My mom asked me what I
wanted for my 7th birthday.
“You already know what
I want, rodeo tickets.”
“You always say
that!”
“Well, that’s what I
want."
There’s nothing like
it when that gate opens, and that bull comes charging out. The rider can only
use one hand to hold on. It’s the longest eight seconds of his life. Those guys are tough,
every one of them has had broken bones from time to time, but they never quit. One
kick from the bull could shatter any bone in your body. There’s not a cowboy
around that hasn’t thrown in a few bucks in the clown jar. Those guys will risk
their own life to keep a cowboy from getting trampled or gored. They may dress
funny, but they are the most important people out there.
I marked off every day
on the calendar, with August 25 circled, the Friday night the rodeo started. We
would have to drive 50 miles to Laredo, but it was worth it, at least to me.
All the National guys would be there, and so would the toughest bulls to ride
in the country. It’s like the Olympics, the best of the best would be
competing. Sage Kimzey from Texas and Stetson Wright from Utah would both be
there, and Garrett Smith from Idaho, 20 in all.
With only two days to go, I pulled the box down from the closet shelf,
time to brush off my cowboy hat. It wasn’t one of the more expensive ones, but
it was fine for a seven-year-old. When I tried it on, it was much tighter than
I remembered last year. Either my head got bigger or the hat shrunk a little,
maybe both. You can’t just pop the back open and put it on the next notch, like
you can a ball cap. I guess once I get it pulled down to my ears, I won’t have
to worry about the wind blowing it off.
Friday finally came and
when dad got home, we ate a quick dinner and packed up the car. On the way, mom
called the motel and told them we wouldn’t be checking in until after 11 PM.
They required her credit card number to hold the room that long. She had made
reservations months ahead, because any rooms within 25 miles of Laredo would be
very hard to find. They come in from all over for the Nationals. Our room was
only five miles away. They have been sponsoring the rodeo for the past 23
years, and they learned over the years how to handle large crowds. Acres and acres
of parking with 25 tractors with wagons shuttling people to the main gate. Two
long rows of porta-pots and 15 ticket booths; must have been a hundred food
vendors, smokers everywhere.
Our seats were in Row
5, about a rock throw from the bull pen. Close enough to hear the bulls snort,
but too far away to get any autographs. There were six scheduled lower-class
rides for Friday night, 14 for Saturday, and six with the highest points will
compete Sunday afternoon. Only two were able to stay on for the full eight
seconds Friday and only one Saturday, but the six top point getters went to the
finals on Sunday. When all was said and done, Garrett Smith got the trophy. I
got a good look at it and knew that would be my goal, to win the Nationals.
The next few years flew
by, but they weren’t wasted years, I read everything I could from every
champion rider. I wanted to know what worked and what didn’t. I came to the
conclusion it was 75% skill and 25% luck. Drawing the right bull makes a huge
difference. One that’s too gentle is easier to stay on but doesn’t earn you any
points. At the other end of the scale is TNT, explodes out of the shoot and is
totally unpredictable. Most riders are lucky if they stay on for four seconds.
You have to be 18 years or older to ride. No one expects much from an
18-year-old. You don’t really start getting good until you’ve had a few years
under your belt. That’s when I set my goal, to be the youngest bull rider to
win the Nationals. The record was set by Luke Gibson when he was 19 and 7
months old, which hasn’t been broken in the last 14 years. Luke still rides,
but his points have dropped off over the years and so has his pay. Riding takes
a tow on the body and as you age, it’s less forgiving.
I threw my hat in the
ring the first season I was legally able to ride. The entry wasn’t much because
it was just a small rodeo in Juston, Utah. I lasted about three seconds and
flew off about 20 feet when the bull dipped down, landing on my feet. Got a
standing ovation from the crowd, but no points. That was the last time my mom
went, scared her to death. Dad just smiled and gave me the thumbs up. Over the
next couple of months I got a little better and a little more experience, but
only managed to stay on once, when I got a docile bull. Hey, points are points.
