A Pinch of Rodeo

 By Joe R. Nichols

 Hanging around the Best

The summer before I started college, I worked on a ranch in Nebraska. There’s an amateur rodeo association up there that is very respectable. This made the non-sanctioned rodeos easy pickin’s, and I won money at most all of them I went to. It gave me a false sense of my skill level. I figured when I got to the National Intercollegiate Rodeo Association, I’d make’em bow down. I was so confused.

The Central Plains Region of the NIRA was one of the best in the nation. Young men from all over the United States were recruited on scholarships, and many of them were already competing at the pro rodeos. I was out of my league.

I still believed I could ride at that level and be successful; it just took longer than I thought. My freshman year; blanked. Zip, zero, notta.

At the rodeo in Weatherford, OK (Southwestern Oklahoma State University) my sophomore year, there was one saddle bronc horse that stood out. He was way better than all the rest. Rod Breech had him in the first performance, I had him in the last. Rod’s score had him winning the rodeo.

Rod was one of the reasons why these rodeos were so tough. A top bronc rider and bull rider, he also could beat you in the team roping and steer wrestling. I looked up to him and he was helping me learn to ride. We were becoming friends.

I can’t recall for sure how many points we each had, just that Rod scored much higher than me, but I still won second. What a boost! What a relief!

Years later, Rod and I traveled together in the PRCA. In our rookie year, I remember him saying; “I used to be a hot dog, now I’m just a weenie.” He went on to win the overall Rookie of the Year in the Prairie Circuit, and proved himself as a great professional bronc rider for several years. The point being, he dominated college and amateur associations, but he had to step up his game when he arrived on the pro scene.

It doesn’t matter if you’re writing a book or riding a bronc, hang around the best in the business and they’ll make you better.

A Pinch of Rodeo

Dismount

By Joe R. Nichols

My dismount in bull riding was terrible. A guy should pull the tail of the rope through his hand, pick a spot to land, and bail off trying to land on his feet. This will keep you healthy. What did I do? Well, if I was fortunate enough to make the whistle, I just quit trying to stay on. Sometimes they would fling me, sometimes they would slam me, but it was never pretty.

Tabasco, of the C-T Rodeo Company, was a small red motley-faced bull with no horns. He would have to hurry to weigh 1100 pounds. What he lacked in size, he made up for in effort. He never went in the same pattern twice, always bucked hard, and kicked high. They didn’t ride him very often.

The other characteristic of this bull; he was extremely hot headed. He was fast and very difficult to get away from. Pound for pound, he was a bad little cat.

Richard had been on this bull four times, and rode him every time, but he was missing four shirts as a result. Nobody was better at getting off than Richard, and even though he hit the ground running, Tabasco would mow him down and stomp the shirt off of him. His advice to me, “You might want to make an effort and pay attention to your get-off. He’s not going to let you get away with your usual flop routine.”

I got him twisted, and I was determined to make a good exit. I had the tail of my rope across my leg, but every time I went to step off the right side, he jumped to the right. I tried to wait him out, but after three attempts, he clicked my feet behind me, laid me down over his neck, and then lofted me in the air. After completing a somersault, I landed face up directly in front of him. I don’t know why he spared me, but he gave a snort and left. Never touched me.

This made my friend mad. “I can’t believe that,” he ranted. “I do everything right to get away from him, and he chases me down and hooks my clothes off. You just flop out there on your back like a fish out of water, and he don’t even look at you. I mean you were right there in front of him. That ain’t right.”

I laughed, although he never meant any of his words to be funny.

A short time later, I drew the bull again. Richard never said a word to me before the ride.

This time, Tabasco was spinning to the left when the buzzer sounded, and then he drained me off to the inside. I was on my feet with my hand still in the rope. I really wasn’t hung up, it was mostly a symptom of not being able to get any distance between us. He leaped and kicked and twisted, slung his head, and bucked all around me, but he never disturbed a single thread on my clothes. The bullfighter tried to get him to line out, but Tabasco payed him no mind. Finally, in desperation, the clown grabbed me around the neck and tipped over backwards, pulling me loose. There we were, laying side by side on our backs, with ol’ Tabasco breathing down on us. Never touched us.

When I saw Richard behind the chutes, he shook his head in disgust. “That proves it,” he said. “God takes care of children and idiots.”

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

Pressure

Dealing with pressure is a big part of winning.

I arrived at my Mom and Dad’s house around five in the afternoon. “Your Dad has been in such a dither about you riding in this rodeo,” Mom confided in me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, they interviewed the stock contractor on the radio. He predicted you will win the bronc riding because you drew his best horse. Everyone has been asking Nick about it. It’s got him so nervous he can’t hardly stand it.”

Then Dad came in from doing chores. “Whats this horse you’ve got tonight?” he demanded.

“Red River. He’s a good one.”

“Well, can you ride him?”

I laughed as I explained that I could, and that I already had ridden him several times.

“Well Floyd’s been on the radio chirping about how you have this National Finals bucking horse and you’re gonna win the rodeo. Everyone in Saline county must of heard it. I go to the sale barn, and I got quizzed about it by everybody. Then down at the hardware store, they all had to interrogate me some more. It’s just crazy. Why would Floyd do such a dumb thing?”

