The Knights' Tale

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Power Couple: Phil Knight relies on a mix of outsiders and insiders to make Laika work. (“Not exactly textbook,” he laughs.) Here, CEO and Nike alum Dale Wahl (left) and director Selick, on set.

Then there's Coraline itself. Based on the best-selling young-adult novel by Neil Gaiman, Coraline is, by design, no Shrek. There's no wisecracking barnyard menagerie, no potty humor, no topical winks for the adults in the audience. (It does, however, feature celebrity voice talent, Dakota Fanning and Teri Hatcher.) It's a ghost story about a clever girl who discovers a door in her house that leads to a mysterious, parallel world. But the other world in Coraline is dark and scary, which, unlike, say, Cars ($244 million at the box office), rules out the 8-and-under crowd. And instead of superslick computer animation, it relies on stop-motion, an older, handcrafted technique that happens to be Travis's specialty (although with a modern twist: It's being shot in digital 3-D, an industry first for stop-motion). "Stop-motion is sort of the redheaded stepchild of animation," Travis says. "But it's incredibly beautiful. What we're doing will blow people away."

Maybe so. But Laika is a curious and elaborate gamble on Phil's part, albeit one a man with $9.5 billion or so can well afford. Some industry types are bound to ask whether he's trying to build an enduring business or indulge the dreams of his only remaining son. They'll wonder whether Phil, who frequently uses the phrase "in 25 words or less," is patient enough for a movie that's literally made by hand over several years. They might even pause at the name, Laika. Suggested by an employee, it refers to the dog shot into space by the Soviets in 1957, "a humble mutt that touched the stars," as Travis says. He and Phil liked the sound. But as a metaphor, it's a little uncertain: When that dog came back to earth, she was dead.

They're creating not only their first movie but, they hope, the next great animation studio. Price tag to date: $180 million.

They're unlikely partners, Phil and Travis. "He was the most athletic of my kids and the least interested in sports," Phil says. "At Nike, we have these meetings with coaches and athletes throughout the year, and he was around some of the best NBA players. I think he just didn't want to compete with any of that."

Michael Jordan, Andre Agassi, John McEnroe--they all visited the Knight house. "It didn't seem odd to me," Travis says. "They were just people my dad did business with, his clients." He didn't tell friends about the superstar houseguests. He didn't want the attention.

Travis quit Little League, despite being one of the best players on the field. He was drawn to individual pursuits, tennis and karate, just as Phil was hooked on running, the true solitaire of sports. But Travis was never a fan. "My father has this insane, all-consuming passion for sports," he says. "I was like, Man, I don't understand being that heavily invested in something."

He wouldn't understand until much later.

"Phil is my father," Travis says. "He's part of who I am. But I don't want to be defined by that."

As a kid, Travis was more likely to pick up a sketch pad than a football. He preferred watching the herky-jerky stop-motion skeletons in Ray Harryhausen's films to ESPN. He made his own crude stop-motion movies. "Superhero crap," he says, "with dolls and things exploding."

Being Phil Knight's kid was … complicated. Especially in a community as small as Portland. Whenever Travis picked up The Oregonian, he knew he might see a story about his dad or a biting editorial cartoon. He couldn't escape his father's shadow as easily as other kids, not when his classmates were clamoring for the very products his dad made. Travis got used to hearing "That's Phil's son" and "That's the Nike kid." He became wary at an early age, skeptical of others' interest in him.

Unlike Matthew, the older brother, who worked a little in the Nike warehouse, Travis stayed away. "Phil is my father," he says. "He's a part of who I am. But I don't want to be defined by that."

But it's a seductive thing. And powerful.

In high school, Travis dreamed of becoming a rap star. This is the part of the story he'd just as soon leave on the cutting-room floor. In the early 1990s, long before hip-hop was mainstream, before Snoop Dogg became a pitchman for Chrysler, Travis was an oddity. He was not simply a white rapper but a white rapper in Portland. He was at the top of his class at Jesuit High School and had already been admitted to Stanford, but he had his sights on a recording contract.

Phil wasn't thrilled. "It's not like when your kid is born, you hope he grows up to be a hip-hop artist," he says. But he could relate. When he was 24, fresh out of Stanford business school and three years removed from the University of Oregon track team, Phil had told his father he was starting a sneaker business. "I'm disappointed," his father replied.