The men in work gloves ran out and removed the barrels, and the flat speaker voice announced the calf-roping competition. A young cowboy, barely out of his teens, rode down a bawling calf and flicked his lasso so it caught the calf’s rear legs and the animal crashed to its side. The cowboy dismounted, ran to the calf, and tied the rope around its hooves in less than five seconds to general applause. The second cowboy, older and gaunter, was even faster—one moment he was on his horse, lasso secured to a calf’s hind legs, and the next he was standing in the mud, the calf trussed up and helpless. A third cowboy made a great show of twirling his lasso overhead, but when he popped it at his calf, the animal spooked and dodged, the lasso missing it by several feet. The cowboy’s horse tossed its head as if in disgust, trotting off to the stable with the rider’s expression hard and set.
In the pause after the calf roping, I could see lots of activity by the chutes across the way. One or two gates shuddered as the bulls behind them vented their frustration at being penned in. Two men in bright red chaps, plaid shirts, and face paint came out onto the field to cheers. I squeezed my empty Styrofoam cup and leaned forward, peering through the white haze of the spotlights. One was balding with a bad comb-over, although I couldn’t tell if that was real or part of his makeup. The other was tall and lean, younger, but with more of a stoic face behind the white-and-black greasepaint. I followed him as he strode around the muddy arena, working the crowd, waving at kids in the stands, pretending to lasso them and then dropping his hat, bending over to pick up the hat and then standing up as his red chaps fell to the mud. I couldn’t tell if it was Fritz.
The two clowns met up at the gate to one of the middle chutes, the balding one grasping a rope. The announcer read off the name of the first bull rider in his flat voice. A bell rang and the balding clown threw open the gate, the bull within bursting forth, heaving and plunging, and the rider clutching the rope lashed around the bull’s chest. The rider’s free hand whipped about through the air like a pennant in the thick of battle. I had thought the horses were big, but the bull was the size of a small car. Still plunging up and down, the bull began to rotate in a circle. The rider slipped, his face banging against the back of the bull’s neck; then he fell off to the side and hit the mud, one of the stomping hooves landing on his arm. The two clowns rushed forward, the balding one waving in the bull’s face, the tall one grabbing the fallen rider and leading him away. The bull danced madly in the center of the arena until two riders with lassos approached, driving the animal back toward the pens.
The next rider had a bit more luck, his bull merely whirling around and around as if trying to bite its own tail. He lasted the full eight seconds, and then leapt off the bull, landing clumsily in the mud and falling to his knees, but he scampered to the wall and climbed over it before the bull could charge him. The tall clown had been shouting at the bull, and I strained to hear his voice, but unsuccessfully. I realized I had shredded the empty Styrofoam cup in my hands and let the pieces drop to my feet.
The third rider looked to be in trouble before his chute even opened. I caught a glimpse of his eyes, wide with fright. The gate rattled on its hinges as the bull, dark with a barrel-sized hump, struck it with its flank. I could see the wicked curve of a horn shine like an ivory tooth in the floodlight. Then the bell rang and the chute opened. Immediately the bull tore out of the chute, bucking and kicking out its hind legs, leaping and spinning in a circle, the rider’s hat blown through the air. The rider seemed to hunch over the bull, as if trying to hide from its rage by lying prone on its back, and then with a jerk he fell to one side. Even from the stands I could feel the impact of the bull’s hooves striking the ground, mud spraying as if from a mortar shell. The rider clutched at the rope, hanging on to the side of the heaving bull. His feet were dragged through the mud, and were then thrown up in the air as he was tossed like a proverbial rag doll. Just let go, I thought, and then I saw that his left hand was caught in the rope. The bull continued to carry him along as it plunged and spun. “Oh, mercy,” an older woman said behind me.
The two clowns ran up to the bull, the balding one again in the bull’s face while the taller one dashed to help untangle the rider. But the bull ignored the balding clown and, with almost casual violence, turned and lowered its head, hooking the tall clown around the back of the legs with its horns and tossing him aside in a backward somersault. Meanwhile, the rider flailed uselessly at his trapped hand. My breath caught as I watched the tall clown hit the mud facedown. He scrambled to his feet.
The two men on horseback approached, lassoes in hand, but they hesitated, clearly unwilling to do anything that could harm the rider, who looked like a man being slowly churned to death. The balding clown was waving a green hat at the bull, trying to distract the animal, but the tall one couldn’t get to the rider and was holding a hand to his ribs. Meanwhile the bull continued to spin around and around, tossing its head angrily, its horns stabbing the air.
Two men in jeans and flannel shirts ran into the arena, part of the work crew that had moved the barrels earlier. They still had their work gloves on. One, Hispanic with a brush of a mustache, went to the tall clown to see if he was all right. The second, with short blond hair, made straight for the bull, his arms wide as if rushing to embrace it. The bull stomped and began to run at the man, lowering its head, the rider being dragged helplessly along. At the last moment, the bull’s horns thrusting toward his navel, the blond brought his arms in, pivoted off his right foot, and spun once around, the bull charging through empty air. It was like watching a dancer pirouette around a rhino. The man ended up next to the bull’s shoulder, his hands on the rope binding the rider. Then the rider was free, leaning heavily on the blond man. The balding clown helped drag them to the wall as the men on horseback moved in, crying out at the bull, their lassoes whirling and moving the beast off to the side. After a stunned second or two, those in the audience clapped and cheered, some waving their hats.