Tug-of-war has contributed more colloquialisms than almost any other sport, among them “digging in one’s heels”, “pulling one’s weight”, “straining against the rope” and of course, the figurative “anchor”.

Before it became a “novelty” sport, tug-of-war was the most elemental test of strength around. It was a way of resolving disputes, and even a way of appeasing the Gods. In the Chinese community, village pulls against village, and the winner is blessed with bumper harvests. It’s possible to have eight hundred people on the end of the rope. Last year, a puller from one village had his arm completely severed by the rope, which was wrapped around it, as his team surged forward. From ancient beginnings in Egypt (it’s depicted on many tombs) the tug-of- war enjoyed immense popularity, until 1920 when, after featuring in the first five Games, it was dropped from the Olympics program.

However, a few diehards have dug in their steel-capped heels and quietly kept it going. Today it’s mainly a working person’s sport, featuring farmers, builders or tradesmen.

Tug-of-war’s problem was that it was considered a sport of very little skill. From a distance, it looks like two sets of eight people leaning backwards at the ends of a rope. Up close, you can feel the great shifts in power; hear the rope creak and observe the gamesmanship.

To warm up, teams attach their ropes to the sturdiest tree they can find, simulating the drills of a contest, dropping low, refining rhythm, reverse-walking, or “pushing”, in unison. They do their best to yank the tree out of the ground, every member falling back to a 45 degree angle at exactly the same moment, like telegraph poles blown over in a hurricane, held up only by the connecting wire.

It’s a ritualised sport, teams shaking hands as they swap ends in the best of three contests; losing teams sending up three cheers for the winner, before the winner reciprocates.

Heavy leather boots are checked for spikes (not allowed). Coaches are like drill Sergeants. When the first whistle’s blown, the teams let out a collective “Huuh”, lift their left foot and dig it into the ground.

Watching the men at the Australian Championships in Wonthaggi, at first I was struck by the spectacular strength of West Australia’s Canines. Their sheer muscularity and, I thought, superior technique saw them simply drag team after team over the white line. Their anchor, in particular, was impressive. Over forty, with a Kostya Tszyu pigtail, Peter Phillips was obviously a weightlifter, with powerful, striving thighs. Over his Canines shirt, he wore a brown, fringed, leather poncho.

While the Canines were winning in such an almighty way, a small, wiry team of farmers in red were also winning, in entirely different ways, and nowhere near as spectacularly, seemingly coaxing their straining, red-faced opponents over the line without raising a puff. This was the team from Dumaresq (pronounced “doo-merrick”), on the NSW-QLD border.

They were artful, perfectly balancing power and rhythm. They were smart, using stillness as effectively as they used movement. They were scientific, maximising momentum and using strength strategically. They knew how to hold a team and, in the heat of a contest, while most coaches are screaming, “pull! chip away! push!”, their coach would practically whisper, “listen.” After the opposition’s initial surge, they’d listen and feel, waiting for the next move. At first, I saw them as workmanlike, but no match for the brutishly effective Canines. Yet they won every weight division from 560kg to 640 kg, with the same team at the same weight.

Meanwhile, another good team worked its way through: Melbourne United. Whereas Dumaresq were organic, with a “feel” for the rope, United were militaristic, precise, a platoon of soldier ants. They got better as they progressed through to the heavier divisions.

It was in the men’s 720 kg that the greatest tussles took place. This is the prestige event, as catchweight (open) isn’t included in World Championships. Dumaresq were outweighed by at least one very heavy man. Some teams have a side for each division. Some have one specialist team – say, at catchweight. Some – like Dumaresq – keep the same team as they compete in successive weight divisions.

Dumaresq consist of two Zappas and three Colemans. The side has been unchanged for years. The team’s second puller – Stef Zappa – is a small man; the brains of the outfit, with sinewy muscles and round, muscular fists.

A Dumaresq puller told me their secret: “It’s a matter of pinning them. Don’t let ‘em get the momentum. Just lock it, and when you go, go together. Get ‘em rolling. A lot of teams march. They go, “left, right, left, right”. When they say “left,” they’ve got one foot off the ground for a second, and all we have to do is give ’em a quick hit, put ‘em off balance. Then they’re like dominoes. Once that one bloke moves forward, you’ve got ‘em. You know the bloke behind them’s gotta move forward. So you just keep it comin’. When we chip, we just shuffle, and try to keep both feet in contact with the ground.”

