The True Father (16 page)

   Twenty-four teenage boys dressed in faded Wranglers, T-shirts, straw cowboy hats and dusty boots stood in a half-circle around Boyd and squinted from the bright sunlight as he showed them a technique of adding rosin to rigging handles, and how to help another cowboy secure his glove with leather straps. 

   “For the most part it's rider against bull,” he said. “But in the chute we help each other out.”

   The boys paired off and took turns practicing the teamwork of glove tying and Boyd walked around watching and instructing. After that activity we worked a bull into a small square pen and Boyd had the boys gather around.

   “Does anybody know who this bull is?” he asked the group.

   One boy raised his hand. He was short and stocky and dark-complected.

   “What's your name?” Boyd asked.

   “Carlos.”

   “Okay, Carlos, what do you know about this bull?”

   “His name is Big Banana.”

   “Very good. And how did you know that?”

   “My cousin rode him once in Oklahoma City.”

   “And what did you learn about Big Banana when your cousin rode him?”

   “He bucks hard and likes to sunfish, but doesn't spin much.”

   “That's excellent. You're a very observant cowboy.”

   Carlos gleamed with pride.

   “Gentlemen, Carlos has just taught us one of the first things you need to know about being a bull rider. It's not all about who's got the most guts and how well you can impress the ladies. It's a sport and a profession. And to be a professional you got to know who your adversaries are. Sure, you're competing against other riders for the highest score, but your concentration needs to be on the bull. You have to know how he rides. Learn his history and try not to be intimidated by his statistics no matter how successful he is.”

   I stood next to Jeremiah, who leaned against the fence behind Boyd and the group of youngsters.

   “Did I hear him right?” I asked.

   “Hard to believe, ain't it?”

   “Doesn't seem like the same Boyd.”

   “I doubt he shares the lesson he had the other night.”

   “He's actually doing a great job with these kids.”

   “Yeah, and I don't think he even realizes it.”

   “Has he ever done this before?”

   “Not that I know of.”

   “Look at those kid's faces. They're taken by him.”

   “Give it time, and maybe he'll be taken by them, too.”

   Later on in the afternoon a bus full of grade school age kids pulled into the arena parking lot. Jeremiah said they were part of a summer rodeo camp that was put on by a local community college. As part of the activities, they learned the fundamentals of riding by hopping on the backs of sheep and trying to stay on as they ran across the arena. Mutton bustin', they called it. The first one to reach the other side of the arena without falling off wins a special belt buckle. I also learned that this was an official event in Little Britches Rodeo.

   The kids had a ball, and they especially liked all the attention they received by the teenage boys. But nothing compared to the attention they received from Boyd, and being a professional rodeo man, they swarmed around him asking a plethora of questions and occasionally for autographs. He obliged several of them, and later said that they should all get Carlos' autograph, that someday he was going to be a very famous rodeo champion. The kids did like he said and swarmed around Carlos as well.

   He laughed as he watched them in their excitement, and when he looked our way he lost his smile—not in a way that seemed angry or contemptuous, but possibly of embarrassment, that maybe he had caught himself having a good time, or just doing something good, period.

   After the little britches boarded back onto the bus and we all bid them a kind farewell, the young cowboys gathered around for their next lesson, which involved respect for animals and proper use of equipment. Since Jeremiah was a stock contractor with a personal interest in the health of the livestock, this was his platform. Not only did he inform them of the amount of care that goes into raising and providing stock for rodeos, but also the consequences for mishandling or damaging the animals. He also explained to them how to be a good sport if they ever experienced an animal with an ailment.

   “If you see a horse or a bull limping, then it's your responsibility to report it. The last thing you want to do is think you have some sort of edge over that animal just because he's hurt. You're likely to be disqualified and possibly fined if the judges find out about it. Besides that, you're likely to get an ass kickin' from me!”

   The boys chuckled.

   “And that doesn't just apply to bucking stock. Same goes for any animal in any event. Respect the stock and the sport and in turn it will respect you.”

   When it came time to talk about equipment, such as spurs, chaps, and vests, Jeremiah had his talk about safety then Boyd took over.

   Jeremiah decided it was time for a break and invited me to walk across the street with him to a dairy freeze. We walked up to a small window and gave our order to a young girl with braces who had slid open a small window and talked to us through a screen. Jeremiah ordered a strawberry shake and I a Butterfinger malt. A few minutes later the girl brought us our order, both in large paper cups. Jeremiah's heaped with pink ice cream and chunks of strawberries, and mine with vanilla ice cream and chunks of Butterfinger candy bar. Both had a long red plastic spoon stuck in the top. We sat in the shade on a white picnic table by the dairy freeze and enjoyed our cool treat along with a little conversation.

