by Stan Mason
The sound of her voice made me freeze with fear at the controls of the vehicle. I went into shock and dropped the telephone, losing control of the car just as a giant lorry sped towards me from the other direction. Time seemed to stand still before the impact. Then, within a few seconds, there was a tremendous crash and infinite oblivion... with one exception. Ellie’s laughter could be heard echoing repeatedly... until it faded into the distance for ever!
The Only Thing!
Brea Day was always a special occasion. It was held on the Saturday nearest to Midsummer’s Day each year and all the proceeds were donated to a number of deserving charities. For that reason alone, many volunteers contributed a great deal of time and effort to set up a number of attractions to be enjoyed by the visitors who came on the day. These included a ferris-wheel, dodgem cars, sky-riders and some of the most modern electrical machines available. Yet despite all the exciting, wonderful rides, one of the main features which always attracted the crowds was the annual tug-of-war contest between the little village of Brea and the nearby town of Camborne. At first, the battle was simply a side-event... just a little interlude of fun for those attending. But one day, in his wisdom, a businessman donated a magnificent trophy to be awarded to the winner. Thereafter, this incidental event became a hard-core needle-match between the two local teams.
The number of people who were drawn to Brea Day increased steadily each year, many of them coming in particular to witness the tug-of-war event. As time went by, it became an established local derby with strong feelings of support riding for each team. To add to the interest, there was also a little betting on the side. On the day, a keen observer could see men moving through the crowd collecting money and writing entries in small pocket-books to record the wagers. The annual event would have been extremely interesting and exciting had the two sides been equal in the struggle, or had they matched each other in strength. Sadly, that was not the case at all. It was a typical David and Goliath contest. Camborne boasted a strong team comprised mainly of massive men who were builders and farmers. Their anchor man was a giant whose intake of food each day made most men pale, while the rest of the team were over six feet tall, each one of them boasting broad shoulders, bulging muscles and hands the size of dinner plates. For them, grasping the stout hemp rope and pulling down the other team was little more than pedestrian. The Brea team sported average-sized men, some of whom were extremely slight in physique. They participated for the sake of supporting Brea, never expecting to achieve glory. It was just as well they felt that way. They arrived bravely each year on Brea Day to be humiliated time and time again, being hauled effortlessly, with monotonous repetition, over the white line separating the two sides.
Paul Hackett became involved with the team after the death of his British-born wife. He was an American who had lived most of his life as a marketing executive in New York before his retirement. A short while after his wife had passed away, he visited Cornwall on a vacation intending to sell a cottage she had inherited at Brea. To his surprise, he became enchanted by the pretty village and the warm hospitality of the people who lived there. Having retired, with no close family to draw him back to the United States, he settled in Cornwall to enjoy the leisure years ahead of him. Nothing would have changed had fate not guided the American to the village. He arrived in Britain the day after Brea Day, and the hospitable villagers, seeing the newcomer in their midst, visited his house, bringing hot tea, coffee and tasty saffron buns. As a New Yorker, who had not even known his neighbours in all the years he lived there, he was astonished at the warm welcome he received, and he greatly appreciated the neighbourly spirit in the village. Very shortly, he found himself integrated into the community with a number of people seeking his professional advice and friendship. For a retired executive, who thought that time would linger heavily on his hands for the rest of his life, he discovered he had found a wonderful new life in the village for himself. But it wasn’t long before demands were made of him within the community.
‘It’s pathetic!’ spat George Thomas, the Chairman of the Brea Day committee. ‘We’ve lost the tug-of-war contest against Camborne for eighteen years on the run. It’s absolutely hopeless! You’re an American, Hackett. The Americans love sport. Look at the host of gold, silver and bronze medals they win at the Olympic Games. They know all about winning. Can’t you do something to help us?’
The New Yorker shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he declared. ‘I was always considered a whizz kid in marketing, but one thing I’m not... and that’s a sports coach.’
‘Well it’s not really a sports team,’ pressed George in desperation. ‘It’s really just an event. I mean it’s two pulls at tug-of-war. The difference is that you Americans know how it’s done. I don’t accept what you say. If you can influence people in marketing, why can’t you influence them in sport?’ The American shrugged his shoulders aimlessly but he had no intention of becoming involved. It soon became clear he was going to refuse to help. ‘I tell you what,’ persisted the Chairman. ‘If you take on the team and win, I’ll get my boys to refurbish your cottage as you’ve never seen it before. And that’s a promise! Surely that must be worth thinking about! Come on, be a sport and take it on! Is it a deal?’
Hackett was unconvinced. Why should he even think about coaching a tug-of-war team? He knew nothing about it. Yes... having his cottage refurbished was an attractive idea, but the team had to win for him to claim the prize. They hadn’t won in eighteen years. What difference would he make? The next ten minutes reflected a great deal of wooing by the Chairman until the American, through more embarrassment than anything else, agreed to the deal. The New Yorker realised it would be another eleven months before Brea Day came round again. Anything could happen in the span of a year. There might be changes in the leadership of the committee during that period, whereby a new chairman might have different ideas which would let him off the hook. Alternatively, Brea Day might even be cancelled. Who knew what the future held? Consequently, he agreed to the deal and sat back waiting to see what would happen.
