Societal Satire in Shorts
Any 8 Second Ride
S. G. Lacey
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Barrelman (Joy): 0 Seconds
My outfit is comical, in every sense of the word. Flamboyant would be an understatement. My clothes are so oversized and baggy that it looks like I bought them at a local thrift shop, with very limited selection. All part of my curated schtick.
I’m wearing weathered blue jeans, like nearly everyone in this arena. However, mine are of the bell bottom variety, right out of the 70’s, a formative era of love for my parents, which predictably culminated in my existence.
The mandatory cowboy boots, with tight fit around the calf making it impossible to tuck the extra demin fabric in, offer flair through their construction and materials. White, diamond pattern, snakeskin, clearly synthetic, since there’s not living reptile on the planet sporting this absurd external coating.
While my bottom half attire is relatively common, albeit with some unique panache, the top half takes this costume over the top. A checkered shirt, suspenders, mismatched gloves, and a neck handkerchief: colored orange and white, neon green, different shades of grey, and vibrant purple, respectively. Just another day at the office.
This job, like many in the rodeo industry, is a role which typically gets transferred down from parent to sibling, based on shared familial experience growing up around these entertaining events. Starting as a teenager, I got hand-me-down outfits which my father deemed too worn out for his eclectic wardrobe. It was during this formative period that I learn the ropes of corralling wild beasts, both literally and figuratively.
One path would have been to become a bullfighter. These individuals are responsible for capturing the animals and returning them to the pen after each ride. A dangerous job for sure, requiring both strength and speed. Unfortunately, considering my scrawny adolescent frame, and diminutive stature, both these traits were in short supply.
Another career option, the route I ultimately chose, is as a rodeo clown, or barrelman. This job description is somewhat of a misnomer, as I’m a female, though granted not the most classy or proper lady around. Regardless, I’m responsible for entertainment the paying patrons during lulls in the real action.
In historical times, these two roles were synonymous, the same talented individuals both corralling the cattle and courting the crowd. While our now separate groups sometime get combative, in reality we must work together closely to ensure success and safety of both the bull and cowboy.
Still, this clown’s ego is too large to share the stage, and this pre-ride setting is my time to shine.
My throat is hoarse from yelling. It’s been a long 10 days here at the rodeo. For over a week straight, I’ve engaged in frequent banter with the commentary announcers whose voices ring over the speakers between events. This is all part of the entertainment the fans pay for. The action culminates tonight, with the final round of the bull riding competition. This spectacle is the highlight of any rodeo festivity.
Earlier this evening, extensive pageantry accompanied the bull riders’ final introduction to the crowd. The top 12 scorers in the completion thus far climbed the stairs to the raised platform in the middle of the arena, amid bright flashes of pyrotechnics and a haze of grey smoke. This huge production was sufficient to rile up the rabid fans to a raucous frenzy.
My role was to mock the absurd swagger of each cowboy as they made their entrance: the limp of an injured participant who continues to soldier on, the absurdly long strides of the tallest individual in the competition, the distinct hunchback waddle of a veteran rider.
Now, the manmade metal stage has been cleared, making way for a new stage of natural dirt. The seemingly placid scene is about to get decidedly livelier. Time to get the crowd engaged, and the pending rider pumped up.
“Are you ready!” I cry out from a noticeable position in the middle of the ring, waving another of my many colorful bandanas, this one bright pink, in a wide arc above my head. The masses respond with another vigorous cheer, ramping the already deafening ambient noise up a couple more levels. I have these fans in the palm of my hand, spreading joy and amusement.
Glancing over to the gate, where the real action is brewing, I see the handlers moving to the top of the fence, and the mounted cowboy gives the telltale nod of his head which signifies readiness. I realize it’s this anticipation, rather than own my colorful show, on many levels, which has incensed the observant crowd.
Momentarily, there will be nearly a ton of flesh and bones trampling the dirt I’m currently standing on. Time to get to safety. I leap up onto an accommodating plastic barrel, just as the cage door swings wide, and the fury is unleashed.
Mount (Bull): 1 Second
There is no greater rush than the exhilarating liberty afforded by the rapid opening of the corral gate. After hours of barn confinement, culminated by being wedged into an undersized metal cage for over a minute, I’m finally free to roam.
Based on the resounding roar of the crowd, and the tight clenching of the rider’s legs around my broad haunches, it’s clear the experience is stimulating for all those involved.
I’ve never liked the feeling of being overburdened with extra weight on my back, even if the load is trivial compared to my own enormous mass. As a result, I instinctively execute a series of complex movements, which are designed to dislodge this encumbrance: rearing, kicking, spinning, and twisting.
The length of rope tied around my rear underbelly, while not overly irritating, does influence my travels across the soft dirt surface. Each step, my sharp hooves dig deep into the ground to gain purchase, front and rear appendages alternating, though not at a repeatable cadence.
The trick is to make my gyrations as erratic and unpredictable as possible. I know my role on this big stage, and no restrictive rope or soft sand will stop me from doing my assigned job.