   “My mom called the other night,” I said, after swallowing a mouthful of cold ice cream.

   “How's Bonnie?”

   “Scared. And wondering when I'm coming home.”

   “Did you tell her about riding the bull?”

   “Shit, no. And I'm not going to, either.”

   He nodded and inserted a spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth.

   “You don't think I should, do you?”

   “That's your business and none of mine.”

   “I'm afraid if she knew, she'd be down here trying to stop me. And I don't want that.”

   “Do you think she could stop you?”

   I pondered this over another spoonful of malt. “No.”

   “Then why worry about it. Maybe you should invite her down.”

   “No, I think that would ruin my concentration.”

   “Well, then maybe it's best.”

   “Yeah, maybe.”

   We each reached the bottoms of our cups and scraped the remaining contents out with our spoons.

   “How soon can I ride again?”

   “How's the wrist feel?”

   I rotated it and flexed my fingers out in front of me. “Feels pretty good.”

   Jeremiah grabbed it and looked at it. “Looks better. Tomorrow I'll take another bull down to the arena and we'll go again.”

   “What do you mean, another bull? I haven't mastered Big Banana yet.”

   “You don't need to master that bull. You need to get on a spinner.”

   “I do?”

   “Cyclone was an occasional spinner. You said you wanted to ride a bull like Cyclone.”

   I did want to ride a bull like Cyclone, but not as bad as I wanted to ride the real Cyclone. But I had also thought a lot about my last request to ride him, and that maybe I was being selfish to their feelings.

   “You're right,” I said. “But I want to apologize for that.”

   “For what?”

   “I didn't know Jettie like you did. And when I said I wanted to ride Cyclone, I wasn't being sensitive to yours or anybody else's feelings.”

   Jeremiah smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Don't worry about it. I know you didn't intend it that way.”

   Later that evening, parents, friends and other family members filled the bleachers to watch their teen wannabes demonstrate what they had learned. I went behind the scenes and watched Jeremiah and Boyd continue to coach the boys, and was learning a lot myself about what to do and what to expect in my own ride. Though each day that went by I became more and more familiar with the procedure of riding a bull, I was no less fearful about the dangers that lie ahead. I watched these young boys, who were eager to be just like Boyd someday. To travel the circuit all season long. Brave the circumstances and challenge the odds to one day compete at the National Finals. And my goal was quite the opposite. All I wanted was one ride and for a much different purpose.

   Though at first I had worried a lot about Boyd and what he might do to hinder my chances for a successful ride, I was no more relieved, even though I felt as though my issue with him was behind me. The real challenge was still out there and not completely defined. So no different than yesterday, or the day I arrived in Spiro, my mind was still bogged down with uncertainty. And now, as I watched the young boys, wide-eyed and full of adrenaline, climb on the back of snorting, angry bulls, I was certain they were some of the most courageous young men in the world.

   I worked out as early as possible to avoid the heat of the day. Wearing my workout shorts, tank top and running shoes I ran the narrow blacktop streets of Spiro, waving at the early risers who had become somewhat used to seeing me every now and then. Even now the old gentlemen with the flyswatter and thick glasses felt comfortable enough to offer a kind good morning. The town wasn't as sleepy as I thought, they just took their time getting used to strangers.

   Every so often I would stop running and walk a short distance to slow my heart rate, then pick up pace again to give myself a thorough cardiovascular workout. Now at a steady jog, I had reached the far east side of town and the rodeo arena came into view. I stopped at the arena, looked at my watch then placed my fingertips on my neck and checked my heart rate. It had increased twelve beats in fifteen seconds since I left the house. Not bad for a slow run, I thought.

   I decided to walk for a few minutes and walked around the arena. I had never really looked so closely at the place before, or noticed how simple everything seemed compared to the other arenas I had been to this summer. The white paint on the chutes and fence all around was peeling and showing rust. The bleacher sections were small with weathered wooden bench seats rather than aluminum or even plastic bleacher type seats they had in Mesquite. And the chutes and fences in the other arenas looked new with colorful graphic signs advertising beer, boots, jeans or chewing tobacco. In contrast the Spiro arena was a simple place, where the glitter and glamour didn't matter, only the feel of the hot sun and the smell of sweaty bull flesh, along with the ruggedness to take them both on.