However, everything remained exactly the same in the sleepy little village and nearly nine months had passed when George Thomas contacted him again, urging him to approach Jim Castle, the organiser of Brea Day. Hackett still had second thoughts on his ability to coach a tug-of-war team and was uneasy about getting involved, but he had made a deal and there was no way of backing out. After the initial discussion, Castle shook his head from side to side. ‘No chance!’ he said bluntly. ‘Camborne are far too strong. They always have been. We’re only a small village with few people to choose from. What we have is the best we can find here. We’re never going to beat them. It’s a fact we’re going to have to live with.’
Hackett admitted to himself he was no sports coach but the view of the other man was totally negative. ‘That’s a very narrow view, Mr. Castle,’ he responded sharply, staring at the organiser pathetically. ‘Don’t you think it’s time the strategy switched to using brain and not brawn?’
Castle looked at him as though he couldn’t believe his ears and laughed loudly. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, brawn is what tug-of-war is all about.’
‘You’ve never been in business, have you?’ countered the American brusquely, ‘because with an attitude like that you’d never survive. Brawn is never a match for brains. Everyone knows that. Has anyone ever assessed the strengths and weaknesses of the Camborne team?’
‘Huh!’ laughed the organiser, seemingly unoffended. ‘With them it’s all strengths and no weaknesses. They’re strong. Very strong! Have you seen the monster they call an anchor man. And I assure you he is a monster. His diet per day is a dozen eggs, twelve sausages, two steaks, a chicken, a loaf-and-a-half of bread, and pounds and pounds of vegetables. Every single day! We’re not dealing with normal people here!’
The American became even angrier at Castle’s negativity. ‘You keep telling me of their strengths
but you avoid talking about their weaknesses! What’s the matter with you? Why can’t you answer my question?’
Castle began to lose his temper. ‘Well if you can find their weaknesses, then you bloody-well find them!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got the photographs from last year’s contest. You can have them and do what you like with them! I’ve just about had enough!’ He took a number of photographs from his pocket and threw them carelessly on the table. ‘I organise this event because the proceeds go to charity. But if you’ve got bigger and better ideas from across the Atlantic, then who am I to argue with the clever likes of you. You carry on mate!’ At the end of his tirade, he stalked out of the room leaving the American feeling extremely isolated.
A week later, Castle knocked on the door of Hackett’s cottage and apologised for his bad behaviour. The American was never one to bear a grudge. He invited him inside and they discussed the matter calmly and in depth over a cup of coffee. ‘It’s a case of planning, strategy and tactics, Jim,’ advanced the American smoothly, as though going through one of his marketing routines. ‘You have to compete to survive, and if you compete you must make the effort effective to make sure you survive. Management isn’t just solving problems, it’s about exploiting opportunities. There’s no problem in this world that can’t be resolved by planning, strategy and tactics. Why... we even got men to the moon by that technique! They said that was impossible too. Look, I think it’s about time I met the team.’
Two evenings later, they gathered in the hall of the tiny community centre and sat down on the uncomfortable seats for the first gathering of the clan. The New Yorker was surprised that despite living in the village for almost a year he had met only two of the men before.
‘O.K,’ he began uncertainly. ‘We meet here to start a full programme for Brea Day, ending with us winning the tug-of-war trophy this year. I hope everyone is willing to dedicate their spare time to achieve that aim.’
‘Aren’t you taking this thing too far?’ asked one member of the team.
‘It depends whether you care about what you’re doing,’ continued Hackett impassively. As far as I’m concerned, every sport, every piece of action, requires dedication. Otherwise you end up losing all the time.’
‘I take your point,’ returned another man, ‘but it’s not to be taken seriously. It’s only a bit of fun to raise money for charity. Why make it something more than it is?’ There were sympathetic noises from the rest of the men who clearly agreed with their team-mate.
‘Don’t you understand what’s going on out there?’ asked the American. ‘You have the crowds, the media, a needle-match, and your own pride. Don’t you care about getting beaten every time? I’m damn sure I wouldn’t want my nose rubbed in the dirt every year in front of a huge crowd. But then maybe you’re different.’ He aimed to appeal to the ego of each man but his words failed to have the desired effect.
‘Well of course we care about getting beaten,’ came a voice from the far end, ‘but you can’t ignore the truth. They’re too big and strong for us. They always have been, and always will be. What’s the point?’
‘Let me tell you something,’ declared Hackett seriously, pausing for effect. ‘Winning isn’t everything. It’s THE ONLY THING! Now... I’m going to ask each one of you a question. It’s a simple question. Do you want to be a loser for the rest of your life... or what?’
‘It’s easy to talk big, but what can we do if they’re too strong for us?’ demanded another member of the team in despair. ‘You haven’t seen them yet. But I’m telling you they out-match us in size, weight and strength. Everyone knows they’re too big and strong for us.’
