A Pinch of Rodeo

Rodeo Queens

By Joe R. Nichols

When I competed full time in this sport, the local queen contest was nothing more than a distraction to me. A waste of time that only drug out the performance. Who would have thought I would someday marry a gal that competed in such contests, and now coordinates an event for the Range Rider’s July 4th Rodeo.

Guess who the Queen Coordinators’ assistant is.

I don’t do much, mostly just insert all the brilliant ideas I have on how it should be done. Somehow, she puts up with me and I get to watch her interact with these young girls. She loves them all.

Dianne had success as a rodeo queen and also in a pageant that qualified her to run for Miss Colorado. She never mentions this to anybody and won’t be happy with me for sharing it with the world, but I’m proud of her. She made the cut for the top ten finalists, and I still believe she was supposed to win.

In preparation for the Colorado Pageant, she received some formal instruction on etiquette, doing an interview, and generally how to present herself. I think there were four ladies with this knowledge and experience that donated their time to help her. It meant a lot to her, and I think it’s one of the reasons she is so good at giving back to these girls that compete for Range Rider Queen.

This is an entry-level contest, but Dianne makes it such a good experience.

She keeps it fun, but they learn confidence and values they will use their whole life. It also helps to prepare them if they choose to compete at a higher level.

Seeing the benefit that these girls get from running for queen or princess, and realizing how much it means to them, makes me ashamed of my former opinions.

Good job, Dianne.

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

CP #11-Part 3

Big Randy drew 11 at the Oklahoma City Night Rodeo.

Because of his wild bucking style, 11 would sometimes lose control of himself and stumble or fall. It didn’t happen often, but if man was sticking a ride on him, he would do anything he could to shed himself of the cowboy. As a result, he might forget where the ground was.

11 could have bucked his own tail off sooner than he could have gotten rid of Big Randy. In a final effort to shake his rider loose, he made a high twist in the air, but landed broad side flat. Randy landed on his feet, straddling the bull. He instantly jerked his hand from the rope and scampered to the fence. It was only a short distance to the fence, maybe 12 or 15 feet, and 11 was facing the opposite direction laying on his side. Randy made it, but just barely. 11 got up, swapped ends, and gave chase, nearly getting there in time to help Randy over the top rail.

In my personal knowledge, this was the only time a man escaped the wrath of this bull. In part one, I mentioned that he hooked everyone that ever I saw get on him, and this is true. You might not want to believe the rest of this story, but you’ll never convince Big Randy that this bull wasn’t haunted.

The next week we went to the Justin Spencer Memorial Rodeo in Cedarvail, Kansas. 11 was there too. As a friendly gesture, Randy offered some information about the bull to the cowboy that drew him. He explained how he bucked, but most of all, he emphasized how hard it was to get away from him. “This son-of-a-gun can come from a long ways off and still gather you up,” Randy said.

Apparently, the warning didn’t sound any different to this guy than any other tale about a bull that would hook. He soon found out, 11 was special.

11 took the rider out to the middle of the arena, and then turned inside out. He bucked his man off. The bullfighter made a perfect pass, leading the bull away, and the rider hurried to his feet. He ran for his life, but he made the mistake of assuming he had put himself out of the bulls’ range. He was only 20 feet from the chutes when he looked back. 11 was coming. Covering three times the distance, the bull freight-trained the cowboy and smashed him against the chutes.

11 made his way down the line, but all the cowboys were up high on the fence. There must have been 20 guys side by side trying to avoid the bull. Right in the middle of all these cowboys, 11 squared himself to the fence, plucked a guy off the top board with his horns, and flipped him out in the arena. He then put his head down, and ran over him.

Who was this unlucky soul? That’s right, the only man that ever got a way from him, just one week earlier. Out of all the people in and around that arena, he found Randy. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Neither does Big Randy.

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

CP #11 Part Two

Ardmore, Oklahoma, hosted one of the first stand alone bull riding events in the world. The best bull riders always entered, and top bucking bulls from several different stock contractors were selected to produce this competition, including Charlie Plumbers’ number eleven.

The first performance action began with11, but things didn’t go as planned. The lights were turned down for the opening ceremonies, and when the lights came back up, the announcers’ voice made a request, “We need the ambulance, please. Please bring in the ambulance immediately.”

The little brown bull had walked in to the chute and stood right next to the gate. He didn’t lean or squat, he simply parked himself against the gate.

He would allow you to shove your leg in between him and the gate for you to scoot up to your rope, but if you tried to move him over, he would take action. His hind end would come up in a violent bucking motion, propelling the rider forward. Then, with calculated perfect timing, the bull would rear up and throw his head back, intentionally trying to knock your head off. Such was the case in that first performance.

The poor cowboy was rendered unconscious, and fell off underneath the bull. They opened the gate to let the bull out. He whirled, scooped up the latch man, flung him to the ground, and pounced on him. Finished with that victim, he returned to the chute and penned the other the gate man behind the gate. He raked him up and down with his devil like horns. Trapped between the gate and the next chute, he couldn’t escape, and he couldn’t fall down. 11 undressed him, shredded his clothes, and then discarded him. This all took place in the matter of a few seconds. The cowboy who had drawn 11 for the third and final performance, was in attendance that night, and witnessed the whole fiasco.

