My first Texas rodeo, and nearly his last.
I always wanted to be a cowboy, but not like this.
Cowtown Coliseum, Fort Worth, TX
Drowning in Americana, the crowd erupted around me. Roaring for the first sacrifice of the night. Thick brown dust swirling in the air, my nose filled with the earthy scent of hay and worn leather. Clad in armour, the rider steadied themselves, ready to contend with one of God’s most primordial beings - the Bull.
Shuddering in the bucking chute, flickers of rope danced between the bars. The only grip the rider has in their quest to tame the violence. Anchoring himself into the back of the beast with a singular nod. Ready to begin.
Without hesitation the chute gate burst wide, tearing the dysfunctional duo from the relative safety of their enclosure into an open air frenzy.
8 seconds was the target. Followed by a score awarded for both rider and bull (a fact I only learned later).
Stadium rock, of the Nickelback breed, rapidly ramped to a deafening level. Setting the tone - oblivion or glory. Hundreds of punters began screaming at the top of their lungs for the night’s opening event, frothy beers and soggy hotdogs thrust into the sky.
As my eye tracked the oscillating blur of both rider and beast, I couldn’t squeeze in a single breath.
Down in the photographer’s pit on the edge of the arena, I stuck out like a sore thumb. My pocket sized film camera extending to zoom in on my subject. A not so subtle announcement of my existence and a mechanical whir that is impossible to hide. I had no right to be there but, I wasn’t leaving until a staff member dragged me back to my seat.
I had to be on the frontline, inside the action.
The aesthetics of cowboy life have appealed to me from the moment my Dad brought me home a black Stetson from Texas as a child. Teleporting me to a romantic lifestyle of horseriding, revolvers, saloon doors, and pretty women in long white dresses. Adrenaline, freedom, the open road, the courage.
Man standing up to nature and (foolishly, at times) saying, “let me have a crack at that.”.
Through the tiny window of my viewfinder this daydream quickly unfolded into a nightmare.
Despite his best efforts our knight in padded armour was quickly thrown from the bull. Flying upward and falling with style terror in his eyes. His legs rotating through two full circles, scrambling to find any purchase beneath them. Gravity did not treat him kindly however and within a split second he crumpled down onto the dirt. Knees buckling from surprise. Breath stolen from his lungs.
Down the zoomed-in barrel of my plastic picture-box I saw him gasp on impact, dust pluming around his body. A rising silhouette reflecting the outline of his bruised soul. I winced.
But, despite the momentary respite, this was not the end of his terror.
Halfway through the process of bucking, our bull was yet to return to the ground.
His hind legs stood frozen in the air above our rider with only one way down. Moving with power typically reserved for industrial log splitters, the beast thundered towards the ground with 20,000 pounds of force. Some of nature’s best heavy machinery falling from the heavens with one target in mind.
I was frozen in place, unable to pull the shutter button. Whilst other, more experienced (desensitised), photographers let their shutter fly free. The machine-gun slap of 15 frames per second rolling in. Numb to the carnage.
Watching someone’s life come to a close was not on my list for tonight. Nor my bucket list for traveling around America. Child Connor was about to understand why cowboys tend to have a shorter lifespan than most people.
Inches from impact our rider’s lizard brain kicked in. Reflexively rolling to his right to dodge the incoming stomp. But, unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.
One hoof clipped his left collarbone, grazing his neck, narrowly missing the watermelon popping moment of his skull making contact with a freight train.
Three bullfighters jumped in to distract the creature, who was now well into his second buck, with the rider scrambling underneath to escape. Their dance proving to be just intolerable enough that the bull began to trot around the edge of the arena instead. Parading his might, his force, and the truest wrath of the beast. Even for a vegetarian, his bloodlust was palpable.
A second song spun up, the shift between the riding, and the next rider. Providing barely a moment for my brain to process the complete override of my instinctual being. Turning what would have been a story to tell my grandchildren for generations into a mere blip in the proceedings of the evening.
This man almost lost his life within the first five minutes of the rodeo, and we were immediately onto the next rider. I couldn’t believe it, and was loving every second.
Syphoned patriotism began to flood my body. Vibrating my callous British core to the frequency of freedom. Fists clenched and “hell yeah”ing at the top of my lungs I returned to my seat.
The modern day Roman coliseum was in full swing.
Chunks of nervous energy were ripped from my body after every event as I began to fall in love with the mania. Bareback riding, broncos, roping calves, barrel racing, and then more bull riding. One spectacle of human excellence after another. Breaking every single law of self-preservation to ride the back of a particularly agitated herbivore that would not question removing you from this physical realm given half a chance. It was absurd and exhilarating.
My eyes were opened to the glory of the rodeo that night.
And the strangest part?
Before the event even started, as I cosied into my plush Golden Buckle seat with a can of Shiner Bock, my mind said, “I wonder if we’ll see someone get their neck stomped out tonight.”
Until next time.
Connor x
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