,
And legends rise from final night.