Emma Lindsey savours the sweaty spectacle of an ancient game of strength and skill that is no pastime for bored old fatties
IF YOU thought tug-of-war was a pub pastime for a bunch of bored fatties, you’d be wrong. The 10 nations gathered for the fourth world closed indoor championship at the Torbay Leisure Centre in England this week offered a spectacle of well-muscled grit and commitment to the wild cheering delight of their fans.
Not a lot of people know much about the sport outside the rural community. A 4 000- year-old contest of strength and skill, two teams pull against each other from opposite ends of a 32m-long rope. The test of will and ferocious determination is etched on every sinew.
Rules are pretty basic: the rope is marked off at a mid-point with a mark on either side two metres apart. Three lines on the floor correspond to the marks on the rope; the idea is for one team to pull the other so far forward that the mark on one side of the rope has passed over the ground line farthest from it. Each completed attempt is called an end.
Like boxing, the warriors are graded by different weight categories. In the 600kg category, China and Switzerland, eight men each side, grunted and hissed their way through two minutes of pulling, Switzerland straining to victory. On what looked like elongated front-door mats contestants had to be flat-footed, synchronised and focused on their coach’s instructions.
Rhythm is the thing. “It’s like sex,” said Clem Sorrell from the men’s 640kg category. “You work up a sweat with both of them and you’ve got to have endurance. It’s no good rushing like a young bull, you have to be patient with good technique.”
Age is no indicator of a good performance. The oldest in the men’s England team is 57, the youngest 22. Sorrell, who’s been tugging for 30 years, says: “You get better at this with age. The young fellows go at it like hammer and tongs and fall down quick. It’s a mental thing — you must never give in.”
Grappling for the right analogy, Sorrell hit on it: “It’s like a marriage, something you work at” — though some might call that a pessimistic view of wedlock. “During a pull you have to talk all the time, say whether the rope’s too tight or too low. You can’t just throw a team together and expect to win straight off. It takes years to build up a relationship and get in tune with how you all work. Ultimately, it’s a team effort, nothing like football, where you get one star. One man by himself in tug-of-war can’t win, eight men do.”
Budding Sumo wrestlers need not apply. These guys are serious. They train three times a week, eat a balanced diet and before a competition are hostage to their weight. The Italians at the weigh-in were glad to remove their underpants and go for a run to lose their excess kilos.
Sorrell said: “You don’t need bulked-up muscles. A big bloke will blow up after a few minutes. The body-builder sort wouldn’t be able to last; like marathon runners, you need endurance.”
Especially since some contests in the 680kg category can take up to 10 minutes. Giving up is like giving in — an unthinkable thought for these men and women’s teams who grapple in battle. Instead, victory is wrested with every nerve fibre twitching; even the audience watch through gritted teeth.
Not surprising, then, that a sport which arouses such primeval emotions should have a long history. Drawings of contests as early as 2500 BC have been found on a wall engraving in an Egyptian tomb. Legend has it originating at different sources: in the harvest-gathering of ancient China; from sailors hoisting sails; as a method to train slaves to haul stones up the Sphinx.
Out of the count and sitting on the sidelines, Andrea Jenkins from the England women’s 480kg team had broken her leg in training pulling a concrete-filled barrel up a hill.
Diminutive, she has rows of callouses on her hands as battle scars. Underarm rope burns can be a bit of a problem, too, if you sweat excessively without protective padding. She says: “It’s addictive. Once you’ve started you can’t stop. Every time you go out, there is a chance to win.”
Though the closely pulled contests are thrilling, you’ve got to be in it to really enjoy it. Whole families get involved; Jenkins met her husband through the sport; fathers, brothers, sisters and cousins can be scattered through the England ranks.
Up hills and down dales, the leagues of squat thighs and firm-footed come from the land and young farmers’ club. Getting low down and dirty is a traditional farmers’ hobby. “Like tennis is to office workers,” said one man from the Republic of Ireland team. “I’ve been doing this for 10 years and my father done it before me.”
Tug-of-war was an Olympic sport. Britain won a gold medal in Antwerp in 1920, the last Games to stage the sport. Now the International Tug-of-War Federation (TWIF) are lobbying for the event to be reinstated for Sydney 2000.
Getting rid of the wholly inaccurate pub image might help. Competitors cite getting away from the wife, kids and the chance to get together with mates as reasons for getting hooked, but it’s as plain as the strain on their faces, like the rest of mankind they’re in an endless struggle with themselves.