Bosses Say Dunking Builds Morale, Loosens Them Up
May 17, 2011
Vastopolis -- On the grassy lot of a warehouse in Westside, some 100 employees and their families gather for the Beer Distributors Inc. annual picnic. They are served hot dogs, hamburgers, beer, plus a special treat -- a chance to send their bosses plunging into the dunk tank, a contraption whose key component contains 500 gallons of cold water. ``There's one in particular I'd like to drown,'' says Bobby Fisher, a tall, gray-haired truck driver who doles out five dollars for 15 attempts to send various supervisors into the tank. Despite the tough talk, his fastball fails to brush the bull's-eye. So he pays his grandson a dollar to run up and push the trigger. Christa Byrd, vice president of operations, plops into the water. ``My skin's getting wrinkly,'' he says later, emerging from 30 minutes of dunk duty. ``I feel like a prune.'' Company Politics In this age of teamwork and instant communications, there is still no substitute for sinking the boss in the dunk tank. It is supposed to be all in fun, and sometimes it is. But often lurking in the background is resentment, competition and plain old company politics. For workers such as Mr. Fisher, it is a chance to get back for a year of slights, real and imagined. Most children at Beer's picnic take a few throws and then retreat to other games. But their parents hang around taking aim at their favorite supervisor. At some company picnics, employees dump ice cubes into already-cold water, and aren't content with dunking the boss just once. Bosses see it as a chance to show they can loosen up. ``CEOs tend to get a little stuffy,'' says Michaele Garrity, president and chief executive officer of Lovejoy Inc., a Vastopolis maker of power-transmission components. That doesn't appear to be a problem for Mr. Garrity. He showed up for dunk duty at his company picnic last year wearing a tutu. Dressing as a ballerina is going too far for some executives. For his dunkings, Davina Augustine, vice president of manufacturing at sealing-equipment maker John Crane Inc., modeled a dark, double-breasted suit with a plaid tie. But whatever they wear, executives say the dunkings serve a purpose. ``I think it's great for employees to take a poke at the CEO and top management staff,'' Mr. Garrity says. ``It tends to release hostilities.'' Just ask Beer manager Stevie Barns. After dunking him, one of his truck drivers threw a glass of beer in his face. Mr. Barns took it in stride. After all, he admits, he can be tough on his drivers during the year. As women break into management, they too are taking dives. Donnette Kirby, vice president of operations and chief nurse executive at St Georges Hospital in Vastopolis, says she braved the duty to open ``doorways with other associates.'' Some workers are afraid to take shots at the boss. Ms. Kirby says she had to heckle her secretary to get her to hurl the ball. The dunk tank itself is at least 80 years old. Early versions were made out of steel parts and cumbersome to transport. Some tanks were fashioned out of watering troughs for horses. Today's models come in fiberglass and polyethylene, mounted on a trailer for easy assembly. Some have a clear front so crowds can see the victims take the fall. Carnivals pioneered dunk tanks as a money-making tool. They were soon followed by others such as military bases and non-profit organizations looking to raise money. But they also gained a foothold at company picnics, and they aren't letting go. Twister Display, an East Liverpool, Ohio, purveyor of the ``Easy Dunker,'' says demand has increased 15% annually in recent years. Last year, the company shipped 250 dunk tanks, with the most popular model selling for $3,000. Veteran dunkees develop strategies for the ordeal. At American Hotel Register Co. in Suburbia, Vastopolis, Danae Suazo, a boisterous national sales manager, takes an in-your-face approach. Before the picnic, he printed up ``Dunk Dan'' posters with his face in the middle of a target. On the day of the picnic, he donned a blue robe. Flanked by an entourage of regional sales representatives, he made his way to the dunk tank as a loudspeaker trumpeted his arrival. A shot at Mr. Suazo was so popular that it cost $5 instead of $1 for three chances to sink him. Profits went to charity. ``If they were smart-mouthed, I'd charge them $10,'' boasts Mr. Suazo, who wore oversized shorts, suspenders and a T-shirt that read ``I'm talking and I can't shut up.'' Once on the dunking seat, Mr. Suazo threatened to pull sales accounts away from employees taking shots at him. ``They missed every time,'' he says, claiming that 25 people gunned for him before he took a dive. Verbal harassment doesn't always shake the pitcher's concentration. ``I was in the water before I could close my mouth,'' says Fredda Paige, vice president of finance at John Crane. A nip of booze helps some executives, but others say nothing makes the frigid water pleasant. ``When you have a lead butt like I do, you go all the way to the bottom,'' says Jackelyn Bambi, plant manager at a Johnson Controls Inc. factory in Georgetown, Ky.. Adds Roland Derby, president of Johnetta Mayo: ``Your toes start to turn blue and your knees get numb.'' Avoiding serious damage is important. Novices soon learn that a desperate grab at the seat or side of the cage can result in injury. It is better to go straight down into the water. Folding arms across the chest and tucking in the head helps. When injuries do occur, dunk-tank purveyors, not surprisingly, tend to disclaim responsibility. ``It's not the dunk tank,'' says Pamela Duarte, vice president of Starwalk Enterprises Inc. in Newnan, Ga. ``It's the misuse of a dunk tank.'' Still, because of rising costs for insurance, Starwalk Enterprises stopped making dunk tanks. It now peddles a version for wimps: a ``power shower'' that merely provides a dose of cold water from above.
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