Climbing Back Up The Mountain

Will Manzer isn't chicken. On the contrary, the 52-year-old CEO of outdoor retailer Eastern Mountain Sports looks more like he might just pick a fight for the hell of it. Lean, bald, and caffeinated, he's prone to bounding from his chair and racing around his desk, arms reaching out to illustrate a point. The man even listens fiercely -- peering, ears cocked, as if he might beat you to your own thoughts. It's the kind of intensity that has earned him the nickname "Mad Dog" at the company's headquarters in the woods of Peterborough, New Hampshire. But chicken or not, Manzer is running for his life. And he's taking the 37-year-old company he bought last year with him. Call it a fighting retreat.

EMS, an 85-store sporting-goods chain, used to pride itself on being an authentic outdoor retailer. The company was founded in 1967 by a gritty mountain man who was irritated that no one in the United States carried ice-climbing axes. But in recent years, EMS moved away from selling technical gear such as kayaks, rock-climbing shoes, and ski bindings to hard-core outdoor types, and began courting older, mainstream customers with such soft stuff as fleece jackets and cotton sweaters. By the time Manzer signed on as CEO in 2003, EMS was a blurry also-ran in the industry. "EMS had become a Gap with climbing ropes," says Manzer of the outfit he acquired through a management buyout in September.

Now Manzer vows to drag EMS out from its refuge behind the racks of khaki slacks. But taking the 1,650-employee company back to its authentic roots will be tough and risky. Manzer is questioning everything about its products, its image -- and, most of all, its customers. It's a process that will radically reshape EMS around a younger customer base and an edgier product line. And as the chain seeks to recapture its authentic outdoor sports heritage, not all customers will be welcome. "We're inevitably going to alienate some of the soccer moms and dads," Manzer says. In the short run, that could mean some loss of revenue, and maybe some store closings and relocations. But Manzer says EMS has to bite the bullet if it is to survive and grow again. "EMS wasn't safe," he says. "It wasn't clear or differentiated. If we're not precise in our answer to the outdoor athlete, then we mean nothing to anybody. We have to become a brand. There's no other way out."

Brands mired in the middle have faced similar dilemmas for years, of course -- think network TV, or Sears. But the continuing triumph of omnivorous big-box retailers such as Wal-Mart and Target has made the challenge particularly acute for specialty retailers such as EMS, says Larry Selden, a Columbia marketing professor and author of Angel Customers & Demon Customers (Portfolio, 2003). The specialists simply have to intensify their focus to stay alive, offering products and services that mass merchants cannot. And that often means leaving some customers behind. The wrong customers can cost retailers time and resources, often for little or no revenue. Good ones -- passionate ones -- are less work, drive more profits, and help shape the image of the brand. Last year, for example, Toys "R" Us let slip that it may leave the toy market altogether in order to focus on its more targeted Babies "R" Us properties. And Best Buy made headlines this winter when the CEO revealed he was abandoning the company's "devil" customers in the unprofitable middle -- the sale- and rebate-chasing crowd -- and retooling its 670 stores to cater to its high-end "angel" clientele.

At first glance, though, EMS's once and future core customer -- called the "knuckle dragger" -- hardly seems angelic. "The knuckle dragger is the guy or woman living out of their car, their mother's basement, or an apartment with 12 other people," says Ralph Lucarelli, EMS's director of visual marketing. "They eat, sleep, and breathe just to do their passion." But what gives them their halos, he says, is this: "Every last dollar they get is spent on new gear." Rodney Brewer of Worcester, Massachusetts, is just the kind of gearhead EMS lost and wants back. Brewer first walked into an EMS store when he was 12. Now 35, he's a devotee of mountaineering, kayaking, and mountain biking; he still uses stuff he bought at EMS 20 years ago. But he was alienated by the years when EMS played Connie Francis on the in-store speakers and advertised that it sold "the best gear and equipment . . . for cheering the kids on at soccer!" The store's message to customers like Brewer: "Don't shop here anymore; we don't carry gear," says veteran employee Tim Bradbury.

Enter Manzer. On paper, he was just what EMS didn't need: a retailer with a background in mainstream apparel. But Manzer is the real deal. The boots, jeans, and flannel shirts he wears around EMS offer no hint of the years he spent as the president of Perry Ellis Menswear. A 12-year veteran of the competitive triathlete circuit, he's the first EMS CEO since the company's founder to walk the walk. In his case, on a pair of titanium hips.