Chapter 35
Knox
Dodge City, Kansas
The last few weeks have been brutal. Calgary is a progressive format, so when Trey didn’t make it out of his bracket—and I did—we had to split up.
I had a break between my bracket and the semifinals, so we drove overnight to Casper, Wyoming.
I rode there, then caught a ride back to Calgary for the semifinals with some bronc riders.
I didn’t advance out of the semifinals while Trey went to two other rodeos.
At this point, I feel like the living version of the Johnny Cash song “I’ve Been Everywhere.
” After Calgary, we had back-to-back rodeos in Salinas, California, Nampa, Idaho, Ogden, Spanish Fork, and Salt Lake City, Utah.
We had one day off to drive to the Midwest for a handful of rodeos before heading back to Deadwood South Dakota then Eagle, Colorado.
Kacey was supposed to come to Eagle but got stuck at the ranch when the ranch hands were taken down by a case of bad food poisoning.
Now we’re back to square one; not knowing when we’ll see each other next.
Trey and I are in the Midwest again this week, then head straight to the Pacific Northwest where we’ll stay for most of August and September.
I’m exhausted, sore, and missing her, but I’ve climbed to number two in the world standings.
When Kacey couldn’t make it to Eagle, I was close to turning around and driving to the ranch, but she talked me out of it.
Encouraging me to keep going, reminding me I’ll be number one soon and that she’ll get me all to herself starting October first.
Now we’re sitting behind the chutes in Dodge City Kansas, it’s 112 degrees outside with no shade or breeze. I don’t know who thought a rodeo in the middle of Kansas in July was a good idea, but they thought wrong. Every year I complain about this rodeo, but every damn year I enter it again.
“What are the symptoms of heat stroke?” Trey moans next to me where he’s leaning against the fence to the back pens.
“How would I know?” I counter while putting rosin on my rope tied to the fence.
“You’re old. Old people have strokes, so I assumed you knew,” he mouths off without hesitation.
“It’s too hot out to deal with you,” I say as I walk away, searching for more bottled water.
An hour later, I’m on the back of the chutes, pulling Trey’s rope after I’ve ridden my bull for 85 points. “Breathe, Trey. Move with him, you got this,” I say encouragingly.
“Man, this rosin is like fuck’n butter.” He pats the bull’s hump with his gloved hand, trying to use the dirt and hair to keep his rosin sticky.
“I tried to tell you to add some dry rosin, too. But no, the old man doesn’t know shit,” I grunt as I pull with all my strength.
“Yeah, yeah, you were right. That what you want to hear?” He adjusts his hand in the rope before I pull it all the way tight.
“Too late now. Split the pinky and hold on like your life depends on it.” I finish pulling his rope and he takes the suicide wrap. He nods and the gate swings open.
The bull blows up in the air, his front feet are three feet off the ground when he reaches the full extent of his kick. Trey is riding him perfectly as the bull turns back to the right. He might win this Extreme Bulls. Then, just like that, it takes a turn for the worst.
That’s the thing about bull riding. One minute you’re winning—you feel on top of the world and invincible—but the next minute, you’re bucking off, beat up and busted, losing your only source of income. It’s a never-ending roller coaster.
The bull blows up again and Trey’s hand pops out of his handle, but he still has his tail and he’s still trying to make it to the whistle.
One thing about Trey is he’ll never quit until he hits the dirt.
He slides down the bull’s back as it rears, then when the bull transitions into the kick, Trey is sitting on the bull’s ass.
The worst position to be in.
Trey does a complete backflip flying into the air and comes down directly on his head. He’s out cold on impact.
Fuck.
I climb over the chute and jump into the arena.
The bull fighters step in to try and get the bull’s attention so he doesn’t come back to maul Trey’s lifeless-looking body, but the bull ignores them.
He has Trey in his sights and runs at him.
Dropping his head, he pushes and stomps all over Trey.
The crowd collectively gasps. The pickup men ride in on horseback and get a rope around the bull’s horns, dragging him away from Trey and out of the arena.
I’m the first to reach him, but I can see Sports Medicine running over. His vest is held on by one shoulder strap, the rest is all torn up.
I poke him in the side of the face through the cage of his helmet. “Trey. Trey, wake up.”
The crowd has gone silent; you could hear a pin drop. Or in my case, I can literally hear Trey snoring.
I poke him again and say, “They’re bringing the backboard.
” If there’s one thing a cowboy hates, it’s leaving the arena strapped to a backboard.
We’ll be bleeding everywhere with a broken leg and still crawl out of the arena and drive ourselves to the hospital.
Most of us don’t have insurance and there are no programs willing to help with medical bills.
Trey’s eyes slowly open. “No backboard,” he grunts. “I’ll take a pillow though, kinda sleepy.”
I’m immediately relieved to hear him joke. “You just took a nap, does anything hurt?”
He takes a sharp breath. “More like ‘what doesn’t hurt?’ What happened?”
“You got knocked out, then got camped on before anyone could help.”
Sports Med reaches us when Trey answers me. “Yep, should’ve gone with the dry rosin. Help me up.”
Travis, the head of Sports Med, kneels next to Trey and asks, “Was he unconscious?”
Trey tries to get up and an EMT scolds him. “Hold still. We need to assess your neck before you can get up.”