My huge muscles compress and flex rhythmically. My trademark maneuver is a combined jump and turn, the dynamic movement that caused my entire spine, upon which my opponent is perched, to rapidly oscillate. While many of my colleagues can only perform this exercise is one direction, I’m ambidextrous, able to whirl, stop, and reverse, with lighting quickness; a series of motions which is nearly impossible to predict or react to.
Extensive training is only part of my recipe for success. I come from a strong ancestral pedigree and have been raised at one of the preeminent ranches in the country. Like many elements of rodeo life, this gig runs in the family.
The most noticeable element of my physique, aside from my massive size, is my stark white hide. Some of the bulls in this completion are light in color, ranging from cream to desert tan, but all others have blotchy dark patches of brown or black. In contrast, my entire skin is stark white, the short, coarse hairs currently bristling.
This unique appearance is the origin of my stage name. “Ghost”.
While obviously referencing my shimmering visage, there’s another, more subtle, component of the moniker. My ability to shed even the most competent riders from their high perch, making them disappear with nary a trace. I can hear many in the crowd cheering my name, and even see “GHOST” text sprawled on a few signs, when my huge head stabilizes momentarily between fierce jerks.
The one element of my look which I’m not enamored with is my horns. My job requires the points of my previously menacingly curved tusks to be lopped off, resulting in a pair of stubby nubs. Not a very masculine presentation, but I guess this protocol is reasonable from a safety standpoint.
I know my performance in the ring is being tracked, as it has been throughout the year. As the season has progressed, and my superior performance has become evident, I’ve been increasingly used in the later stages of the competition. Each bull’s scores are monitored to ensure the most challenging participants are brought to these elite competitions.
I plan to win the title, and am already dreaming of the attention this annual achievement would garner. Excessive pampering, with luxurious quarters, and unlimited food. Closing out life as a stud doesn’t sound too bad.
Organizer (Dust): 2 Seconds
Throughout the fortnight encompassing the setup and execution of this rodeo, the weather has been warm and sunny during the day, then dry and windy at night. While this has led to some decidedly dusty conditions, I’m definitely not complaining. Inclement weather is always a concern for outdoor events.
Hosting rodeos is an expensive and risky proposition. An effective operation takes months of planning. Renting a venue with sufficient accommodations. Executing a marketing campaign to presell tickets. Coordinating with elite athletes, both human and animal, to make sure the competition field is top class. Procuring vendors to occupy the food, drink, and merchandise stalls.
All this preparatory activity cost money, well before a single dollar of revenue comes in. That’s why this entire facility is plastered with advertising banners for all manner of products well known to the rodeo fan base. This approach offers a way to provide guaranteed revenue as a buffer against the potentially variable income from ticket and concession sales.
Fortunately, with the fortuitous weather, and compelling action, attendance has not been a concern.
From my executive box, tucked high up in rafters of the stadium, I peruse the arena with pride. It’s like being a god, peering down from the heavens on one’s creation below.
Nearly every seat is filled, aside from a few poor souls who foolishly decided to hit the restroom during the culmination of the bull riding finals. While all eyes are fixed on the action in the ring, I prefer to watch the watchers.
Through my hard work, supplemented by a diligent event planning crew, this rodeo has gone off essentially without a hitch. Sure, there was the occasional participant injury, equipment malfunction, or animal issue. Such hiccups are par for the course in this volatile industry.
These minor blips in the proceedings are unavoidable on a production as large as this, and generally went completely unnoticed by the satisfied patrons. A happy customer is a repeat customer, especially in the service industry. My mind is already drifting to next year’s iteration.
My inspiration to get into the rodeo hosting business stems from a fortuitous trip to Barretos, Brazil over a decade ago. This event is widely accepted as the global rodeo mecca, due to its perennial success in terms of visitors, the thus revenue. Over 10 days, this festival garners nearly a million attendees.
Since my first trip there, I’ve never missed a year, thus making my own small contribution to the huge tally. During each annual trip south, I come up with new ways to improve my own, relatively small, version of this cowboy-honoring jubilee.
The U.S. Finals, previously under the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, or PRCA acronym, were held in Las Vegas, Nevada for 30 years. Eventually the PBR, code name for Professional Bull Riding league, along with the light beer which many of the devotees drink, became the sports top contingent. Now, with clever negotiation, I have procured this elite event for the proud city of Fort Worth, Texas.
My hope is to bring the same passion, and money, from Brazil to the United States. This new location, close to the Mexican border, also provides a link to the origin of competitive rodeo over a century ago.
Like the thousands of fans in attendance, my gaze shifts to the action below. Nearly in the center of the large ring, a cowboy in traditional garb, with some modern trimmings, is holding onto a massive white bull, which could easily be confused for a shaven polar bear, based on the impressive range of motion being displayed.
While the lights, cameras, and amenities are much different than yesteryear, the carnal interaction between man and beast is true to the original rodeo inspiration.
Girlfriend (Chaps): 3 Seconds
The activity in the ring is an unfathomable blur. The impressively rapid movement of the huge bovine dictates the general flow, which is amplified to the tiny individual perched atop. There are several points in this whirlwind of movement when distinct shapes are briefly visible.
The steer’s broad shoulders. The rider’s helmet-covered head. The animal’s dancing hooves. But most noticeable are the chaps, emblazoned with colorful, reflective tassels, which provide the link between the boy and the beast.