‘Your approach is all wrong, feller,’ continued the American impatiently. ‘You assume that brawn can beat brains. That’s your first mistake.’
‘But isn’t that what tug-of-war is all about?’ claimed yet another team member rhetorically. ‘Brawn over brains!’
‘NO!’ The word echoed round the room causing some eyebrows to be raised. ‘No, it’s not! If you appoint me your coach I’ll show you how it’s done. But it has to involve brains not brawn!’
The men stared at each other shrugging their shoulders before the anchor man conceded. ‘If you think you can work the oracle I’ll go along with you... .all the way. We’ve lost to them for the last eighteen years, what have we got to lose now? Certainly not our good reputation in tug-of-war!’
The American drew in a deep breath. He knew the words of the anchor man was the catalyst he needed to move the others into line. ‘Well... before we agree I have to be one hundred per cent certain your commitment is total. Absolutely total! No negative thoughts... no negative thinkers. Otherwise you’re out of the team. Do you hear?’ The hall fell silent. ‘When I ask “Do you hear?” I want a response of “We hear!” at the top of your voices... . together! Because we’re a team. A team! Get it! Do you hear?’
‘We hear.’ The feeble response came from a single team member who looked sheepishly at the others after he had uttered the words.
Hackett glared at the men with a resolute expression on his face. ‘Come on, guys, are we a team or not?’ he growled. ‘I want to hear it louder... and together! That’s part of the commitment. Now... ..do you hear?’ The response was much better this time but still relatively weak. ‘What are you, men or mice? Men or mice? Again! Do you hear?’
‘We hear!’ This time it came with much more force.
‘Do you hear?’
‘We hear!’ Now it was approaching a crescendo as they answered in unison.
‘That’s better,’ commented the American, ‘but there’s a long, long way to go yet. We meet here in two day’s time to start training the American way.’
‘What’s the American way?’ asked the anchor man.
‘You’ll soon find out,’ came the reply. ‘We’ll do it the American way and we’re gonna to win. What’ll we do?’
‘We’re gonna win!’ they shouted, bursting into laughter at the spontaneity of their response.
After the meeting, the men walked out into the cool evening towards the local inn. Across the way, the village people could hear the sound of eight men shouting repeatedly at the top of their voices.
‘Do you hear?’
‘We hear!’
‘What do you hear?’
‘The team’s coming in!’
‘Who’s coming in?’
‘The team’s coming in, ‘cause we’re gonna to win!’
There was the sound of laughter again as they went on their way and the New Yorker took Jim Castle’s photographs out of his pocket. He examined them thoroughly with a keen eye, turning them over one by one. Then he looked up at the organiser with a wry expression on his face. ‘Tell me, Jim, what makes these Camborne guys tick?’ he asked tiredly.
Castle shrugged his shoulders and blew out his cheeks. ‘They’re proud of Camborne, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘There’s a lot of unemployment in the town and it’s rates generally as a poverty-stricken area compared with other parts of the country. Most people haven’t much to show for what they do. No fine houses or great cars. To them, pride is their greatest asset. It’s the most important thing in their lives.’
‘But what about the Brea team? Surely they have pride?’
‘Of course they have, but you’ve got to understand the British mentality,’ continued the organiser. ‘The British consider it important to take part in sports or events. We like to win but we’re taught not to place too much emphasis on winning. It’s not essential to win. Taking part is all that matters. As far as Brea’s concerned, we’re just a small village. Everyone knows everyone else who lives here. There’s pride in being chosen and taking part. It’s a very close community. The only other thing that moves around here is gossip. People are very sensitive about that. They prefer to keep their private affairs to themselves if they can. But then I su
ppose it’s the same everywhere else.’
The American looked up sharply. ‘Does what you say go for Camborne too?’
‘Of course. The people in Camborne are no different to the people in Brea. It’s not a very big town as you already know.’
Hackett’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Do you think you could do some research for me, Jim?’ he asked. ‘It’s crucial to the next contest and you’re the only person I can turn to.’ His eyes moved to the photographs again as the organiser agreed to his request. ‘I’m grateful for these snapshots as some of the answers I needed to my questions can be seen here.’
Two days later, the team gathered in the hall at the community centre again. Although they could find no reason to raise their enthusiasm, they had begun to gain an element of confidence in their new coach. ‘I’ve been looking at the photographs of last year’s contest,’ began the American. ‘I notice you all wore sneakers... you call them plimsolls... except for one man who went into the contest with bare feet. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, that is not the way to enter a tug-of-war contest. If we’re going to have any chance at all we’ve got to take a professional approach to the game. In future, everyone will wear boots fitted with metal heels at all training sessions. I’ve ordered them, believe it or not... from a shop in Camborne. Those boots have got to bite into the ground to secure a solid grip. Nothing else will do. Do you hear?’
There was a slight pause and then came the roar. ‘We hear!’ The team was beginning to enjoy its commitment.
‘What’ll we do?’ demanded the anchor man of the rest of the team.
‘We’re gonna win?’ The sound echoed round the hall.