He ran John Deere for thirty years. Then one harvest call changed everything. Rick Hollander’s family helped build the local dealership. His name was on a plaque in their showroom. But when his combine broke during harvest and the dealer told him to wait three weeks for parts, loyalty suddenly felt like a one-way road. So Rick made the decision that stunned the entire county — he sold every piece of green iron he owned and rebuilt his farm in Massey Ferguson red. The whispers started. The delays followed. Everyone waited for him to fail. But the red machines kept running. And the real breakdown was never in the equipment.
Some decisions change a farm.
Other decisions burn every bridge behind you.
Rick Hollander made the second kind in the summer of 2023, not because he wanted attention, not because he was chasing a trend, and not because he woke up one morning eager to turn his back on three generations of brand loyalty. He made it because a machine failed at the worst possible moment, a dealer he had trusted for decades treated him like another name on a service board, and a different dealer answered the phone as if his crop, his time, and his operation actually mattered.
Rick farmed 2,400 acres of winter wheat and ran registered Angus cattle in south-central Nebraska, twelve miles outside McCook, tucked between the Republican River Valley and rolling plains that turned gold every June. It was third-generation land. His grandfather had broken part of it with a Ford 8N. His father had expanded it with International Harvester machines. Rick had built it into something larger, more technical, and more demanding than either of them could have imagined.
By 2023, the Hollander operation was running entirely on John Deere green.
Nine tractors. Two S-Series combines. A lineup of implements, sprayers, utility machines, loaders, and hay equipment. The machinery on the place was worth about $3.2 million, some financed, most bought outright over two decades of careful expansion and disciplined upgrades. Every major machine carried the leaping deer logo. Every service record came from the same dealership in McCook.
Huxley and Sons Equipment.
It was a family dealership that had been selling John Deere iron in southwest Nebraska since 1971. Rick did not merely buy from them. His family history was tied to theirs. His father bought Huxley’s first John Deere 4020 back in 1973. Rick bought his first 8R tractor there in 2009. When the dealership expanded its showroom in 2015, Rick’s name went onto a bronze dedication plaque in the lobby.
Not because he asked for it.
Because Tom Huxley, the owner’s son and general manager, insisted.
“Your family,” Tom had said that day, standing beside the new glass doors, “this place doesn’t exist without guys like you.”
Rick believed him.
Until June 14, 2023.
It was the second day of wheat harvest, the kind of day that defines a year on a grain farm. Clear skies. Low humidity. A fourteen-hour harvest window where every minute mattered. The wheat was ready, the forecast was tight, and Rick still had 1,800 acres standing after the first day’s cut.
He was running his 2020 John Deere S780 through a 340-acre section north of the highway, cutting at 4.2 miles per hour, grain tank filling roughly every eleven minutes. The machine was working hard but not beyond its limits. The wheat was good, the sample clean, and for a few hours, the operation had the satisfying rhythm of a harvest going exactly the way it was supposed to go.
Then the combine lurched.
Not a small hiccup.
A full mechanical seizure.
The entire drivetrain locked. The header stopped midcut. Alarms screamed across the cab display. Rick killed the engine, sat still for one hard second, then climbed down and opened the side panel.
The CVT transmission had grenaded itself.
Shrapnel. Fluid. Metal fragments embedded in a housing that was not supposed to crack. The kind of failure that did not look like ordinary wear. It looked like a manufacturing defect that had slipped through quality control and sat waiting for the worst possible moment to announce itself.
Rick called Huxley and Sons immediately.
Tom Huxley did not answer. The service manager did.
“We’ll get someone out there tomorrow morning,” the service manager said.
“Tomorrow?” Rick said. “I’ve got eighteen hundred acres of wheat standing. I need this fixed today.”
“Rick, we’re slammed. Everyone’s harvesting. I’ll bump you up the list, but it’s going to be tomorrow at the earliest.”
The technician arrived twenty-six hours later.
He took one look, whistled, and shook his head.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s cooked. You’re looking at a full transmission replacement.”
“How long for parts?” Rick asked.
“Three weeks if we’re lucky. Could be six.”
Rick stared at him.
“Six weeks?”
“It’s a specialized unit. Comes from Germany. Deere’s backlogged.”
“What’s it cost?”
The technician pulled up the estimate on his tablet.