“I don’t know. Sounds like a pretty bold thing to say.”

“I wish he’d of kept his mouth shut.”

Mom laughed, as she looked my way, “He’s been like this all week.”

Riding in the hometown rodeo and having the opportunity to win it, might have caused a little nervousness, but I could handle that. This was much different.

A fear of failure welled up inside me. I couldn’t bare the thought of my father having to deal with all his friends if I got bucked off.

When I prepared to ride that night, my mouth was so dry I couldn’t spit. I tried to get myself relaxed and loose, but that sick feeling would not go away.

Who ever drew Red River always went last. The announcer built the tension for the big climax as I settled in to my saddle. I called for the gate, and left the chute with a strong mark-out. I was anxious to get the motion started, but I held my spurs in the neck long enough to feel the timing. The red bronc circled to the right, having his normal good trip.

Dad had good luck that night, and I did win that rodeo. Afterword’s, I went up to where my folks were sitting. I sat down beside Dad. With a big heaving sigh he said, “Man, I’m glad that’s over!”

“Me too.”

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

 Liberal, Kansas

On our way to an amateur rodeo in Liberal, Kansas, my bull rider friend asked which bronc I would like to draw that night. We discussed the stock contractors bucking horses in detail, and Richard knew most of them well. “That Socks looks like he’d be good, until he turns back off that right fence.” he said.

“No, that aint Socks. He’s straight down the pen.” I corrected.

“A little flax mane sorrel?”

“Yeah, but he’s straight down the pen, like a jackhammer.”

“Naw, I saw him last week, he made a circle to the right, really leaped and hung in the air. Man when he come off that fence though, he spun to the right and it was wicked. If I guy could get by that deal, he’d sure win first.”

“Richard, Socks has never turned back in his life. I’m tellin’ ya he bucks straight away and takes forty-two jumps in eight seconds. If you spur him all you can, you might win third or fourth.”

“You’re confused. I know what I saw, it was Socks and he turned back like a bull.”

“You’re crazy,” I said. “You’ve been ridin’ too many bulls. I’ve been on him five or six times. I’ve seen him for years. Never has, never will.”

Guess what horse I drew.

Soon as Socks walked in the chute, Richard began tormenting me. “Might ought to bear down when he gets to that fence. Don’t be afraid to make you some big free arm moves when he comes around. Course, he could buck you off before he has a chance to turn back.”

I ignored him, because he didn’t know what he was talking about. I never considered there to be any chance the horse would do anything different than he ever had.

Most of bronc riding happens in the sub-conscious mind, but real time thoughts are present too. It took me a little bit to realize how good a trip Socks was having. I could feel him gather himself up and push off the ground, jumping high in the air and kicking directly over my head. I was in a perfect rhythm, and it felt awesome. Then it dawned on me. He’s circling to the right. He’s headed for the fence. This aint right. Then I heard Richard holler, “Get ready, he’s fixin’ to come around.”

Ole Socks planted his front feet, sucked back under me, and whirled right. He made several revolutions in the remaining three seconds and it took everything I had to stay in the middle. The spin was fast, but he didn’t lose any kick. That crazy bull rider went in to a frenzy. “I told you he was going to turn back! How do you like him now?! ” he squalled.

I rode him eight seconds. I didn’t ride him eight and one hundredth seconds, but I was there for the whistle. And like Richard predicted, I won first.

The next time I saw the little sorrel horse with the flax colored mane, he went straight as a chalk line, pounding the earth in rapid fire jumps. Just like always.

All except once, I guess. Well, maybe twice I suppose.

Damn bull riders.

A Pinch of Rodeo 

By Joe R. Nichols

Salina, Kansas

Tom Is a very dear family friend, close to my Dad’s age. He rodeoed professionally in the late 1940’s and all during the 50’s. The cowboys in his circle of friends and traveling partners were the legends of the sport. Men including Jim Shoulders, Casey Tibbs, Jack Bushbom, Gerald and Ken Roberts. I was fascinated by his experiences, and he’s a great story teller.

Tom had the reputation of being the wildest, most aggressive spurring bareback bronc rider in his era, and I looked up to him and always wanted to impress him.

At seventeen years old, I entered the bareback riding at the Tri-Rivers Fair and Rodeo in Salina, Kansas, my home town. Tom was there, behind the chutes as I got ready, but he didn’t speak to me before the ride.

My bronc went down the arena in a straight line, and didn’t buck all that hard. I spurred at him a little bit, but he jerked on me enough that he sat me up and my feet dropped. Rather than make an effort to get back and try to regain a spur lick, I finished the ride in safety mode. After all, I wasn’t going to risk getting bucked off in front of the home crowd. Getting a score was the most important task at hand.

Behind the chutes once again, I felt success was mine, and I couldn’t wait for Tom to come over and tell me what a great ride I made and how bright my future in rodeo would be. Finally, he approached, hat on a slight tilt, cigarette in hand.

“Did you get a score on that horse, Joe?”

“Yep. Sure did. 56 points,” I replied with my chest out.

