A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

Humorous-Fort Scott, Kansas – 1981

Jim and Ted drove from Goodwell, OK to the college rodeo at Fort Scott. The long drive provided plenty of time for conversation. Ted had never been to a JC Rodeo production, and Jim was excited to tell him all about the stock contractor’s bucking bulls.

“Wait to you see these bulls, Ted. They’re good. Every one of ’em turns back right in the gate and gets it. The kind you love to get on. All except this one big char-bray bull. I can’t remember his name or number, but you don’t want on this son-of-a-gun. He’s dirty rank.”

Jim continued in detail about all of JC’s bulls, giving their name, fire brand number, physical description, and their bucking pattern. “I wish I could remember what they call that big white bull. “I’m tellin’ ya Ted, you don’t want to draw him.”

The whole way across two states, about every fifty miles, Jim would try to recall the identity of the bull. “Man, I should know that bulls number. You can’t believe how bad he is.”

Upon arriving at the rodeo grounds, they parked and went inside to the office. The day sheet was posted on the wall. Jim ran his finger down the list of bulls in that night’s performance. “26! Bad Whiskey! That’s the one I’ve been tellin’ you about! Wait till you see this monster, Ted. He’s the scariest, rankest bull I think I’ve ever seen. Let’s see who’s got him.” His finger followed the line straight over to Ted’s name.

Ted took on the color and demeanor of a cadaver. His eyes dimmed, knees buckled. His jaw hung limp at the level of his bellybutton. He looked like he might puke.

Seeing the distress of his partner, Jim made an effort to rescue him. “Aw hell Ted, he’s alright. He’s just a good one to have, really.”

“Jim, I just spent nine hours in the pick-up with you telling me how bad this son-of-a-gun is, and now he’s just a good one?”

The only thing Jim could do at that point was laugh, which he did.

My name was also beside #26 for the next day. I was very familiar with Bad Whiskey, and he sure wasn’t my first pick. Ted approached me when he found out I also had the bull. “What about this 26? Is he as bad as everyone says?”

“Well Ted,” I replied, “He’s all bull, that’s for sure.”

Bucking bulls are often loosely described as weighing a ton, and most don’t. But this guy would smash the scales at 2200lbs.

He had an easy trip with Ted. Kind of scooted out there about three jumps and turned back to the right. Not much kick. Ted made a Godzilla move with his free arm, much more than the ride required. He was in ultra aggressive mode because of the bull’s reputation, but the over reaction put him on tilt to the inside of the spin. The bull simply jumped away from him, and Ted slid off. He fell so softly, he wouldn’t have broke an egg had he landed on it. He was disgusted.

“Hell Joe, you can ride that bull. He ain’t that bad. Just don’t over ride him. That’s what I did, I over rode him.”

The next day, Ted was there to help me get on. “Now Joe, don’t over ride him.” Again as he pulled my rope, “Don’t over ride him, Joe. Don’t over ride him. When I eased up to my rope and prepared to nod for the gate, I heard his words again. “Don’t over ride him. Don’t over ride him.”

I actually thought I was going to stay on this bull. I made an ugly face and called for him, convinced I could ride him. With every ounce of try in my soul, I lifted on my rope, mashed with my knees and feet, and reached out over him. This determination did not impress Bad Whiskey one bit. I’ve never felt so insignificant in my life. His initial move from the chute had my riding arm straight and my chin up. By the end of the second jump, my left ear was wall-papered to his hip, legs straight, toes pointing up. The sides of my boots were in the flats of his shoulder. I had a hold of nothing, except the bull rope. I then developed a severe case of rigor mortis. But I still believed.

I have no idea which direction he turned back. My fist clenched to the rope long enough to aim all the torque of momentum at the ground. The back of my head crashed the earth, and a fraction of an instant later, my kneecaps nearly peeled my ears off. I unfolded from the pile I was in with not one molecule of oxygen in my whole body. The shame of it all gave me the will to crawl from the arena. I was only a few feet from the walk through gate at the end of the bucking chutes, and I remained on my hands and knees trying to get some air.

Ted’s eyes were big as saucers when he bent down to ask me, “My God, Joe. Are you alright?” With still no air to breathe, I squeaked out the words that caused Ted to join me on his hands and knees, slapping the ground in hysterics.

I turned my head to look up at him and whispered, “I don’t think I over rode him.”