   I came back to the arena later that day and Jeremiah had already arrived. So had the two young cowboys who now had been formally introduced as Jason and Tate. Also in the arena was an older man riding a tractor and pulling a device that Jeremiah called a harrow. He said that the man worked for the city and had been loosening up the dirt at the baseball and softball diamonds across the road and he asked if he'd come and do the same at the arena. “Makes the dirt a little softer for the landing,” he said.

   I put on all my gear; the chaps and spurs and applied rosin to the rigging handle like I had learned from Boyd. Tate helped me tie on my glove and then I applied rosin to it as well.

   Jeremiah had already unloaded the bull into the chute. He was a red Brangus with thick stubby horns and a black nose. He stood perfectly still inside the narrow chute and not at all fidgety. I knew nothing about this bull and the only source I had was Jeremiah.

   “His name is Bloody Mary,” he said.

   “A bull named Mary? That hardly fits.”

   “Yeah, but the bloody part fits him real well.”

   “Oh.”

   Jeremiah went on to tell me that, like Cyclone, this bull was an occasional spinner. That likely, before the gate flew completely open, he would already have done half a turn. And he always goes left.   After that, nobody knows what he's gonna do next.”

   “How many successful rides?”

   “Zero.”

   “No one even close?”

   “Five seconds is the best so far.”

   I had most of it down. I knew the bull's history but not so confident in how he would ride. So as I looked at him I rode him in my mind, thinking of how a quick spin left would feel, and then how to deal with the unexpected.

   A truck pulled up behind the arena and the engine stopped. It was a bright blue short bed Chevy, raised high on wide all-terrain tires. I had only seen one truck like it, and it belonged to Boyd.

   He stepped down and came walking toward us. He wore a black T-shirt and dark Oakley sunglasses under his straw hat and he removed them before he reached the fence.

   “Howdy,” he said.

   I nodded.

   “Howdy,” Jeremiah said.

   Boyd bent over and crawled through the fence and approached the chute. He put a stem of the sunglasses between his teeth and looked the bull over.

   “Bloody Mary?”

   “The one and only,” Jeremiah said.

   “Never been rode.”

   “Never.”

   He looked at me.

   “You ready?”

   “I have a good idea how he'll come out of the chute, but that's about it.”

   “Well, that's a good start. Just hunker down and cowboy up.”

   Boyd put his sunglasses back on, crawled back through the fence and went to the bleachers. He sat down and leaned back on his elbows.

   Jeremiah and I climbed above the chute and attached the rigging and flank strap. The bull was no longer still and docile. He jerked at every sudden tug we made on the gear. Once everything was secure Jason and Tate took their places in the arena. Jeremiah sat atop the fence next to me as I lowered myself onto Bloody Mary. Its reaction to my presence was not much different than when they attached the gear. But after each passing second it seemed to grow used to me.

   Before Jeremiah helped me with the rigging he coached me about spurring.

   “Now you know that the rowels of those spurs are dull and it's likely the bull can't even feel them. Spurring is nothing more than a way to get more points. It's hard enough just to concentrate on the ride, let alone thinking about driving your heels into the flank of a bull.”

   “Is there a good time to spur?”

   “You have to get the feel for that yourself. It comes with experience.”

   “Then I guess there's no chance for that.”

   “No, but you can do a good spur out.”

   “What?”

   “That's spurring when the gate opens.”

   “Spur out.”

   “That's right.”

   He put the finishing touches on the rigging, securing it in the palm of my hand, then climbed over the gate and stood with the latch rope in his hands. I held the chute rail with my right hand and went over the ride once more in my mind, thinking now about the spur out, the quick spin left, and then wondering if it would keep spinning. I was sure I had it down all I could. Now it was time for the real thing.

   I took a deep breath, in my nose, out my mouth, and then nodded at Jeremiah. As the gate flew open I worked my heals back and Bloody Mary spun left just like they had said. I handled the spin out of the chute just fine, but just as if someone had turned a throttle, the bull spun faster, and before I knew it I was on the ground. This time I landed on my hip and felt no rush of pain. Jeremiah had opened the gate and the bull already ran out of the arena. Jason and Tate came to me but I was quickly on my feet.

   “Bull's quite a spinner, huh?” Jason said.

   “I'll say.”

   Jeremiah came to me. “That was a good spur out.”

   “Yeah, but a lot of good it did me.”

   “Ah, you'll do much better next time.”

   I glanced up at Boyd in the bleachers. He sat with his arms crossed and staring.

   “All right,” I said. “Let's get it back in the chute.”