Historically, leather chaps were worn to protect cowboys’ legs from sagebrush, cacti, and rope burns. In modern bull riding, this article of clothing leans much more towards flair as opposed to function. The pair being worn by the current participant are some of the flashiest offerings in the competition. Thanks to my sewing ingenuity.
These leggings are dark in color, charcoal grey as opposed to black, with a metallic sheen, a unique hue rare in nature, but easily achievable with synthetic leather. The extra fabric on the outside of each leg has been slit into long, narrow strips. A trio of bright green beads is threaded on each individual tassel, then secured by a knot at the end.
This dynamic leg covering creates one of the more distinctive visual aesthetics in the competition. There is definitely an element of style in this sport which helps to entice high scores from the judges.
It took me several weeks to construct these custom chaps, a task which occupied all my precious free time after long days working on the farm. In a pastime dominated by masculinity, it doesn’t hurt to incorporate a women’s touch for differentiation.
The other key wardrobe element, aside from the blue jeans and red checkered shirt which personifies the traditional cowboy look, is the vest. These chest coverings are now mandatory as a protective element for riders. While the outer layer is constructed of basic black leather, the key hidden safety materials are a ballistic aramid lining and a high-density foam core.
While I would prefer my husband maintain a clean, simple, western look, this is not an option. The advertising real estate on a cowboy’s torso is a valuable commodity. As such, his vest is adorned with all manner of patches, logos, and embroidery. While I’m not happy with all this NASCAR-style branding, these sponsors are a great way to supplement income earned in competition.
Still, I’m happy to have my man protected. This is a dangerous sport, the riskiest of all the rodeo activities.
While the events in which both of us lovebirds compete are quite different, some of the same traits are required for success. A Zen-like bond between rider and mount. An unwavering and absurdly focused passion. Love of animals, and their keepers. Acceptance of a challenging travel schedule.
Both my husband and I are very driven athletes, constantly training and striving to improve. As such, paradoxically, the heat of the moment is the only time when we are truly able to relax. In fact, I get much more nervous watching my spouse perform than when I’m in my own elite races.
Though I greatly enjoy watching my man as he spins his craft, it can be quite stressful. While my barrel riding takes roughly half a minute, the interaction between raging steer and committed rider lasts just a quarter of that time, in a best-case scenario.
Severe injuries are common in professional bull riding. There’s not a single athlete in the field who doesn’t get hurt at some point in the season. I know my partner participates in the locker room prayer sessions which preempt each night of competition. This doesn’t stop me from offering up my own silent pleas to the gods, as I did just a few seconds earlier, while the love of my life was getting settled in the gate.
Thus far, halfway to the target time, he’s still holding on strong. Hopefully the good vibes I’m currently channeling my significant other will continue to help.
Briefly shifting my gaze from the action far afield in the arena to the front pouch baby carrier slung over my shoulders, I see the ultimate product of our partnership. Our daughter.
I have turned her around to face outward, towards the ring, where the proceedings have been evolving over the past few hours. Her small blue eyes are transfixed on her dad, who still appears steady despite the constant gyrations of the enormous white bull he is riding. At just 2 years old, she’s apparently already following in her parents’ footsteps with regards to rodeo addiction.
I reach down and take her tiny, soft hand in my boney, thin fingers. I’m surprised to find her frail body is tense and her chubby knuckles are white, as if she’s the one holding on for dear life. Bull riding has typically been a male dominated sport, but based on my daughter’s fiery spunk, which she clearly gets from me, I don’t anticipate we’ll be able to keep her from this dangerous pursuit once she comes of age.
Maybe in a few decades, I’ll be watching my offspring in the ring, blonde ponytail tucked in the helmet, and rainbow sequined chap tassels glittering under the arena lights.
Competitor (Hat): 4 Seconds
I stand at the rail, watching intently through the generous horizontal gap in the large diameter metal tubes. This porous barrier would be useless for containing most mammals, like foxes, racoons, or rats. There’s a reason chain link, or plexiglass paneling, is used for the vast majority of zoo enclosures.
However, the breed of animal which this specific fence is meant to contain are much larger. Also, they really have no interest in escaping, as the broad swath of flat dirt affords them luxurious space to maneuver, relative to their typically confined quarters, especially during an event weekend.
There’s another, lesser known, reason for the gaps. It allows certain crafty critters to escape, using some savvy contortions. I know because, just a few minutes earlier, I was fortuitously able to slither through the 2nd lowest gap in the bars, thus narrowly escaping the pursuer, a milk chocolate steer in this case.
Surviving the full 8 seconds on a bull is just part of a true cowboy’s skill. The real medal is earned by safely escaping after a successful ride. Such a lengthy duration atop a crazed beast, in relative terms of course, does not make the mount any more relaxed, or friendly.
As soon as that critical buzzer goes off, identifying my work is done for the day, I make myself scarce, like a junior high student fleeing to freedom following the last period school bell. Over my long career, I’ve used all manner of dismount strategies: the sideways roll, the over the front flop, the dive off and pray.
