Coonridge Digest: Watchin’ the bulls

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

I’ll admit I have trouble squaring this particular addiction with my non-violent nature. I don’t even like arguments, much less brutality in movies or on television. Anything rated violent and I’ll stay home and watch the traffic from my front porch.

And sports bore me. Although I’ll dig in and root all night at a Little League ballgame, professional sports leave me cold. There’s something about a George Steinbrenner paying millions and millions of dollars to a pitcher then giving him a ride to the pitcher’s mound in a motorized cart that just turns my stomach. In a world where kids are less and less taught the value of hard work, the pampered athlete seems to be a mighty poor hero.

But I’ll drop whatever I’m doing whenever bull riding comes on. You call me during a Professional Bull Riding Championship telecast and you’ll have to hold you own bull while I watch mine.

I think it started in Fort Madison, Iowa. My Uncle Bob and Cousin Lyndle had taken my brother and I to see the city’s renowned rodeo. The guest stars were Chester and Doc from Gunsmoke if that’ll give you an idea of the time frame. We watched the roping and riding and bareback competition and I enjoyed myself just fine. Then came the bulls. Lord, I’d never seen anything like that in my life. Still haven’t.

A usually scrawny cowboy (no steroids here, no team doctor, no limousine service) will climb on the back of a two thousand pound bull and hope to gosh he can stay on for 8 seconds. That’s it. Eight seconds and it’s over. And of course it’s usually over a whole lot quicker than that.

But unlike hunting or bullfighting or cockfighting, the animal usually wins. The typical cowboy will end up in a crumpled heap, dragged off by the clowns, and the bull trots out of the ring, tail high and smiling.

Oh, there are those who would question whether he’s smiling, but I was raised on a farm and I know bulls can smile. In fact, bull riding is a misnomer. More like bull flopping. Bull stomping. Bull goring. Yes, there’s a leather strap latched around his flank but believe me, this bull knows he’s won. And if he does allow the occasional cowboy to actually win and ride him for 8 seconds, he still gets the pleasure of tossing him off. And he’s still smiling. Bull’s can’t tell time.

So how do you square this bloody sport with a peaceful nature? Heck, people die. Either I have a peculiar mental abnormality or there’s something curiously appealing about this sport. I think maybe it’s the purity. One man, one bull – a formula that hasn’t changed since the sport’s inception. No pinch hitters, no substitutions, no chartered flights or golf carts.

Of the fifty top-ranked bull riders in the world, only 3 have earned over $100,000 this year and most make less than the average schoolteacher. Many have to somehow hold down a full-time job apart from the bull straddling on weekends, and their idea of luxury is clean sheets at the Motel Six.

And like I said, in addition to all the aforementioned niceties, there’s a decent chance they won’t make it out alive.

For one thing, these are good old boys. You watch them interviewed and the most enthusiasm you’ll hear is a drawled "Aw shucks" followed by a good spit. They wear their farmer tans proudly and tend to walk with a limp. And they belong to the one profession that isn’t pestered by insurance salesmen.

When a cowboys thrown off before the appointed buzzer, you won’t find him blaming his opponent or his coach or the fans. In fact, he usually compliments the critter that just nailed him. "Aw shucks, that was one fine bull," then he’ll spit and limp off to the emergency room.

And if the cowboy ends up being top dog of the doggies, what does he get? A gold inlaid Super Bowl ring? Nope. A belt buckle. Aw shucks, it’s just practical, you know. Sort of makes you want to spit with humility.

When the world gets complicated, I look for simple things. When folks are unemployed, when we start wars we can’t finish, when it takes a course in brain surgery to get the foil wrap off the top of the mustard jar, I take extra pleasure in the simple acts. Like the thrill of watching a man take a chance for no other reason than the personal challenge of the thing. No movie contracts, no mansion in the Bahamas, no personal trainer. No bull.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.