Eight Seconds

 

Eight Seconds

There was nothing in the world like it, this he knew. The lights, the noise, the excitement, the crowd. Cowboys from all over the world gathered here annually. Some sacrificed limbs, bones, blood, hearts, and some even lives. And those things didn't even cover the entry fee.

And yet, here he was. Cheyenne, Houston, Del Rio, the big boys of the playing field came out here, to have their stab at the untamable. It had been his dream since he was a young boy, at his very first rodeo, watching Tuff Hedeman come blazing out of the chute, and knowing for pure certain that there was nothing on this earth stronger than a real rough-tough-real-stuff cowboy, with a Stetson cowboy hat, leather chaps, and a bow-legged walk that showed more than anything just how much strength and determination went into each ride.

The fame, the glory, those were just the fictional pieces in this life, told to crowds in an effort to heighten the excitement and thrill, to rekindle some kind of nostalgia for the good ole days with real cowboys, who drank coffee that resembled sludge, and rode for days across Texas with longhorn cattle all the way up to Kansas, before even the railroad had finished connecting one part of the country to the other. He now knew it for what it really was: a life filled with sweat, blood, manure, and tears never cried, a life full of lonely nights, more coffee than ever healthy, and memorizing the words of Chris Ledoux.

He had the camaraderie with the other cowboys, the ones he rode with from rodeo to rodeo across the Midwest. A cowboy had to have that kind of connection to another soul in this line of work. Going from city to city, rodeo to rodeo, all alone with nothing but you in the truck, hauling a trailer with a horse that was every bit as tired as the driver, along an open stretch, was lonely in more ways than one. Bunking in the trailer with your horse on those nights when the motels were full and you couldn't afford anything else or you wouldn't have enough money for the next entry fee…. It left many miles and many hours with the steady lull of the highway with a cowboy’s only companion his thoughts.

Twenty-four now, he had been doing this since high school on the junior tour, from the time when a two-year old bull was all that he straddled, until he hit college and the real deal of 2,000-pound angry bulls, complete with bad attitudes and a set of horns to make a man cringe in imagining what it would feel like slicing through skin, was set before him. He had his membership to the Pro Rodeo Cowboys Association, had even graduated college on a rodeo team scholarship. This had been all he had ever wanted to do, and before 30 he had his dream in his hands. This was his life. Some days he wished it wasn’t as simple as that. Other days…he smiled because of the smell of the dirt when he breathed did more for his senses than any meditation could. Who needed Zen and the trickle of waterfalls when he had softly packed dirt and a crowd cheering him on to victory at the buzzer? He had more belt buckles than he knew what to do with. He had won saddles and tack, had won a horse or two in a few rounds of lucky poker. And he enjoyed just about every minute of it, even those moments when it was his own saddle that was handed over to the winner, and he found himself baling hay for some rancher to earn enough money to make the next go-round.

And this was Houston. His big dream had always been to taste that dirt of the Astrodome, the Eighth Wonder of the World, but that had been deflated when the new Reliant Dome had been built. Some things never changed, he supposed, but too many did. Every time he passed the Astrodome, it simply reminded him of days gone by. Then, he looked over in the heavy traffic, and beheld the new Dome, and knew that change could be good. Still, there was nothing in the world quite like Houston, from the calf scramblers to the entertainment performers to the concessions. He had grown up coming to this, since a pair of size 4 Wranglers and a pair of black Justins was the height of rustic sophistication. And now he was here, competing for the first time.

The thought of attaching a Houston buckle, though, to cinch it into his belt, staring down at silver and gold, with the H in a pair of cowboy boots, sent a wave of chills through his body. Belt buckles handcrafted and made by Gist out of Montana, presented in a soft velvet maroon box. Belt buckles never represented money. They represented hard work, determination, and knowing the taste of dirt in his mouth; callused hands, robe burns, and more scars than anyone would care to hear the stories about. Signs and trailers, ribbons and a title all told people what he had won, but a belt buckle was a strong reminder to him and all who looked upon it just what it took to get him where he stood tonight, and every night thereafter. He always took great pride in determining which belt buckle to wear. Tonight, around his waist, his first belt buckle sat tall and proud.

Eight seconds seems like a lifetime when it is just you and a bull. Eight seconds is a lifetime when the only thing between you and a hard fall onto packed dirt is the stretch of a horse. Eight seconds was all any cowboy out here had, to prove his glory, his strength. Eight seconds to find out what you were really made of.

He signed up to compete in three events tonight: bull riding, saddle bronc, and bareback. It did not help matters that his left wrist was broken, his ankle not quite healed from a wrong landing in Tulsa, and it hurt just to breathe. None of that mattered. This was Houston. Only the strong survived, they didn't have time for the weak. The weak fell here, were kicked to the ground, and left to lick their bleeding wounds with a camera angled on them as the announcer made some ridiculous comment that made the audience chuckle and the cowboy feel like he really was the manure and dirt under his own boot heel.