However, my most famous, and most productive, escape is the backflip, using the momentum of the bucking bull to tilt my head, spine, and eventually entire body backwards, rotating one full turn around the animal’s ass, and ideally landing back on my feet, in the same squatty stance where I was positioned earlier, this time on the soft and safe ground, as opposed to 4 feet above it.
The first part of my plan worked perfectly tonight; a briefly inverted dismount so gentle it felt like hopping down from a pick-up tailgate onto a bed of hay. What I didn’t anticipate is the proficiently of this now-unencumbered animal to make a series of strategic decisions: sensing my disappearance, changing direction rapidly, and coming back for more. This bull’s tenacity rivals my own lifetime commitment to the sport.
Not only did this series of acts surprise me, but the erratic randomness also eluded the trio of bullfighters meant to handle the beast as I disappear. As a result, I found myself squirming through the gap in the rails, just before a boney skull, and pair of stunted horns, rattled the metal pipes, sending a resounding clang throughout the entire arena.
Good thing I still have my reactive instincts, even at this relatively advanced age. Otherwise, I could have lost a few fingers, or an even more important bodily component.
Now, having caught my breath, I’m able to safely watch from the sidelines. After a spirted performance, I’m currently leading the standings, so am intently focused on the current match-up, the last bout of the completion.
Reaching up instinctively, I touch the broad brim of my cowboy hat. This is the same item I donned while riding just a few minutes earlier. As soon as my weathered fingers make contact with the fabric, a layer of dusty sand rains down, briefly obscuring my vision. This article of clothing is a little worse for wear, crumpled and dirty after my recent dismount and escape from the relentless bovine.
I’m one of the few riders in the field who still wears this traditional garb in the ring. Nearly all the participants now wear a full helmet, a mandated safety protocol which makes such individuals look more like a hockey player than a horseman. The older demographic, those born before 1994, are grandfathered in, and can still ride with an unassuming cowboy hat. Considering my advanced age, I easily exceed this date cut-off.
While I’m a wily veteran, with over a decade in the top circuit of the sport, the current rider, the only opponent with a chance to beat me, is just a kid, almost young enough to my son. But he certainly knows how to ride.
At this advanced age, I should be bumping along atop a lame horse on these rickety bones in a remote ranch somewhere in New Mexico desert. Or participating in any other profession which doesn’t require me to risk my livelihood on a weekly basis.
The format for these Professional Bull Riding world finals, the conclusion of a season-long battle, is grueling. 7 nights of competition, over the span of 2 consecutive weekends. After a Sunday morning session earlier today, the 7th round of scoring, the field was culled down from 40 to 12 for before the concluding scoring round.
A relatively new PBR policy allows riders to pick their bull for certain pre-determined rounds. This format adjustment has definitely changed the strategy from the old days when I would go all-out right from the get-go. Now, it’s critical to get a clean first ride, as this affords a higher draft pick, and the opportunity to pair up with the desired steer of choice.
I’ve stayed of 6 of 8 bulls for the duration in this competition, a feat which has landed me in a prime position. Impressive for a sport where a 40% success rate is considered elite. It’s no baseball batting average, but us cowboys tend to experience more failure than triumph.
As I watch the contortion of the linked creatures in the ring, I can feel my own face contorting in unison with the jerky motions. Every time I watch bull riding event, my body starts tingling with excitement, and fear.
Even as a veteran cowboy, my mind is conflicted. I always root for achievement, and of course safety, for my fellow competitors. However, in the back of my mind, there’s a nagging reminder of how close I am to winning the coveted championship which has eluded me for my entire career.
I don’t know what the outcome of this event will be, but it’s entertaining regardless. Good luck young lad, you’ve drawn a real firecracker.
Stock Contractor (White): 5 Seconds
Through horizontal gaps in the metal post fence, I catch intermittent glimpses of the action. I can get a clear view of the proceedings simply by looking up at the massive display hung from the rafters of the arena, where the bull and rider are displayed in larger-than-life full color. However, I prefer to observe the live action in the flesh, even if the view is slightly restricted.
I spend pretty much every weekend at a rodeo of some sort these days. These events are my opportunity to monetize the wide variety of livestock which I raise on my ranch in Tucson, Arizona.
I feel like my own farm harkens back to the origin of these unique animal-based festivals. Early rodeos were organized in Mexico, as a demonstration of cowboys’ equestrian and ranching skills, or “charreada”. Such gatherings quickly became popular at Texas and Southern California, establishments where Hispanic workers were common. I can attest that amongst my diverse set of employees, there’s many a skilled rider who immigrated from the south.
While I raise 200 head of cattle annually to supply quality beef to the masses, my real passion is breeding prime animals for a different application. Bull riding.
There’s a lot that goes into rearing, training, and maintaining each competition steer. I spend every day on my large ranch nurturing bovine across a range of ages, trying to determine which ones have the right combination of traits for this very specialized activity.
One rite of passage, when a bull finally earns its spot on the list, is trimming of the horns. This is a delicate process, where the animal is funneled into a narrow corral pen, then I gently grind down the sharp points of bone for safety, and brand the resulting flat surfaces with my custom logo.