“Uh huh. Is that winning anything?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“You’ve never been bucked off, have you Joe?”

“Um, no, I haven’t.” I said with even more pride.

“And you’ve never won a dime either, have you.”

“Uh, well, no I guess not.”

“If you aint gonna spur ’em, then there’s no sense in you even getting on them.” He blew a bit of smoke as he walked away.

He shocked me in to reality, but I was devastated.

A few days later, I had the opportunity to spend some time with him, and he mentored me in a much kinder way. I gained a lifetime of knowledge that applies to much more than rodeo. His words taught me to get aggressive, and go after what I wanted. To make things happen, not to just wish they would happen.

Everyone should have a friend like Tom.

A Pinch of Rodeo

By Joe R. Nichols

There should be a law against Hard Luck Awards, or designating someone as The Hard Luck Cowboy. Think about it. Not only have you failed as a contestant to achieve any level of success, you have embarrassed and humiliated yourself in a public setting. Friends, family, and thousands of spectators have witnessed you making a fool of yourself. And for that, they want to make sure you win a title or prize that will never let you forget it.

The Garden City Community Junior College got McDonald’s to sponsor a Big Mac for each of three performances for the hard luck winner. When my buddies and I first heard about it, we immediately teased each other as to which one of us might win it. Then I forgot about it.

I was getting along pretty good on my saddle bronc ride, but my rein was a lot shorter than I would have liked. I had a strong spur stroke going, with no difficulty reaching the horses neck. But, I kept thinking, man, I need more rein. I was going to place in the money if everything stayed the same, but somehow I convinced myself I had to try and slide some rein through my hand. Now, some guys are good at doing this. They can slip just the right amount, and then have a hold on it in the exact right place. Me? I didn’t know if I was good at it or not, cause I’d never tried it before. Well, about the time the tassel was going past my little mitt, I realized I had a made a slight mental error.

I looked like a loose helicopter blade when I left that horse. With my body parallel to the ground, I made several revolutions while traveling across the arena. Lucky for me, the ground broke my fall. If you’ve ever had all the wind knocked out of you, then you know what I felt. If you haven’t, then you have no idea. I crawled to the arena fence, so I wouldn’t delay the rodeo or be in the way, but that’s as far as I could go. Then, I heard laughing. I looked up to see my buddy Fitz, ambling down the fence line, pointing at me, and stopping periodically to grab the fence to keep from collapsing from his laughter. “Hey Joe! I think you won the hamburger,” he hollered.

I had no air to speak words, but judging by his increased hysterics, I think he reads lips.

A Pinch of Rodeo

 By Joe R. Nichols

Everyone likes photographs, especially a rodeo contestant. If the cowboy’s style and perfect form are captured in a wild unpredictable moment, It can give him a life time of bragging rights.

Several years ago, my brother Mike, myself, and our mutual friend Dick, attended a United States Team Roping Championship event in Topeka, Kansas. Mike and I were both heading (roping the steers horns), and Dick was the heeler (ropes the steer’s back feet). We both entered with Dick as our partner.

Mike had been to the photographer’s booth. “There’s a picture of me and Dick you’ve got to see. If it didn’t cost twenty dollars, I’d buy it and give to Dick.”

When he described the photo to me, I said “I’ll split it with you.” I knew we had to have that picture.

I went to the booth and asked to see it. I told the lady which roping, gave her the team number, and she pulled it up on her computer for me to view. Knowing this was a picture she couldn’t sell to anyone, I said, “Surely you wouldn’t charge me twenty dollars for that, would you?”

“I’ll let you have it for ten, but don’t tell anyone.”

I collected five dollars from Mike, and we were passing it around the bleachers showing all our friends. Bursts of laughter erupted every few seconds. Then someone said, “Here comes Dick.”

Mike quickly stuffed the photo back in its envelope, and assumed an innocent posture. Dick walked up and spied the manila envelope. “Oh, did you get a picture?” he said with an anxious curiosity.

“Yes, It’s of me and you. It’s a good one too.” Mike said as he proudly handed it over to him. Dick beamed with anticipation as he slid the flick from its cover. Here’s what Dick saw.

Mike had the steer in tow, Dick’s heel horse was in the perfect spot in relation to the steer’s back feet. Dick had just delivered his loop, and his fundamentals of body position were exactly correct in every way. He had the right amount of weight in his stirrups, braced against the front of his saddle, and his upper body came forward the precise distance to set his rope down in front of the steer’s legs. His arm extended on a geometric plane that lined up with his target. The fingers of his hand all pointed parallel to the ground, demonstrating a great finish on his throw. The only thing that was off a little bit was the actual placement of the loop. Well, maybe off more than a little bit. In fact, it was actually behind Dick’s horse, underneath the fence. I mean under the fence completely outside the arena, in a wad. It looked like somebody folded it several times, threw it down as hard as they could, then stomped on it. It wasn’t even recognizable as a lariat.

The look on his face was funnier than the picture, and he was the only person there not laughing.

You would think, judging by the profanity he used to describe Mike and I, he would have destroyed the evidence. But, he handed the picture back. I’m proud to say it is in my possession and will soon be on display for all to see.

I just love good pictures!

 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.”