“Forty-seven thousand three hundred, plus labor.”
Rick felt the air go out of him.
A $47,300 part, three to six weeks away, in the middle of wheat harvest, with a weather window that would not wait and a crop that lost value every day it sat in the field.
He called Tom Huxley directly.
This time, Tom answered.
“Tom, I need you to do something,” Rick said. “I need this expedited. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll pay rush shipping. I’ll pay overtime. I need that combine running.”
Tom’s voice was sympathetic, professional, and distant in a way that made Rick’s jaw tighten before the conversation had even fully started.
“Rick, I hear you,” Tom said. “But we don’t control the supply chain. Deere says three weeks minimum. I can’t make parts appear.”
“You’ve got pull. You’ve been a platinum dealer for fifteen years. Call someone.”
“I already did. They told me the same thing.”
Rick stood in his shop, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the bronze plaque on the wall. Huxley and Sons had given it to him when he bought his first 8R, a gift meant to symbolize loyalty, history, and partnership.
“So what am I supposed to do?” Rick asked.
“Rent a combine,” Tom said. “We’ve got a used S760 you could lease for the season.”
“At what rate?”
“Three hundred fifteen dollars an hour.”
Rick did the math in his head.
He still had 1,800 acres left. At his usual pace, that was about 140 hours of runtime. The lease would cost more than $44,000, nearly the same as the transmission repair, except the repair kept his asset alive. The rental just bled him dry.
“I’ll think about it,” Rick said.
He hung up and started looking for other options.
That night, he sat at his kitchen table with a laptop and a beer he never drank. He pulled up videos, forums, performance reports, and farmer discussions from places he had never taken seriously before. Case IH. New Holland. Fendt. Massey Ferguson.
Massey Ferguson kept appearing.
Not because of advertising.
Because of testimonials.
Farmers in Australia were running MF IDEAL combines through canola at speeds Rick did not think should be possible. Operators in Ukraine praised the simplicity of the threshing system. North Dakota wheat farmers posted fuel-efficiency numbers that made Deere look bloated. Several threads mentioned parts availability that did not require praying to a German supply chain while a crop stood exposed under a Nebraska sky.
Rick clicked on a dealer locator.
The closest Massey Ferguson dealer was Johnston Ag in Kearney, northeast of McCook. He had driven past it more times than he could count and had never once looked twice.
He called the next morning.
A man named Dale Richter answered.
His voice sounded like gravel under a pickup tire, and his tone made it clear he did not waste time dressing up bad information.
“Johnston Ag. Dale.”
“Hi,” Rick said. “I’m looking for information on your IDEAL combine line.”
“You farming or custom cutting?”
“Farming. Wheat and cattle. I’ve got a Deere S780 that just blew its transmission. I need a replacement.”
“You need a rental replacement or a buy replacement?”
Rick hesitated.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Well, let me make it easier,” Dale said. “I’ve got a 2022 IDEAL 9 on the lot. Demo unit. Low hours. Four-hundred-fifty-bushel tank. It’ll outcut your S780 and burn less fuel doing it. You want to see it?”
“What’s it cost?”
“Three hundred eighty-five thousand, but we’re motivated. End of quarter. I’ll work with you.”
Rick felt something shift in his chest.
“I’ll be there in two hours.”
The IDEAL 9 sat in the Johnston Ag lot like it had been waiting for him. Red and silver, aggressive and clean, a machine that did not apologize for existing. Dale walked him through it without a sales pitch that sounded memorized. He showed Rick the threshing system, the grain tank design, the cab layout, the hydraulic response, the service points, and the access panels. He explained what was simpler, what was different, what broke less often, and what he could actually keep in stock.
Then he said the line Rick would remember longer than any spec sheet.
“You know what the difference is between us and Deere?” Dale asked. “When you call us, we answer. When you need parts, we get them. We don’t make you wait because some algorithm in Iowa says you’re not priority.”
Rick climbed into the cab and ran his hands over the controls. It felt different. Tighter. More responsive. Less familiar, but not in a bad way.
“Can I test it?” he asked.
“You can take it home,” Dale said. “Run it through your wheat. If it doesn’t outperform your Deere, bring it back.”
Rick blinked.
“You serious?”
“Dead serious. I don’t sell machines. I sell proof.”