This marking, a backwards capital “Q”, with curvy features reminiscent of a lasso noose, adorns all elements of my ranch. The signage. The clothing. The equipment. And the animals.
A key part of my job is transporting and handling these important steers. Like athletes in any sport, being well fed, rested, and in the right mind set, is the key to peak performance. Rodeo bulls are no different.
I have sleeping quarters in my extended travel trailer, and am never far from my prize possessions when on the road. The line-up of mounts each night is randomized based on the competing riders’ scores, or draft selection, so there’s a lot of logistics related to moving the correct steer in and out of the paddock.
While the rider is responsible for securing the latigo which keeps them on their mount, I’m tasked for applying the other rope attached to the bull. The flank strap, a soft cotton rope roughly 5/8” in diameter, which is wrapped around the bull’s hindquarters.
Contrary to popular belief, this cord passes nowhere near the animal’s testicles. Since the goal of this item is to promote erratic hind leg bucking, the tension of this cord is key; too tight or too loose will hinder the bull’s movements. I take my job seriously, and strive for perfection on every installation session.
As one of the few participants in the tight pen before the start of a ride, I always make sure to monitor the demeanor of the large mammal, and provide soothing comfort as needed. If one gets too riled up before the start, it can be dangerous for both the bull and the rider.
Once the cowboy gives the sign that he’s ready, my work is done, and I make myself scarce before the gate opens, and the action gets lively. The fury with which each beast explodes out of the chute is exhilarating, even after years in the industry. It’s like being a gratified grandparent, but the child is bovine as opposed to a human.
Producing reliable, high-scoring, rodeo bulls is a source of tremendous pride, and income, for my ranch. Such steers can be sold for hundred thousand dollars, with the highest scoring mount each year worth substantially more. Ghost may be just such a rare beast.
While I never formally root for a rider to fall, it’s amusing to see how disoriented individuals get by the violent, erratic, movements of a premier bull like Ghost. His unique white hide color, a rarity in the industry, combined with a seeming proclivity for the bright lights, make this animal’s semen invaluable. Hopefully we can breed several generations of competition rodeo mounts from this monster.
Rider (Latigo): 6 Seconds
My left arm is burning, the muscles spasming uncontrollably. Somehow, I continue to hold on. This sport is as much mental as it is physical.
At the end of this throbbing appendage is a leather glove, which protects my hand from abrasion, and is so tight fitting that it may as well be an extension of my own flesh. My augmented fingers are clasp around a leather strap, which mitigates abrasion, and is generously coated with rosin to increase friction.
Strategic hand position and grip strength, combined with hip movement and spur placement, linked by a rock-solid core of muscles, is key to locking down and staying on a lively combatant. All these skills are simultaneously being tested currently.
There is a lot of luck in professional bull riding. Having a compatible steer, matching rhythm and reaction, is very valuable.
The current tournament format is a mix of several randomized mounts, and the occasional opportunity to select the desired steer, based on a draft system. Having competed all season with generally the same pool of majestic beasts, I have a good idea which animals I’m compatible with.
Unfortunately, for this final round, the bulls are preset, ranked from #1 – #12, based on their total tallied scores from the judges in the competition to date. The best cowboys, riding the best mounts. Exactly the way a world title should be earned. This format maintains parity in the sport, and definitely keeps the fans engaged.
Per a rarely used rule, re-rides are allowed if a given animal doesn’t perform well. This is a risky gamble, as it can result in a no-score for the round.
I invoked this technique last night, as the mount I picked laid an egg coming out of the gate, moving slowly, and not offering the spunk necessary for a premier performance. That strategic decision put me in the current fortuitous position. The second time around I achieved a qualifying ride, earned an 89-plus point score, and now have a chance to win not only this event, but the title of year-long champion.
Sometimes it’s necessary to take extra risks in this already volatile sport. Every time one climbs atop a steer there’s a potential for injury. Us rodeo athletes are always nursing some form of bump, bruise, ache, or pain. At this late stage in the season, no competitor is immune, with ice baths, gauze bandages, and compression wraps becoming increasing prevalent as the circuit has worn on.
An incredibly abrupt change in motion from white beast below me sends a searing pain up my right leg. This is one of my more acute ailments currently. A twisted knee on a dismount, seemingly innocent enough when incurred during the first weekend, but which has gotten more painful and swollen each night since.
Based on the curated convulsions of this bull, it’s as if this animal knows my current injuries, and is using clever tactics to exploit them. I just need to soldier on for a few more seconds. Then, I get a few months off to recover.
At just 24 years old, I’m already feeling the brutal toll of this profession. I have no idea how the veteran riders are able to keep going for multiple decades. It’s amazing these older individuals are still in the game, considering their notable career success, and relative financial stability. Clearly, bull riding is like an addictive drug, regardless of age.
Several of these gentlemen, those originating from my South America homeland, have become my mentors, and they have no shortage of stories to tell. I owe a lot of my success to these experienced elders, both performance as an athlete in the ring, and maturity as a person outside it.
Us Brazilians are currently dominating this sport. There’s lots of comradery in the locker room, but everyone wants to win. It’s difficult to travel to the United States, especially for us younger guys, who don’t know much English. But this country is where the money is these days.