"Cowboy up," he whispered to himself. That cowboy motto, to go hand in hand with that cowboy creed. To outsiders and spectators, it sounded cliché and more than a bit ludicrous. Most needed it explained to them. A cowboy could try to explain to a tenderfoot, with his mouth turned up on one side in a half-smile that was more mocking than anything, but none of them ever truly understood. Two words that could never be taught or explained. They were just ingrained.

He watched as his riding partner lowered himself into the chute. He had bunked with this cowboy more times than he could count, drank beer with him, pulled him out of bar room brawl fights, just to keep the both of them out of jail. To say they were friends would never begin to cover the camaraderie between the two of them. Brothers could more aptly describe it, but the both of them would laugh and call that too sentimental.

AC/DC’s Back in Black played somewhere in the background, one song out of hundreds that must be on some kind of compilation set for rodeos and hockey games, or maybe it was set for any sport. He rolled his eyes, blocking the endless tune from his mind as he concentrated on helping his buddy out, making sure he was as comfortable in his seat as possible. Offering him words of comfort or strength would seem ridiculous and more than out of place. They ran off adrenaline out here, saying as few words as possible.

The gate opened. He watched, watched as the horse kicked and lashed out, trying its damnedest to get the unwanted 175-pounds of weight off its back as soon as it could. Too little credit went to the amazing animals out here, he thought to himself. He watched the crowd, how it roared to life once the gate opened. A big name in country music flashed along the marquee outside, indicating by default a full stadium.

The buzzer signaled the end of the ride and the crowd’s level grew even louder. He smiled to himself to see that his friend, had indeed, kept a tight rein all the way to the end of the line. He knew this to be one of the few sports that held competitors without truly having the classical sense of rivals. It was a test between the animal and the rider, and then the riders and the animals were scored based on the ride itself. A real cowboy never wished another ill luck, and there were days when the only reason you held on was simple luck holding your back. A friend’s victory meant almost (but never quite) as much as your own out there.

Two more cowboys were unleashed into what was literally an arena the size of a football stadium. Two more cowboys were flung effortlessly to the ground in a sad attempt at winning tonight. He watched as one them picked up his hat, favoring an arm that was bent at an incredibly awkward and unnatural angle.

Damn. His turn now. He said a silent prayer up to God, wishing for the strength to hold steady, to not get himself killed on this crazy pipe dream that meant more to him than anything he had come across yet. No girl, no truck, no job could top this on his list. And tonight, he prayed that what held the deepest well in his heart would not turn into his death sentence. A simple prayer, really, one he prayed just before every turn, but tonight, it seemed to hold more weight. Mean so much more.

He settled down into the chute upon his turn. Bareback riding, the most physically-demanding of these events, if any of these gruesome and masochistic events were to ever be called easy. Nothing about this was easy. Just the cowboy on the horse, holding onto only a thin leather strap. It might sound simple, but never easy. He’d bared witness to too many professional football players and weight lifters getting on the back of a bull, mechanical or otherwise, and watched them as they were slung around as though nothing more than a pest, a fly to swat away. The horse was going to buck, blow, occasionally spin, and all he had to do was hold on. Yeah, hold on. That was all. Simple as that.

He signaled to the crew, the boys he saw at almost every rodeo. He knew these boys by name. Names that had weight with them, the real ones, like Zach Oates and Colby Yates and Fred Boetcher. He looked up and his entire perspective took a spin as he saw the man who had started it all for him. The man himself, it was none other than Tuff Hedeman who was handling his gate. Suddenly, he felt like he was nothing more than a young boy trying to be a man, trying to be what he saw as a real cowboy. Was he really ready for this? Was he prepared? This was it, the granddaddy of rodeos here.

“You ready, cowboy?” Tuff asked him gruffly.

He nodded. "OK, boys, let's ride," he said.

The gate opened. The crowd roared to life.

Eight seconds.

© 2007 Melissa Jo Moore

Author's Note

This has been posted on here before. I'm eager for all opinins!

Reviews

[Meg Write]

I absolutly loved it! While I'm not envolved in the rodeo, I watch bull riding and consider myself a cowgirl.

It was very well explained, with the author aptly bringing to life each feeling and thought that passed through a cowboy's mind.

From the outside, bull riding looks glamorous, but the things going on behind the scene show it's not. The author has done a wonderful job of explaining the guts behind the glory.

At first I was concerned about the lack of dialogue, but the author shows her true writing skill by bringing the story to life. A very well done story.

[zach h.]

This is a really good story. I'm a midwest boy, and love to watch rodeos (sometimes I think it would be fun to be a rodeo clown), and I was hooked from the start of this. The narration is really good. I like how the story is told, how it shows what it took to get this far, what the cowboy has been through, and a glimpse at what is still to come. It's amazing how eight seconds is so short and yet it seems so long sometimes. I saw just a few grammer/spelling mistakes through the story, nothing a quick read-thru won't fix. A very well crafted piece. Thank you for sharing with us!

[Montana Tom]

M.J. you know, and understand the sport well. To put it into your words if you have never competed is professional.