Richard was up in the last performance, and I went along to watch. When all the bulls had been bucked, 11 stood rider-less in his chute. After seeing the bull that first night, the cowboy never showed up to get on him.

The announcer informed the crowd that the bullfighters were going to entertain them with an exhibition bullfight.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Why would they try to fight 11?”

Richard clasped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, “Oh boy! This is going to be good.” A fellow siting next to us on the fence asked, “Is this bull bad to hook, or something?”

“How many clowns do you see in the arena?” Richard asked him.

“Three,” he responded.

“Before he goes through that out gate, he’ll hook every one of them.”

I could tell this guy wasn’t impressed, and really didn’t think Richards’ prediction would come true. It didn’t take long to turn the statement into fact.

The two bullfighters were the best in the business at the time, Deacon Jones and Jim McClain. Bullet Bob was the barrel man. When they turned 11 loose, Deacon awaited some 75 feet from the chutes. The barrel was maybe 20 feet behind him. 11 had him in his sites, and zoomed toward him so fast, Deacon decided to seek refuge at the barrel. He sprinted to safety, reached out and grabbed the rim, and intended to run around the backside of the barrel. But, 11 was already there. At full speed, he slipped between Deacon and the clown barrel, running a horn under his armpit. Deacon made a high flying arc in the air, landing far down the arena. 11 met him upon his return to earth, and gave him a severe hooking. Richard elbowed the cowboy next to him, “That’s one,” he told him.

Mean while, Jim was on his way to rescue his comrade, he left from the bucking chutes and was about a third of the way there when 11 spotted him. The bull lined him out, and Jim did a 180 back the way he came. Jim leaped for the fence, and it looked like he might have made it. Except, 11 reared and jumped at the same time Jim did, straddling him with his front legs over the top fence rail. He then drug Jim off the fence with his horns, and mauled him on the arena floor.

Another elbow jammed the ribs of the fellow sitting by Richard, “That’s two.”

Bob climbed out of his barrel, and 11 quickly smoked him. “That’s three,” Richard said.

From the time the chute gate opened until the out gate closed, couldn’t have been more than fifteen seconds.

It never did take long for this bull to do his damage.

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

CP #11 – Part One 

Today’s bucking bulls are mostly the product of two bloodlines. If you’ve ever watched a Professional Bull Riders event, or the National Finals Rodeo, the bovine athletes you saw were likely the off-spring from just two gene pools.

From the west coast, Oscar, owned by Rodeo Stock Contractors. His descendants, beginning with Oscars’ Velvet, have proven themselves as a great linage.

The other line of breeding came from Tom Harlan of Kellerville, Texas. Charlie Plumber of Sayre, Oklahoma made these genetics famous, putting on rodeos beginning in the 1960’s, and his bulls were notorious. I would like to tell you about my favorite, number 11.

None of these bulls were very big, but 11 was smaller than the average. His brown color came from his mother, a Jersey milk cow. He had small horns that turned straight up, giving him the appearance of the devil, and some folks might swear that he was.

This bull was cat quick, and had murder in his heart. He could get from point A to point B, faster than imaginable. He defied laws of physics. Many a time, cowboys thought they were a safe distance from him, to find themselves underneath him the next instant. It was like science fiction. No way should he have been able to cover that amount of ground, in that amount of time. He was a freak. His other unique characteristic, was his thinking and reaction ability. With his speed, savvy, determination, and killer attitude, no one ever got away from him. He hooked everyone I ever saw get on him, and several that didn’t know better than to get out of the arena. I didn’t feel safe unless I was in the car with the doors locked. This was a scary bull.

My hauling buddy, Richard, drew the bull at Hardtner, Kansas. He said, “I’ve got it figured out how to get away from him.”

I couldn’t wait to hear his plan, as most of his ideas were way out of bounds.

He explained, “Instead of bailing off in time with his jump, I’m going to wait until he’s at his highest peak, and then just step off directly to the ground. That way, he’ll be up in the air, and I’ll already be on the ground running.”

I was impressed. “You know, that might just work.”

This was one of the best bull rides I’ve ever witnessed. 11 could only be described as “electric”, and Richard never budged. Just as he planned, he jerked the tail of his rope, and waited until the bull reached the full height of his leap. Richard dismounted, not spending any hang time in the air. He was only a few feet from mother earth when ole number 11 blew his theory. The brown bull, high in the air, wasn’t going to allow this well plotted exit to be successful. He contorted his body, changing his direction, and reached out with a front hoof. He literally pawed my friend in the back, sending him face down in the dirt. Those little moon horns started at Richards boots, and peeled his hat off at the other end, not missing one inch between.

Richard had a grimace on his face as he left the arena. He had a hole in his shirt, a raspberry in the middle of his back, his hat was bent, his mustache filled with dirt. I shook my head, “So much for that idea.”