The Irish Aussies lasted nineteen seconds. The Korumburra team resisted for a minute. Against strong teams with inferior technique, Dumaresq were unbeatable. Weight meant little.

The Canines dominated the Melbourne United side. It was over the second the Canines decided to put some muscle into it.

Then they came up against Dumaresq in the final, and I learned what subtle variations there are in this sport. Dumaresq seemed too small, with their unchanged team. So impressive did the Canines look, it seemed that every contest, no matter how hard-fought, was a matter of time. Usually, a very short time.

Dumaresq looked like any other hapless opponent at first, the Canines’ initial surge gaining them a metre within ten seconds. Then it stopped. Dumaresq kept them straining on the rope. Like a big-game fisherman, they allowed them to use their strength against themselves. With every lapse in impetus, they reeled them in, lunging rhythmically like rowers. The Canines, still grimacing, cursing and working for their next surge, found themselves over the line. The front puller dropped the rope, threw his fist toward the Dumaresq men and shouted his frustration.

They changed ends, and the Canines reluctantly did the handshake.

In the next pull, again the Canines initially looked untroubled, while Dumaresq diligently checked all systems. You could see by the drop of the rope that their technique was superior. At the Canine end, it was about a foot higher. This time there was an immense battle that seemed to go on for half an hour. But it ended the same way, with the Canines, mid-strain, finding themselves over the line.

The big prize was Dumaresq’s.

Dumaresq’s biggest challenge was to be the catchweight (open) competition, where they would be outweighed, at times, by 200kg. A team of catchweight specialists from St Joseph’s in Adelaide had arrived. They came in at over 1000 kilos. They lumbered formidably onto the arena, still fresh after everyone else had done two days of tugging.

Maitland tried to hold them. Even off-balance, St Joseph’s hauled them back. But the green Maitlanders kept them on the rope long enough to see them run out of steam. Then Dumaresq faced them. The two front pullers stared at each other. Dumaresq surprised them, getting the jump. Despite the big boys’ best efforts to recover, Dumaresq don’t lose from there. St Joseph’s gave it their all in the next pull, combining their strength better, but Dumaresq, unflustered, slowly walked them backwards, without pause, over the line.

Melbourne United, augmented with heavier men, creamed the strawberry-faced Irishmen. While Dumaresq went through unbeaten, Melbourne looked unbeatable.

The Canines against Melbourne United promised to be a real heavyweight clash. But Melbourne won easily, and loomed as Dumaresq’s nemesis.

Meanwhile, Dumaresq were challenged by plucky Maitland. In one end, Maitland’s boys were just a surge away, and it seemed much too far for Dumaresq to heave them back. Again, after a calm “right, let’s go” from Stef Zappa, Maitland found themselves sliding toward the inevitable.

Then Melbourne United, relentless and military, beat St Joseph’s, although the dangerously-strong Adelaide team gave the impression they were still warming up. They won the second end with enormous natural strength, but after that pull, they sat and stood in various attitudes of exhaustion. It was over for them.

Dumaresq versus the Canines. This first pull was a standoff. Dumaresq’s coach calmly said “keep ‘er there boys. Don’t go anywhere.”  But the Canines countered powerfully, and Dumaresq had to work to bring it back. They lapsed and fell momentarily, but recovered quickly, and after that the wiry farmers had no further problem with the muscular Canines.

It was the Canines’ last shot. They went on to lose to Maitland.

Then, the final. The quiet, natural rhythms of Dumaresq versus the soldierly precision and strength of Melbourne United. A timeless rivalry you find in most sports. It came as a surprise to find Dumaresq might have been just a little tired.

Both teams needed a 2-0 result to win the catchweight without the necessity of beating anyone else.

The referee called “Pull”. The thick rope stretched with a “snap”, like the rigging of a clipper in a storm, and the teams held each other for a tense, interminable minute, the Dumaresq boys holding, listening, feeling; the Melbourne team looking for the main chance to get those feet marching, “oosh! oosh! oosh!”

Suddenly, the centipede got going. Dumaresq were elegant in defeat. In the second end, for the first time the Dumaresq men bent a little at the knees, and struggled. They came back, but not enough to tilt the balance. After two days of victory, weariness, and the efficient Melbourne side, had caught up with them.

Still, Dumaresq, the remarkable team of pastoral pullers, had done their work. They’ll go on to represent Australia at the world championships later this year against heavily-sponsored European and American outfits who take their tug-of-war pretty damn seriously. But they’ll do us proud. They’re too good a team to let anyone down.

Published in Inside Sport, August, 2001