The Magic of Low Expectations

We were the long shot in a three-horse race, the group expected to lose. The two favored agencies had much more history and higher-up friends at the client, which should have been advantages for them. But they also carried great expectations that, like overweight jockeys in a long race, could prove burdensome. Sometimes when nobody expects much from you, magic can happen.

A client for whom we handled a small and very technical account decided to bundle their products together, create a separate division within their company and award all that business to one agency. Their thought was they’d have greater leverage over the agency, streamline the paperwork and billing, and get better talent assigned to their business. 

It was a realistic goal, and offered the winners a substantial amount of revenue. 

But as nice an incentive as money is, we had already grown a lot that year and were reluctant to participate in the competition. We did not want to take on too much new business too quickly as we hadn’t fully developed the infrastructure needed to manage more staff and work.  We were happy with what we had and didn’t want to take on so much that the quality of our work diminished.

The client was very understanding. They said we didn’t have to compete for the full assignment. They would simply cease to be a client since they were determined to unite their business in one shop. They were looking to drop two of the three agencies anyway, so we’d be doing them a favor.

Even though we’d grown a lot, we didn’t like the idea of losing a client. When you’re building a business, clients come in very handy. So even though the timing wasn’t ideal, we felt obliged to compete. To be sure, we felt like a python that had just swallowed a calf, laying there looking at another vulnerable if tasty critter while still digesting the last one. It’s hard to get excited about your next meal when you haven’t quite finished the last one. Yes, a disgusting image, but sometimes what goes into business decisions is less than pretty. 

One of the talents needed to own and run an ad agency is the ability to tell your staff with a straight face that you could handle something, when in your heart of hearts you are asking yourself “how in the hell can we handle more business?” It’s one of the skills that separate leaders from followers—the ability to lie so well even you believe it. Then it’s not a lie anymore.  Self-fulfilling prophecies usually start out as wild fabrications. The reality distortion field, thank you, Star Trek and Apple Computer.

So, with dreams of windfall revenues dancing like sugar plum fairies in our heads, we assembled a team and set about to create a pitch to win the business we didn’t really want. 

Most competitive pitches boil down to the advertising equivalent of beauty contests. Sure, you throw the talent portion of the show in, and ask some profound questions of the contestants, but ultimately it all comes down to the bathing suit competition. You’ve got to have some sizzle in your shizzle or you ought not bother to show up.

We knew the other two agencies would trot out lots of pretty pictures of what the clients’ products could look like, how great the ads would be, and all those wonderful sales brochures.  We knew because that’s what those agencies always did, and this client was inclined to buy that stuff.

So we had a choice: try to out-pretty their pictures with ours, or try to out-think them and render the pictures irrelevant.

The choice was clear. After meeting with the client, their customers, their sales force, and all the different players involved in their business, we knew what we would do.

Instead of selling them a ton of fancy brochures and ads and all the shiny things agencies typically make money doing, we decided to take a path less traveled. While our adversaries would recite all those loving things prospective clients long to hear, we were going to try something sneaky.

We decided to tell them the truth.

They didn’t need a bunch of ads. Their customers routinely ignored them. Neither did they need a ton of new brochures, since their sales force already threw most of them away as soon as they got them. 

The underlying message we would pitch to them was not to buy a lot more stuff. Instead, they should learn how to better use the stuff they’ve already got. To sell it, we’d have to first take the risky steps of showing them what they were doing wrong. In other words, our success or failure would be predicated on convincing them they didn’t need what they wanted to buy.

To do this, we went out and interviewed people who used their products, and videotaped them. The comments we got on tape were anything but flattering. In most cases they were negative about the client, their people, their reputation, the pros and cons of their products, and what their competitors did better than them. We edited hours of interviews down to an intense, inflammatory seven-minute indictment of this clients’ many shortcomings.

We prepared our materials for the pitch, rehearsed and practiced until we could deliver it in our sleep, and on the day of the presentation, marched our team into their offices. Like a new pitcher taking the mound against a team that knew nothing about him, we were excited at the prospect of throwing knuckleballs at a bunch of batters looking for fastballs. We doubted they would know what to do with us. We only hoped the pitches would land close enough to the plate for them to take a swing.