I’m lucky to have my wife, who is equally proficient in Portuguese and English, having worked as an adolescent in the service industry at her parent’s farmstead bed and breakfast, which was popular with foreigners. I can only image trying to teach some naive American how to mount and ride a horse in a broken, confusing dialect.
My lady and I were childhood sweethearts, meeting at a teenage rodeo convention. A fortuitous connection, considering the remote country landscapes which both of us grew up in. Our relationship has budded nicely, culminating in our daughter’s birth just a few years ago.
Now we have two passions. Competitive rodeo and child rearing. I know the pair of critically important females in my life are somewhere in the stands watching me.
I think back to getting settled in the bucking chute, just seconds earlier. In the brief calm before the storm, I made a fleeting attempt to locate these lovely lasses in the crowd. However, there’s a lot going on as a cowboy gets organized to ride, especially one as important as this current foray.
With my hand secured around the flat braid of rope and leather, as it still is, I recall nodding to the handlers to denote readiness. The first random movement underneath me once the gate opens inevitably dictates the entire progression of each ride.
I’m shocked back into the present tense by a huge, unexpected jolt emanating from the object beneath me. Considering the weight and power difference between us two battling mammals, it’s clear one party is dictating the proceedings.
Of all the equipment I use, there’s one essential item which helps level the playing field. My latigo.
Sure, the required clunky helmet, and bulky vest, provide important bodily protection. Meanwhile, the tasseled chaps on my legs, and multitude of logos on my torso, offer up flair as opposed to function. My farming heritage makes the weathered leather boots and metal spurs, rowels muted of course, essential footwear elements.
But my prize possession is the bond between myself and my mount. If this critical link fails, the ride is over, full stop. Each participant is able to bring their own rope, and secure it around their bovine opponent, in their desired manner of choice.
As such, these seemingly basic lengths of braided cord, supplemented by texture and treatment, have special sentimental value to each cowboy. Also, there’s minute elements, invisible to even the most educated rodeo fan, which dictate the difference between success and failure.
My mental clock, finely calibrated to this specific activity, is starting to fire hints that progress is being made. I just need to hold on a few moments longer. Grasping even tighter with my well-practiced fingers on the well-known length of cord, I resolve to complete this ride, the last of the season. There’s no reason to hold back now.
Fan (Crowd): 7 Seconds
My stomach is churning and rumbling. If I’m this unsettled, sitting on this bench in the bleacher seats, I can only imagine how much the character bouncing around on top of that animal in the middle of the ring is feeling.
Granted, he likely didn’t eat 4 spicy, fat-ladened tacos, 3 tall beers in a plastic souvenir cup, a pair of foot-long hot dogs with all the fixings, and a shot of tequila from the stealthy flask tucked in my back pocket. All part of the enjoyment associated with attending this culminating night of the PBR rodeo finals.
I need to piss like a race horse, or more accurately, like one of the majestic steads which have been on full display this week during the various racing and roping events. However, this ending evening of pageantry is all about the mighty bulls, and the men who hope to tame them.
In my drunken state, I briefly contemplated trying to pee into my fancy new cup. But the place is too crowded, and my self-conscience too weak, even in this inebriated condition. With just a few riders left, I have decided to suffer through, at risk of having a bladder accident if the excitement gets too intense.
This has been an amazingly fun, and amazingly long, day. Up early, I spent the morning wandering the endless lines of vendor stalls, collecting free swag, while being fully exposed to many hours of the sun’s powerful UV rays. Then, we hit up a local joint for some top-notch barbeque and bluegrass. All this before I even entered the arena for this last evening rodeo session.
Currently, I’m fat, drunk, and happy. Like pretty much every Sunday of my adult life. It’s going to be a sluggish start to the week at work.
With glazed eyes, I look down at the entertainment below. I’ve lost track of the exact score and order of proceedings, but this must be one of the last acts of the competition. There are a few elements of the activity which stand out vividly in my lethargic mind.
The stark white color, and massive size, of the competition bull. It seems to be gyrating at an unfathomable speed, even though my mind is processing stimuli at a sluggish rate.
The bright accoutrements to the cowboy’s outfit. Still maintaining his perilous perch, the tassels of his chaps flow like iridescent ferns, and the neon logo patches on his vest glint when the stadium light hits them at specific angles.
I can’t read any of the tiny branding, based on the continuous movement of the duo below, and my own increasingly blurred vision. Still, I’m sure these represent the same companies which are plastered around the arena.
This signage advertises products which dictate the everyday life of the working class like myself, and most of those in attendance, screaming our lungs out. The clothes we wear. The vehicles we drive. The indulgences we consume. It’s a close knit, lifestyle aligned, community.
This ultimate night of competition for the season, the culmination of a grueling bull riding calendar, is a hot ticket. I’ve diligently watched this event since it started being played on national TV several years ago, and finally took the plunge to attend in person.
The 4-hour drive from Houston, and the cramped lodgings in a motel room, with my best friend, and a second cousin, who both decided to join last minute, has been well worth it. We were only able to get one pass for tonight, and as the coordinator of this trip, I got the honors.