As the season came to an end, I didn’t have enough points to even make it to
the Nationals. It wasn’t because I wasn’t trying, I just needed more
experience. Dad asked me if I was sure this is what I wanted to do. I told him,
more sure than anything. I have my heart set on winning the Nationals. That’s
when he said, "Son, you need to go South in the off season and ride as many
different bulls as they will let you." He was right. I made a few phone calls to
a person I knew that lived close to Mexico City and made an arrangement to stay
with them for a small fee.
They knew a number of
farmers in the area and were more than happy to introduce me to them, for a
small fee. The rancher said, "Pick one out, and we will round him up and put him
in a stall."
I said, "How about that biggest one over there?" The farmer looked at
his ranch hand and said something in Spanish, and they both started laughing.
The only word I understood was loco. They got the bull in the pen and
got the rope around him. I put my hand down and tightened it as tight as I
could.
The farmer looked at me and said, “You know he has never
been ridden before, right?”
“Well, I guess we will
see what happens.”
“Are you ready?”
“READY!”
The farmer opened the
gate, and...nothing. The bull just stood there, until the farm hand
slapped it on the hind leg. That bull jumped like it was stung by a nest of
hornets. I think everything in my stomach was now in my throat. His feet barely
hit the ground, and right back up we went. When we came down the second time, I
slid off his right side, but my hand was still caught in the rope. I couldn’t
get back on, and I couldn’t get clear off. My back was bouncing off his back
like that little ball on a rubber string hitting a paddle. I was able to free
my hand but pulled a muscle in my arm doing it. The farmer asked me if I was
all right. I told him I was but was done riding for the day. He said, “I
never saw anyone's eyes get so big.”
I tried to smile, but
my arm was really starting to ache. The next stop was the ER. It turned out to
be a minor sprain, and I left with an arm brace. The next two weeks were only
good for sightseeing. I kept doing twice the exercises they gave me to do, and
starting the third week I was ready to try again.
To my surprise, I was
able to stay on for almost six seconds. As I tried different bulls, I started
to feel their next move in their muscles and made a counter move to stay on the
full 8 seconds. It didn’t work every time, but more times than not. After two
and a half months, I felt I was better prepared for the upcoming season, and it
turned out, I was winning three of the local rides and coming in third for the State
competition. The Nationals were coming up next month, making me 19 and 5 months
old. It would be my only chance to break the record. I decided not to take any
chances of getting hurt between now and then, so I backed out of the last one I
had on the schedule. I had plenty of points built up already to go.
The time flew by, and
before I knew it, the big day arrived. I had nothing scheduled for Friday
night, so I just stood on the sidelines watching how each rider handled their
ride. The more experienced riders would jam their heels into the bull’s
shoulder, scoring extra points. Only a couple made it the full eight seconds. I
wouldn’t know what bull I had until the day of the ride. Saturday will
definitely separate the men from the boys, that’s when they use the toughest
bulls in the country. They call Saturday separation day. Most cowboys
are separated from their ride within seconds. The meaner and tougher the bull,
the higher the number of points you can score.
It was after 11, so I
headed for the bunkhouse, I needed all the sleep I could get. Try telling that
to your brain, it wouldn’t shut down. I tossed and turned thinking about
tomorrow for the next two hours, and then drifted off. The other guys were up
at 6 am, laughing and carrying on, so I decided to get up too, walked over to
the bull pens just to take a look at today's bulls. Some of those guys were
huge and nothing but muscles. It was going to make for an interesting day. Went
back and got a bite to eat and some coffee. A couple of the guys said, “I hope
I don’t get Dyno.” That was short for Dynamite. “Only one person has stayed on
for the full eight seconds out of the last 87 riders.”
I said, “I’ll agree to
that,” as I walked by. Just then, the loudspeaker announced for all riders to
come to the stand and draw out the name of the bulls they will be riding today.
Each cowboy would have two rides today, and the best scores would ride once
more on Sunday afternoon to determine the winner. The one with the highest
points would walk away with the bull riding trophy and $100,000. Their name
would also be added to the plaque of winners on the wall.