Rick drove the IDEAL 9 back to his farm that afternoon.
He put it in the same field where the S780 had died and opened it up.
The Massey Ferguson did not just match the Deere.
It embarrassed it.
Faster ground speed. Cleaner grain sample. Less fuel per acre. The threshing system handled green-stem wheat without slugging. The cab visibility let Rick push tighter to terraces without second-guessing. He ran it for six hours straight, waiting for the catch, the weakness, the thing that would remind him why his family had stayed loyal to Deere for decades.
It never came.
When he finally shut it down, he sat in the cab for a full minute without moving.
Then he called Dale.
“I want it,” Rick said.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. But I want more than that.”
Dale paused.
“I’m listening.”
“I want to replace my whole fleet.”
The silence on the line lasted three seconds.
“Say that again.”
“I’m done with Deere,” Rick said. “I want Massey Ferguson tractors. I want another combine. I want everything you’ve got that can replace what I’m running.”
Dale’s voice changed.
“Rick, I don’t know what happened between you and your Deere dealer, but switching an entire fleet isn’t something you do on emotion. That’s a two-million-dollar decision.”
“I know exactly what it is,” Rick said. “And I’m not doing it on emotion. I’m doing it because I just spent six hours in a machine that works better, costs less, and comes from a dealer who doesn’t treat me like I’m lucky to be his customer.”
Dale exhaled.
“All right,” he said. “Come back tomorrow. Let’s build a plan.”
Over the next fourteen days, Rick did something nobody around McCook had ever seen.
He liquidated his entire John Deere fleet.
All of it.
He listed the S780 as-is, bad transmission fully disclosed. A custom operator in Kansas bought it for $110,000, about half of what it would have been worth running, but Rick did not care. He sold the S690 backup combine to a farmer in Colorado. He sold the 8R tractors, the 6M series units, the 5 Series utility tractors, implements, sprayers, and nearly anything green that still carried enough value to move quickly.
Some went to auction.
Some went through private sale.
Some went to dealers two states away.
Every piece moved fast because used Deere equipment still had value, even when its owner had lost faith in it.
Within ninety days, Rick had cleared $2.7 million.
He spent nearly all of it at Johnston Ag.
The new fleet arrived in waves.
Two Massey Ferguson IDEAL 9 combines, red and silver, side by side in his machine shed like sculptures. Three Massey Ferguson 8S.265 tractors, 265 horsepower with continuously variable transmissions and the kind of precision control that made older gear-drive units feel like hammers. Two MF 7S Series mid-range tractors for loader work and hay season. One MF 5S utility tractor for feeding cattle, moving equipment, and daily chores.
All of it Massey Ferguson red.
All of it from Johnston Ag.
All of it serviced by a dealer in Kearney that treated Rick like he mattered.
By mid-September, the Hollander operation looked like it had been repainted overnight.
No green.
Only red.
And the entire county noticed.
Tom Huxley noticed too.
The first sign came when Rick called Huxley and Sons to order a PTO shaft for an old John Deere baler he had kept. It was one of the few green machines still on the place because it still worked and was not worth replacing yet.
The parts desk put him on hold for eleven minutes.
When the man came back, his voice was clipped.
“Yeah, we don’t have that in stock.”
“Can you order it?” Rick asked.
“It’s discontinued.”
Rick frowned.
“It’s a current-production 569 baler. How is the part discontinued?”
“That’s what the system says.”
“Check again.”
“I did. It’s not available.”
Rick hung up.
The next day, he drove to the dealership, walked into the parts department, and asked for the manager. Kurt, a man Rick had known for eight years, came out with his arms crossed.
“What can I do for you, Rick?”
“I need a PTO shaft for a 569 baler. Your guy told me it’s discontinued. I know that’s not true.”
Kurt looked at his computer and clicked a few keys.
“Looks like we can get it, but it’s special order now. Four-week lead time.”
“Four weeks for a PTO shaft?”
“Supply chain issues. You know how it is.”
Rick stared at him.
“Kurt, I’ve bought parts from you for fifteen years. You’ve never made me wait four weeks for a shaft.”
Kurt shrugged.
“Things change.”
The message was loud enough without being spoken directly.
Rick left without ordering.
He called a parts supplier in Kansas. They had the shaft in stock. It arrived in three days.