“Well, it looked good on paper,” he said.

A Pinch of Rodeo

  By Joe R. Nichols

A wise old man said

I liked “Growly”, but I was sure he didn’t like me. He was the flank man for rodeo producer, and had never said one positive thing to me.

I had just begun to figure out some basics of bronc riding, and although I hadn’t won much, the light bulb burned brighter.

Hutchinson, Kansas hosted a big winter indoor amateur rodeo. It was a prestigious event to attend, and I made a respectable ride. I finished out of the money, but felt good about my effort. Growly approached.

“When are you going to get your permit?”(Pro Rodeo membership) he gruffly said.

Now, I could only assume his intention was to ridicule me in some way, so I guarded my response.

“No, I’m serious,” he assured.

“Well, there’s no sense in me riding against those guys until I can beat them.”

“You’re wrong,” he continued. “Right now is when you need to get amongst the best. Those guys will teach you how to ride broncs. You won’t learn anything hanging around here.”

I pondered his words, and conceded his point. I then spent the next six years ignoring his advice, continuing to rodeo amateur.

When I thought I was ready, I filled my permit and gained full membership to the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association. My Rookie year was the worst of my career since owning a bronc saddle. I found out that I knew nothing about riding broncs.

How I wish I’d have listened to that profound insight.

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

Taking Criticism

In my days of amateur rodeo, I traveled with cowboys that competed in other events besides Saddle Bronc Riding. I went a lot of miles with my best friend from home that roped calves. Doug and I often found ourselves in trouble, but we got ourselves out of most of it.

We pulled for each other, and believed in each other.

Doug and I, and a bull rider, made a run of three rodeos in Nebraska. After one of my rides, Doug told me about something that caught his attention. “It looks to me like you’re leaning forward too much. Just seems like you’d get along better if you leaned back a little.”

Now, I was by no means offended, but my internal thought was, how could a calf roper know anything about riding broncs? I discounted his information, and never really considered it to be valid.

A month or so later, a top bronc rider that I respected, gave me some helpful advice. He said, “You need to try and get your shoulders behind your hips. That will help you get under your rein and make it easier to reach up and set your feet.”

It made perfect sense to me, and I planned to implement this technique right away. Then it came over me, that’s the exact thing that Doug told me a month ago. I was humbled. Doug didn’t know the whys and fors, and he didn’t say it in bronc rider lingo, but he saw it. And he was right.

The lesson? You can get all kinds of bad advice, but sometimes people on the outside looking in, can see more than we want to admit. From then on, I have always carefully considered all criticism, no matter who it came from.

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

STEALING GAS

Tom Reeves moved in with me when he attended college at Panhandle State University in Goodwell, OK. He had his Pro-card, I was still on my permit. If you gave your membership number to Tom, get ready. He would have you entered in every rodeo from Galveston to the Yukon.

We mounted my old Cadillac one morning to leave on a run. We stopped to get gas at a local fuel merchant in Guymon, where I lived. I pumped the petro, Tom used the restroom. He came out about the same time I had her full, and we took off. A few miles down the road, Tom says, “Joe, did you pay for the gas?”

I said, “No, I have this,,,”

He spun a quarter turn in his seat toward me and interrupted, “You didn’t pay for the gas?” he blurted in a near panic.

Now, I love practical jokes, and it’s not often you get the opportunity to have one handed to you like this. I got him good.

“No, I didn’t pay for the gas, I thought you did.”

“I didn’t pay for the gas,” he said. His eyes were big and his voice quivered.

“You went in there, I never left the car.”

“I just went to the bathroom, I didn’t buy the gas.”

“Oh, I thought you paid for it,” I said disgusted.

“We gotta go back, Joe.”

“Aw, I bet we can get away with it.”

“No, Joe. You gotta go back.”

What I had started to say when he first asked me if I paid for the gas, was; “No I have this fuel card that lets you buy gas 24 hours a day.”

The pumps were at this old filling station that had nothing to do with the tire shop using the building where Tom used the restroom. He never saw me put the card in the pump to turn it on.

“Tom”, I said sternly, “Don’t be jacking with me, you bought the gas didn’t you?

No, all I did was use the bathroom. Turn around and go back.”

“Their not going to catch us now, lets just go on.” I sped up and started looking in the rear view mirror.

“No, you have to go back, they probably got our tag number and called the cops.”

I sped up a little more, “Lets see if we can get away with it.”

By this time, Tom had both feet up in the seat, like he was getting ready to jump. “Come on Joe, turn around, we’ll get caught. We can’t do this.”

I wanted to carry it on some more, but the fear on his face brought out my laughter. When I could control myself enough to explain, he didn’t know if he should believe me or not. I had to show him the card before he settled down.

Tom won over 1.7 million dollars in his career, qualifying for the National Finals 18 times, and won the World Championship in 2001. What I told him that day was certainly applicable. “It’s a good thing you can ride broncs, because you don’t like to work, and you’re way to nervous to steal.”