The bull riding discipline, typically held in the evening under the evening lights, is understandably the main event. It represents the epitome of glitz and glamor. Country style, of course. Thus, the extremely high ticket demand, and pricing.
As a result, I now sit alone, on a wooden bench between two passionate Mexican families which I’ve never met before. Between the alcohol and the close quarters of this packed arena, we’ve all become good friends. Another reason not to disturb them by trying to sneak out to the urinal.
Pushing my bulging bladder out of my mind, I concentrate on the action I paid handsomely to view in person. As I focus in, the lively scene magically coalesces into slow motion. The bull’s back legs kick up, and it’s front end naturally dips down.
This is a traditional rodeo pose which adorns many of the graphics at this championship event, including the nearly empty cup in my right hand, and the mesh trucker cap on my head, a present from my younger family member for including him in this adventure.
Suddenly, a loud buzzer pierces the dull roar of the already anticipatory crowd. This is a critical sound in rodeo parlance, denoting the passage of 8 seconds. An impressive feat, which only one in three participants achieve, even at this elite level of the sport.
I turn to the new adopted family on my right side, and am met with the piercing brown eyes of a young boy with equally brown skin.
“He’s made the 8!” we yell in unison, then embrace in a celebratory high five, chest bump, leaning hug combination that couldn’t be more awkward if we try. No one around us cares, as they are all equally enthralled with the magical excitement of the moment, and what this achievement will mean to the overall standings.
Judge (Gold): 8 Seconds
My mind is whirring, and all of my senses are heightened. I’m trying to distill the complex proceedings of the recent past down into a single tally.
The format for these elite competitions is formalized and structured. 4 judges for the rider, and 4 judges for the bull. Each critic allots 25 points, with the maximum 100-point score divided by 2 to represent 50% of the total mark.
The steer is always scored, but the mount only gets a tally if they last the full 8 seconds. Now a veteran in the industry, I enjoy monitoring the animal as opposed to the athlete. While the rider pool is fairly consistent from year to year, aside from an up-and-coming rookie or retiring veteran, the bull scene is much more dynamic. It’s fun to see how various bovine beasts progress over time, some becoming more dynamic each weekend as they gain confidence, while others fatigue or get spooked, and are thus demoted.
The long and loud buzzer which just sounded occurred right on time, based on my precise internal clock. This distinctive noise is ubiquitous to the rodeo industry, denoting a successful ride.
This auditory blast is simultaneously matched by a green light which illuminates on the custom signal box that sits in the center of the long scoring table. One of the perks of being a judge is that you get some of the best seats in the house.
We also have access to instant replay on our individual display monitors. However, this technology is typically used to confirm a touch penalty or a premature buck-off, as opposed to more subjective elements. As an aged luddite, I prefer to let my live eyes and lengthy experience dictate my scores, as opposed to microanalysis of frame-by-frame screen shots.
In reality, the marks for the bull and rider are inexorably linked. This is not just because each element contributes half of the score, but because true success requires a subtle balance of power between the two parties.
A slow, disengaged bull makes for a dull show, no matter how proficient the cowboy mounted atop is. Conversely, a powerful and lively steer can shed an inexperienced candidate in seconds. As a result, an elite tally, over 90 points, requires superior performance from both combatants. Each must be constantly on the edge of losing control, alternately surmounting and succumbing to the moves of their opponent.
This most recent performance was a perfect example of this delicate ballet, by decidedly rugged participants.
The bovine came out of the gate like a thunderbolt, and didn’t stop this tenacity even when the rider finally jumped clear. Using a textbook “sunfishing” motion, a preferred technique for elite rodeo bulls, the animal’s legs were completely off the ground often, kicking the hind feet to the side in a twisting, rolling motion.
The cowboy kept his free hand raised high in the air the entire time, never touching himself, or his mount, with this extra appendage. Matching the volatile rhythm of the tidal wave underneath, he deftly used blunted spur boots to subtly manipulate the animal’s movements, thereby earning additional “style” points.
All judges must be former competition riders, which ensures we have context on the challenges and nuances of the sport. Based on years of experience, as both a participant and an adjudicator, I know this is a historic ride.
Many, like myself, flamed out of competition earlier than desired, usually due to injury. I still walk with a noticeable limp, due to a hip fracture sustained in my early 30’s, as a result of an unplanned early dismount. Bull riding is a humbling sport.
Now, with a quarter century of judging under my belt, I’m one of the veterans on the circuit. In recent years, there has been suggestions of American favoritism within the pool of primarily U.S. nationality judges. Fortunately, the recent success of riders from other countries, especially Brazil, has created the opportunity for diversity in litigation.
All the officials tonight know this tally will dictate the outcome of the event, placing one of the two dominant nations of the sport on the podium, and the other in second place. Half the fans are going to be upset regardless, so we just need to be as objective as possible.
Content with my assessment, I type my 4-digit numerical score, with a decimal place in the middle, and press the confirmation button to lock this value in. Once my ruling is finalized, I’m able to see the determination of my fellow judges. As anticipated, this recent ride is scoring very well.
A value of 93.75 flashes, both on my personal display panel, and in huge gold numerals on the 4-sided electronic projection screen hanging above us in the rafters. Instantaneously, the capacity crowd, despite many of them being in an inebriated state, realize the outcome of the competition.