The retaliation did not stop there.
Two weeks later, one of the last small Deere tractors Rick had kept for finish mowing developed a minor hydraulic leak. It was a simple repair, but it needed a seal kit. He called Huxley and Sons. The service manager told him they could not schedule him for two weeks.
“I just need a seal kit,” Rick said. “I’ll install it myself.”
“We don’t have it in stock.”
“Can you overnight it?”
“We don’t do rush orders anymore.”
Rick hung up.
He called a Deere dealer in Kansas. They had the kit and shipped it the same day.
By then, the pattern was impossible to miss. Every time Rick needed something from Huxley and Sons, it was suddenly unavailable, delayed, special order, or backordered. His calls started going to voicemail. Service appointments got pushed. At the co-op in McCook, Rick began hearing whispers.
“Heard you went full red.”
“Tom Huxley’s not happy about it.”
“You really think those Massey Fergusons are going to hold up?”
Rick did not respond.
He just kept working.
October brought corn harvest.
Rick ran both IDEAL 9 combines through 800 acres of irrigated corn, cutting at 5.1 miles per hour, grain loss under four-tenths of one percent, fuel consumption 22 percent better than his old S-Series Deere machines. The combines did not miss a beat. No breakdowns. No delays. No three-week parts wait.
When he needed a concave adjustment kit, he called Johnston Ag at seven in the morning.
Dale had it couriered to Rick’s farm by two that afternoon.
“That’s how we do it,” Dale said.
Rick started doing the math.
In a normal year, he had spent about $18,000 in parts and service with Huxley and Sons: emergency calls, preventive maintenance, filters, belts, fluids, service updates, odds and ends that kept a working farm moving. Now, he was spending that money with Johnston Ag and getting faster responses.
Huxley and Sons had not only lost equipment sales.
They had lost the recurring business that proved whether a dealer relationship was still alive.
In November, Rick attended the McCook Farm Bureau meeting, the usual monthly gathering of farmers, coffee, and gossip in a community center basement. Tom Huxley was there. He did not sit near Rick. He did not acknowledge him.
Halfway through the meeting, during open discussion, Tom stood.
“I just want to say something,” he began. “There’s been a lot of talk lately about brand loyalty, about who supports local businesses and who doesn’t.”
The room went quiet.
Tom did not look at Rick.
Everyone else did.
“We’ve been here for more than fifty years,” Tom continued. “We’ve supported this community. We financed guys when banks wouldn’t. We’ve kept people running when parts were scarce. And I think it’s worth remembering that loyalty goes both ways.”
Then he sat down.
Rick felt thirty pairs of eyes on him.
He did not respond.
He did not defend himself.
He only drank his coffee and waited for the meeting to end.
But the message landed.
Tom Huxley was not just mad.
He was trying to make Rick a cautionary tale.
December brought the test Rick had been dreading.
Calving-season preparation.
He needed his equipment running flawlessly: tractors for feeding, loaders for bedding, reliability in subzero temperatures where a breakdown could mean dead calves, exhausted crews, and financial trouble that had nothing to do with brand pride.
The Massey Fergusons had never seen a Nebraska winter on his place.
The old-timers at the co-op reminded him of that every chance they got.
“Those fancy red tractors work great in August,” one man said. “Let’s see how they do in January when it’s twelve below and the hydraulics freeze.”
Rick did not argue.
He prepped the MF 8S and 7S tractors properly: synthetic fluids, block heaters, cold-weather fuel treatment, battery checks, and careful inspections before the weather turned hard.
The first cold snap hit on December 9.
Six degrees Fahrenheit at five in the morning.
Rick walked out to the machine shed, climbed into the 8S.265, turned the key, and the tractor fired on the first crank. No hesitation. No sluggish starter. Just clean ignition and smooth idle.
He ran it for three hours feeding 240 head of cattle, moving big bales, and operating the loader with hydraulic response that did not fade in the cold.
The tractor did not flinch.
Rick smiled for the first time in months.
But Tom Huxley was not done.
In early January, Rick got a call from his bank, First National of McCook, the same bank that had financed his land purchase in 2004 and equipment upgrades in 2011 and 2017. The loan officer, Gary Wendt, asked Rick to come in for a meeting.
Rick walked into Gary’s office on a Thursday morning.