While we set up our easels, projector, laptop computers, VCR, television, presentation boards, posters and whatnot, they filed in wearing decidedly somber expressions. They looked as thrilled to be there as if at their dentist, knowing it would be tedious if not painful. As we looked for any encouragement from any of them, even an acknowledgment of “we’re glad to see you,” we got none.

The room we would present in was large and square, and allowed the fourteen persons from the client’s team to sit spread out in a V-formation with The Big Guy, their boss, seated at the center of the row. Like a gaggle of geese they were each a deferential step over from him, honking their support to whatever he would say. 

The atmosphere in the room was tense.

No matter how much you practice, on the actual day of a pitch you are nervous. Different people react to those nerves in different ways. Some people can’t talk, while others can’t stop. Some can’t move, and others can’t sit still. The fluttery feeling of butterflies in your belly morphs into raging raptors shredding vital organs as your turn to speak approaches.

We all knew we would be delivering a risky message to these guys, and they didn’t exactly appear to be in the mood. The raptors’ talons gripped our livers, slowly slicing them open to release the bile that crept up our throats. I felt like Roy Scheider’s character in All That Jazz, with a mix of dread and anticipation as he wearily looked in the mirror just before his performance and said, “It’s show time.”

After thanking them for the opportunity to be there, we said we might not be delivering the message they were expecting, nor one they even want to hear. But it was the truth, and for that we would let their customers speak to them directly.

Already the look on The Big Guy’s face was a frown. If anybody were to do any ass whupping in that room, he would be the whupper, not the whuppee.

Our account person rose and walked over to the cart upon which sat the videotape machine and TV monitor. While all were cued up to run on command, the cart had to be rolled into position so that the clients could all see and hear clearly.

Though nervous, Betsy spoke with the slightest of quivers in her voice, as she explained that the tape was seven minutes long, and would speak for itself. She then put her hands on the cart and gently pushed. The wheels must have been facing the wrong direction for the cart did not budge. The room was still; the client wasn’t at all sure they were going to like what was to be shown. Betsy smiled with a slight twitch in her dimples, leaned into it this time and firmly shoved the cart to get it moving. Inertia gave way as the wheels’ reluctantly turned with a loud and pronounced squawking honk that was amplified by the room’s silence.

Sweet-faced Betsy looked over her shoulder at the clients and said, “Excuse me.”

Being one whose nerves cause wisecracks, I replied a little louder than I intended. ”Oh, we thought it was the cart.”

Betsy looked back, slightly embarrassed. I hadn’t meant to make fun of her, it just sort of happened.

Across the room The Big Guy involuntarily let out a snort, as apparently my joke was on his mind as I said it. He started laughing, tried to hold it in since he was supposed to be the boss, and that only made him laugh louder. The tension in the room with their team arrayed as judges and juries and us about to plead our case, set in motion a most unexpected chemical reaction.  The Big Guy’s shoulders heaved with restrained laughter, and one by one the rest of his team broke out laughing. The oppressive presentation silence caved into a loud, stand-up comedy cacophony.

In the one unrehearsed moment of our entire two-hour presentation, the atmosphere in the room switched from frosty to warm with the flick of a joke.

The nervousness on our team evaporated with laughter as more wisecracks were flung to and fro across the room.  From stiff and stuffy business posturing, a frat house broke out thanks to that one moment of spontaneity. Combustible, yes, and it thawed our two companies’ relations. As it turned out, The Big Guy had a soft spot for bathroom humor. 

The presentation shifted gears from that moment on, and a frank and open dialog took place between us. Humor pierced the armor on both sides, and we actually connected with one another for the next two hours. In the end, they agreed with much of what we told them, and wanted to work with us to get their newly minted division off to a good start.

This client became our second largest account, and would remain that way for years to come. The gods of industry, it seems, like fart jokes, too.