Predictably, the reaction in half exhilaration and half infuriation, from the obviously polarized fanbase. As an arbiter of truth in any sport, it’s impossible to please everyone. All I can do is be honest.
Bullfighter (Rope): 9 Seconds
My job is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. While most fans stop watching the proceedings after a rider is dislodged early, or completes his task, my work is just getting going. As a result, it’s a thankless task, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Us bullfighters are responsible for corralling the loose animals after each ride. This is a risky and dangerous profession. We often need to distract the bull to help the cowboy get safely to freedom. It takes a special mindset to proactively lure a huge wild beast towards you.
Sometimes it’s even necessary to jump atop a bull to solve rope issues. I’m too young and inexperienced to have this crazy technique in my arsenal.
The available area of travel for the infuriated animals is large, ringed by a sturdy 6-foot-tall fence to protect the patrons. Rodeo bulls can exceed 2,000 pounds, over 10 times the mass of the riders who bravely mount them, albeit often briefly. As such, no single human can control these muscle-bound creatures.
Therefore, we work in teams to distract and drive the escapee back into the chute which leads to the barns. Currently, the quartet of us are in a loose square around the target, giving the still volatile animal a wide birth.
We’re all dressed in flashy neon orange outfits, a hue which helps attract the steer’s attention. As the junior member of this crew, I’m at the geometric vertex furthest from the gateway goal. Ideally, I’ll only be needed if the beast gets spooked and takes off in the wrong direction.
In recent years, us dedicated crew of bullriders has finally started to get some respect. The BFO, or Bull Fighters Only, is now a separate sport where adventurous individuals from my contingent must survive in the ring for 60 seconds with a loose, raging bull.
I’m too young to have developed the necessary range of skills to perform on this exalted stage. However, I never fail to watch these entertaining competitions. Acrobatics and tricks are common in this sport, movements which would never be acceptable if a cowboy was down, and even worse injured, on the ground below an erratic steer.
Even though roles inside the ring have evolved, for this flashy competition many costumes pay homage to the traditional rodeo clowns. Baggy clothing. Face paint. Bright colors. Exaggerated mannerisms. I’ve already figured out my own unique outfit, and can’t wait for the opportunity to participate with the best bullfighters in the industry as I come of age, physically, mentally, and professionally.
As usual, it’s quickly clear that my crew has the now-freed bull under control. With a pair of colleagues taming the beast, I look around, hoping to make myself useful.
Fortuitously, the rider’s latigo is sitting on the trampled dirt, just a few feet away from my current static position. It’s impressive that the same loop of rope which secures a cowboy on his rough, unpredictable journey, can be released with a few stealthy movements.
There’s clearly some magic to the method by which the rider ties themselves to the mount; a connection which requires both absolute security, and immediate freedom. Bank safe designers should look into these historical knot techniques.
Scooping up the long length of cord, I’m surprised by the heft of this seemingly simple item. As the snaking beige rope clears the similar colored ground, the source of the weight becomes clear. A metal bell, which rings shrilly with even the slightest agitation.
I glance around for this object’s owner. I’m always amazed by the ability to these athletes to jump clear of the action, and flee to safety, without incurring any injuries. It turns out the cowboy is just a few feet away from me, leaning up against the rail, catching his breath, and waiting for the official tally to come in.
Instinctively, as the score is posted, I give this rider a hearty slap on the back, without considering the pain this individual must be dealing with, not just over the 8 rides at this event, but more importantly, the repeated pounding incurred during a long and grueling season.
This victorious participant removes his helmet slowly. Without the hindrance of the wire mesh cage, I find myself staring into a smooth skin face, and a pair of innocent blue eyes, which can only represent a lad even younger than myself.
He accepts his latigo with a deft nod. I note he takes up the rope with his left hand, while keeping the helmet in his right. Though fledgling, its clear instinctive skills learned as a child, like many of the Brazilian brethren who proceeded him, result in him riding off-handed.
Turning, I walk away slowly, embarrassed and invigorated at the same time. Any preconceived notions I had about not being able to perform as an elite rodeo athlete in my early 20’s have now been eradicated.
As the celebration begins throughout the arena, with the Brazilian national anthem being sung by thousands in the stands, and millions back in their home country, I’m already contemplating the next phase of my own life.
After a few moments of irrational exuberance, reality sets in.
This rodeo, the last of the long U.S. season, is over. I need to head back to camp to pack up. After sleeping on the ground for 2 weeks, it’s time to head home, and get a shower. I’ve gotten to meet many famous riders, but the rodeo roadie lifestyle is still a grind. Maybe someday soon, I’ll be inspiring the next generation of bullfighting teenagers.
“Well, it's bulls and blood,
It's dust and mud,
It's the roar of a Sunday crowd.
It's the white in his knuckles,
The gold in the buckle,
He'll win the next go 'round.
It's boots and chaps,
It's cowboy hats,
It's spurs and latigo.
It's the ropes and the reins,
And the joy and the pain,
And they call the thing rodeo.”
“Rodeo” – Garth Brooks (1991)