Gary was polite and professional, but there was tension in his voice.
“Rick, I wanted to talk to you about your equipment financing. You’ve got $340,000 outstanding on implements and machinery.”
“That’s right.”
“And you recently liquidated your John Deere fleet and replaced it with Massey Ferguson.”
Rick’s jaw tightened.
“I did.”
“Well, we’ve had some concerns raised about resale value. Deere equipment holds value better in this region. If we ever had to repossess—”
“You’re not going to repossess anything,” Rick said. “I’ve never missed a payment.”
“I know. But we have to consider asset depreciation. Massey Ferguson isn’t as strong in the secondary market here. We’d like you to increase your collateral coverage by fifteen percent.”
Rick stared at him.
“You want me to put up more collateral because I switched brands?”
Gary shifted in his seat.
“It’s just a risk assessment.”
“Did Tom Huxley call you?”
Gary did not answer.
Rick stood.
“I’ll refinance somewhere else.”
“Rick—”
“We’re done.”
Two days later, he secured financing through Frontier Bank in Kearney, the same town where Johnston Ag operated. Better rate. No collateral increase. No brand-loyalty pressure hiding inside a risk assessment.
When Gary called to apologize, Rick did not pick up.
February came with calving season in full swing.
Fourteen-hour days. Subzero nights. Equipment running nonstop. Rick’s MF 7S.165 tractor logged 340 hours in thirty days: feeding, hauling, bedding, pulling calves into pasture corrals where traction and hydraulic control mattered more than brand reputation.
Not one breakdown.
Not one service call.
When a hydraulic line blew on the loader, Rick called Johnston Ag. They had the replacement hose in stock. Rick drove up, grabbed it, and installed it himself in forty minutes.
If he had still been relying on Huxley and Sons, he suspected he would have heard the same phrase again.
Two-week backorder.
Rick was learning something that went beyond horsepower, fuel efficiency, and resale percentages.
Freedom had a value.
In March, planting preparation began. Rick needed seed, fertilizer, and chemical. His usual supplier was Huxley Agronomy, a sister company to Huxley and Sons Equipment, run by Tom’s brother Jeff. Rick had bought from them for twelve years.
He called to place his order.
Jeff answered.
“Yeah, Rick,” Jeff said, “we’re a little tight on inventory this year. I’m not sure we can prioritize your acres.”
Rick kept his voice even.
“Jeff, I’ve been buying from you since 2011. You’ve never had inventory issues before.”
“Well, things are different now. Suppliers are favoring long-term loyal customers.”
The subtext could not have been clearer if Jeff had read it from a card.
Rick hung up.
He drove to Landmark Cooperative in Holbrook, thirty miles west, placed his full seed and chemical order, and learned they had everything in stock. Better pricing than Huxley Agronomy had offered the year before. He loaded his truck and drove home.
After that, Rick was done playing defense.
April brought spring planting.
Rick ran his three MF 8S.265 tractors through 2,100 acres of corn and soybeans in seventeen days. The CVT transmissions let him adjust speed on the fly without shifting. The hydraulics gave precise planter-depth control in variable soil. The fuel efficiency meant fewer stops, fewer refills, and more acres per day.
His neighbor Bill Kerson, a lifelong Deere operator running two 8R tractors, finished his 1,100 acres in nineteen days.
Rick’s Massey Fergusons had planted more ground, faster, on less fuel.
Bill did not say anything, but he stopped making jokes about red tractors.
In May, Rick was fueling up at the co-op in McCook when Tom Huxley’s truck pulled in. Tom stepped out, saw Rick, and walked over.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Tom said, “You made your point.”
Rick looked at him.
“What point is that?”
“That you don’t need us.”
“I never said that,” Rick replied. “You’re the one who decided I didn’t matter anymore.”
Tom’s face hardened.
“You walked away from thirty years of relationship. My family sold to your family. We financed you when—”
“You left me hanging,” Rick cut in. “I had a combine down in the middle of harvest, and you told me to wait three weeks. I couldn’t wait. So I found someone who wouldn’t make me.”
“And now you’re running equipment no one around here services. What happens when those Massey Fergusons break down and Johnston can’t get you parts?”
Rick met his eyes.
“Then I’ll deal with it. But at least I’ll be dealing with a company that treats me like I’m worth their time.”