“Knox?” Travis turns back to me, waiting for the answer.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, he woke up quick though and cracked a joke.”
Travis huffs out a laugh. “Sounds like Trey.”
I stand and step back, letting them check his neck and spine for any signs of damage. I can hear the announcer finishing a short prayer before he tells the crowd Trey is awake and moving. You can hear a collective sigh of relief.
After a minute, Trey has caught his breath and gets fed up. He pushes up on his elbows, looking at me.
As rodeo cowboys, we get hurt all the time. We’re used to it, and we know when it’s serious and when it’s not. We also have extremely high pain tolerances. Those who don’t, don’t make it very long on the rough stock side of the arena.
I bend and grip his elbow, pulling him up, both of us ignoring the EMTs’ protests.
The Sports Med team knows cowboys better, they don’t say a word as I loop one arm around Trey’s back, and he throws his arm over my shoulders.
The crowd cheers, happy to see him on his feet.
He takes a couple breaths that cause him to grit his teeth before Travis grabs onto the back of his chaps, and we help him out of the arena.
Kacey
How’s he feeling today? Have you seen the doctor yet? What did they say?
Kacey has been checking in on Trey every hour. She made me give him the phone last night so she could talk to him herself. I like that she cares about my friend enough to check in.
Knox
Just three broken ribs. He’ll need to take a few weeks off but he’s good.
Kacey
Oh good. I’m glad it’s not worse.
“I can go with you just to help drive,” Trey says from the exam table he sits on, buttoning his shirt back up.
He shifts his weight and the paper crinkles beneath him.
We stayed in Dodge City last night and got him X-Rays at a local doctor today.
It’s cheaper than the ER and he wanted to see how he felt.
He broke three ribs and is extremely sore, but he’s lucky. No concussion, organ or spine damage. Thank god for our vests and helmets—they protect us a lot more than most people realize.
“Bumping up and down the road won’t help those ribs heal.
Not to mention we both know you won’t be able to stay off the back of the chutes.
You need to go home and heal, then come back out and make the finals,” I instruct him without looking up from my phone.
I’m going over our rodeo schedule—it’s not good.
We entered hard, we both want to go into the finals’ top five.
“I’ll be fine. You can’t drive all this by yourself. Just let me—”
The doctor walks back in, cutting him off. “Alright, Mr. Bennett, I sent your script in. Unless there is anything else you need, you’re free to go.”
We thank him and head for the door.
Once we’re in the truck, I turn in my seat to find Trey taking shallow breaths after the walk out of the office.
He’s climbing so slowly into the truck. Broken ribs suck, and there is nothing you can do for them but give them time.
I broke a couple a few years ago, I was back in four weeks.
They still hurt like hell, but I could grit my teeth and ride.
“Thirty days,” I say to him. Our association allows us to take a thirty-day doctor’s release.
This takes us out of any rodeos we have entered and we don’t have to pay our entry fees—unlike when a rider turns out of a rodeo and still has to pay the fees.
It will cost Trey several thousand dollars in fees if he doesn’t take a doctor’s release.
He leans his head back on the headrest before rolling it sideways and admitting defeat. “Alright. Thirty days, then I’m back, but I’m not taking those pain pills he prescribed.”
I chuckle. “I wouldn’t either. I’ll call my sister, see if she can meet us halfway and pick you up.” I’ve always been leery of taking pain pills—too many professional athletes get hooked on them and ruin their careers.
I guess I’ve rubbed off on Trey.
I call my sister, Payton, and she immediately jumps into action. She agrees to meet me halfway to pick Trey up and I have no doubt she and my mother will cook a mountain of food for him.
“Is she bringing Wacey?” Trey asks. “That kid cracks me up.”
My nephew Wacey is the best—he’s seven now and loves hanging out with Trey and me. He always has a smile on his face and tries to play pranks on everyone. He also says he’s going to be a bull rider someday, much to my sister’s dismay.
“I’m sure. It’s summer, so he’s not in school.” My sister is a photographer, making her schedule flexible and he pretty much goes everywhere with her. Her husband works in the oil fields and is gone a lot, so, often, it’s just the two of them.
I drop Trey off with my sister three hours later, then turn right back around and drive twenty-one hours to Missoula, Montana.
I barely make it in time for the Extreme Bulls, and I don’t ride my bull.
For the next four days, I bounce between Hermiston, Oregon, back to Missoula for their rodeo, then to Logan, Utah, totaling forty hours of driving.
Kacey has been checking in more frequently, and I can tell she’s worried about me.
I’m exhausted. I can’t keep going at this pace, but I also don’t have a choice.
Next week is going to be even worse. When we enter rodeos, we tell them what dates we’d prefer, but we don’t always get those dates.
Our preferences are put into a computer system that analyzes our credentials and spits out when we are supposed to compete.
I texted her next week’s schedule and did something I never thought I’d do.
I asked if she would be able to fly out and come with me for a bit.
I’ve never traveled with a girlfriend—maybe for a day or two, but nothing beyond that.
Kacey said she can’t leave the ranch, and I understand that.
Plus, I’m sure she’s looking at a map thinking I’m crazy—and she wouldn’t be wrong.
But if you’re going to take up this line of work, you must be a little crazy, right?
No sane person would take this kind of mental and physical abuse.