It was a pretty fair
setup, you drew your first ride and then went to the end of the line and kept
moving up until it was your turn to draw the second bull.
My first ride would be
on Jackhammer. I heard other riders talk about him, how he jumps up then lowers
his head to the ground making the rider slide right off in front of him, then
he tries to stomp on you with his front hoofs. Knowing he would try to do the
same thing to me gave me an idea.
I was third in line to
ride, neither one of the first two cowboys made the full time. It was now my
turn, I strapped my hand in as tight as I could.
“Are you ready,
cowboy?”
I leaned forward next
to the bull’s ear and said, “Hammer all you want, I’m not coming off. I’M
READY.”
The gate swung open and
the clock started. When he went up in the air, I dug my boots into his neck and
laid straight back. When we came down, his head went to the dirt, but my boots
were keeping me from sliding down over his head. He quickly brought his head up
and again jumped up. I laid back again with the same results. As he came back
up, the buzzer went off, and I quickly slid off his side. He turned and started
to charge me, but the clowns jumped in, giving me time to get up out of the
way. I love those guys. Their tip jar is worth every penny.
Later it was time for
my second ride. This time it was on Bulldozer. This guy was new to me, had no
idea what his game was. Right out of the gate, he started doing circles,
catching me off guard. Then he stopped on a dime right next to the gate and
jumped up, kicking. I was so far off to the side, I could no longer hold on.
The next jump found me flying through the air, landing on a flat post, on my
right rib cage. As I bounced off onto the ground, it felt like someone hit me
with a sledgehammer in the chest. They rushed me into the ER and the doctor
took x-rays. When he came back in the room he said, “Son, I got bad news
for you, you have two cracked ribs. I’m afraid your season is over.”
“Can’t you just patch
me up?”
“There’s nothing to
patch, the ribs have to heal on their own. I can give you some pain
medication.”
I thanked the doc and
started walking back to the bunkhouse. Every breath I took was painful. As I lay
on the bed, I could see my hopes and dreams slipping away. Maybe it would be
better by morning.....who was I kidding? If anything it would be worse. I
didn’t even get undressed, popped another pain pill, and went to sleep.
The pain woke me up.
The clock on the wall showed 5:30. I made up my mind, I wasn’t going to let a
little pain stop me. I only had to ride the next bull and score good points to
maybe win. Took close to an hour to change clothes, and I tried to act like it
was no big deal, but these guys knew I was hurting. To make a bad situation
worse, I drew Dynamite. I tried to convince myself it was just another bull.
Somehow I managed to get on his back. When they asked if I was ready, I just
nodded my head. The gate opened and out we went. He twisted and turned, jumped,
and shook. Then he kicked up, and I heard the rib snap. It felt like I was
stabbed, I could no longer breathe. Everything was starting to turn black. That
was the last thing I remembered until I woke up. The nurse saw me moving and
came over.
“You had a nice nap.“
“Where am I?”
“You’re at St Ann’s
Hospital. They brought you in Sunday with a cracked and broken rib, which
punctured your lung. We had to do a little work to patch you up.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday,” she said as
she walked out. All I could do was look out the window, knowing my dreams had
been shattered. The nurse came back in and said, “There’s someone here to see
you.”
I didn’t want to see
anyone, just wanted to be left alone. Then I heard my dad say, “How are
you doing, son?”
“Worst day of my
life.”
“Well, maybe we can
change that.” I turned over, and there was a man next to dad with a big smile
and holding a huge trophy.
“Congratulations, you
are the youngest rider to win the National Bull Riding Trophy. You just made
the eight seconds before you fell off, which gave you 1.5 points above second
place.”
I could feel the tears
running down my cheeks, but I didn’t care. I did it. I won. Mom said, “Now
that you accomplished your goal, maybe you could do something less dangerous,
like skydiving.”
Everyone busted out
laughing, including me, I never knew something that could hurt so bad, could
feel so good.
I can do all things
through Christ which strengthened me. Philippians 4:13
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