Tom shook his head.
“You’re going to regret this.”
“Maybe,” Rick said. “But it’ll be my regret, not yours.”
Tom walked back to his truck.
They did not speak again for months.
By June 2024, one year had passed since the S780 transmission failure.
Rick stood in his shop looking at the Massey Ferguson fleet that had carried his operation through a full cycle. Two IDEAL 9 combines with 680 combined hours. Zero breakdowns. Three 8S tractors with 2,400 hours between them, one hydraulic hose, one fuel-filter housing. That was it. Two 7S tractors with 890 hours, flawless.
Total maintenance cost for the year: $11,400.
Previous year with Deere: $24,300.
Fuel savings: $16,800.
Downtime: nearly zero.
Rick pulled out his phone and opened his accounting software.
Net income for 2024 was $447,000.
The best year he had ever had.
Not because market prices were exceptional. They were average. Not because yield was spectacular. It was normal. The difference was that his equipment worked, he did not spend weeks waiting for parts, and when he called his dealer, someone answered.
Then wheat harvest came again.
Rick ran both IDEAL 9 combines through his fields at speeds that made his old S-Series machines seem cautious. He finished 2,400 acres in nine days. Bill Kerson, running a Deere S790, took eleven.
At the co-op, the conversation shifted.
“How are those Massey Fergusons holding up?”
“Heard Rick’s already done with wheat.”
“Johnston Ag treating him right?”
The doubt was fading, not because Rick defended himself, but because the numbers did not lie.
In August, Rick got a text from Dale Richter.
Got a guy two counties over asking about switching his fleet. Gave him your number. Hope that’s cool.
Rick smiled.
He called the farmer that night and spent an hour answering questions, walking him through the transition, the service relationship, the fuel savings, the parts support, and the cost of turning your back on a dealer everyone expected you to keep using.
At the end of the call, the man asked, “Did you ever regret it?”
Rick thought about the dealers who stopped returning calls. The bank that questioned his decisions. The neighbors who waited for him to fail. The bronze plaque with his name still hanging in a showroom he would likely never walk into again.
Then he thought about his shop full of equipment that worked.
“No,” Rick said. “Not once.”
In September 2024, Rick was combining corn when he saw a truck pull into his driveway.
He recognized it immediately.
Tom Huxley.
Rick shut down the combine and climbed out. Tom walked over with his hands in his pockets and his face unreadable.
“I’m not here to fight,” Tom said.
Rick nodded.
“All right.”
“I’m here because I wanted to say something I should have said a year ago.” Tom took a breath. “You were right. We didn’t treat you the way we should have, and we lost you because of it.”
Rick did not respond.
Tom continued.
“I’m not asking you to come back. I know that’s not happening. But I wanted you to know we’ve changed some things. Response times. Parts inventory. How we handle guys when they’re in a bind. Watching you leave made us realize we’d gotten comfortable.”
Rick studied him.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re not the first guy who thought about switching,” Tom said. “You’re just the first one who actually did it. And I don’t want to lose anyone else the way we lost you.”
Tom extended his hand.
Rick shook it, not because the past was forgotten, but because the message had finally been received.
By October 2024, Rick’s operation was running flawlessly.
Two combines. Five tractors. All Massey Ferguson red.
He was no longer fighting anyone. He was no longer trying to prove anything. He was simply farming with equipment that worked, a dealer that answered, and a fleet that did not make him beg for parts or wait for someone to decide whether his harvest was important enough.
At the McCook co-op, farmers started asking more specific questions.
“What’s the difference between the 8S and the 7S?”
“How has parts availability really been?”
“You think Johnston Ag would work with me?”
Rick answered honestly every time.
And every time, he saw the same realization in their eyes.
Loyalty only works when it runs both ways.
Rick Hollander did not switch to Massey Ferguson to make a statement.
He switched because he could not afford not to.
In doing so, he learned something the hard way. The brand on the side of a tractor does not matter as much as the people who answer the phone when it breaks. The legacy a farmer inherits does not matter as much as the operation he can actually sustain. And sometimes, the most expensive decision a man can make is staying loyal to something that stopped being loyal to him.
Rick runs Massey Ferguson now.
Not because it is red.
Because it runs.
And because when he calls his dealer, they pick up.
That is the only loyalty that pays.
