Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Bailey
Iwas always going to feel like a fish out of water at a rodeo, but that’s nothing new for me.
For a girl who grew up dancing ballet, finding myself covering major sporting events is a whole new world.
But I’m a professional and observing things is part of the job, so I tune out my own awareness of how much I feel like I don’t belong and focus instead on what I’m seeing—the elaborate flag garlands strung from the ceiling, people clapping and cheering—and what I’m smelling—the clay I can practically taste in the air, the adrenalin.
Rodeo people, for example, wear a lot of denim and plaid, and they really love their cowboy hats.
I’m surrounded by a sea of the same kind of person, excited and talking loudly, eating golden fries, drinking beer, laughing or tapping their boots along to the country music blaring from the speakers above.
This is a huge arena, and a quick scan of the stands shows it to be almost full to capacity.
Rodeo people are also very, very friendly.
Clearly I’m not the only one who perceives how much I don’t fit in here, because at least ten fellow spectators stop to ask if I need help finding my seat.
I smile and shake my head in response to each offer, picking my way carefully down the steps, toward the section my editor’s arranged.
I usually get a pretty good spot for watching games, and tonight’s no different.
The press pass I’ve been given takes me right down into a pit near the chutes, practically level with them.
There are photographers and other journalists here, but not many.
I glance around, getting my bearings, then reach for my notepad and begin jotting things down.
There’s something about this environment that’s electric.
It’s somehow more alive and vibrant than anything I’ve covered before.
The crowd seems to hum with excitement and energy, the stadium pulses with it.
The song finishes and an announcer begins to talk, his southern drawl promising a wild night.
He lists the bulls, and some riders by name.
When he calls out ‘the Comeback King, Beau Donovan’, the crowd goes wild, with everyone stomping in unison, so the sound is deafening.
My heart picks up in time with it; I look around, trying to find him, to no avail.
A stadium this big has a dressing room, and the riders are likely all back there, preparing for their rides.
I find myself wishing I’d grabbed a soda on the way in, but there’s no time now.
Just as I’m weighing it up, the lights dim and the event begins.
The anthem’s first, with the crowd getting to their feet as one, removing hats from heads.
A sense of awe makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
When it’s over, the announcers start to introduce the riders and I notice they’ve come into the stadium.
There’s a sort of uniformity to them in their denim, chaps, shirts, boots, and yet, somehow, my eyes find Beau easily.
His frame is different, or maybe just more familiar to me.
I spot him as though I’ve known him all my life, and even like this, with distance making it hard to see the details of his face, my throat thickens and my insides churn.
Awareness is washing over me in the same way patriotism did the stadium a moment earlier.
I pull back a little, as if to hide from him.
Which is a stupid instinct, because there’s no way he’s looking in my direction, no way he’s even thinking about me.
His whole focus is, as it should be, on the ride ahead.
I’ve done enough research, watched enough documentaries on the sport, to know that’s how it goes. Nonetheless, when Beau’s name is called and he lifts his hat from his head, I swear his face shifts in my direction, and a tingle runs the full length of my spine. I look away quickly.
It doesn’t matter how much research I did.
The bull riding I see first-hand is more brutal and dangerous than I’d imagined, and more incredible as well.
There is something so wild about seeing a man on the back of one of these beasts, being thrust and flung into the air; to see a man challenge himself against the strength of a bull, to try to tame an animal so wild and mean, that just can’t help but take your breath away.
Everything about the event is designed to capitalise on that. The songs between riders hype up the crowd, and build the excitement, so by the time we reach the halfway point, I’m almost breathless with anticipation. And, yes, fully invested in the outcome.
I make copious notes on the riders’ athleticism, strength and smarts, their courage in facing down these animals, their foolhardy determination.
And also their camaraderie, for as they each prepare to enter the chute and then finish up their own rides, their competitors are right there, patting them on the back, laughing with them, commiserating, checking in.
They might be at loggerheads in the competition, but there’s clearly a sense of community with these guys too.
At some point, I slip out. Not for a soda, in the end, but a beer.
My nerves are stretched tight, my adrenalin pumping raw and uncontained through my body.
I know Beau’s ride is coming up, and having seen what I’ve seen, I’m prepared to watch him getting tossed around on the back of a bull.
I don’t know why the thought makes me anxious.
He’s nothing to me—just an interview subject I’ve known for fewer than twenty-four hours.
But I’m fidgeting like wild when I get back to my seat.
There are four more riders after the break, before Beau’s name is called.
I’d memorised his bull’s name—Lucky Shot—so the second he’s brought into the chute, I’m craning forward to get a good look at him.
Big, dark, with horns that catch the light and almost seem to gleam.
As I watch, Lucky Shot slams his head against the steel, then rears back, shaking the gate. Clouds of dust rise from the ground, where his hooves are scraping and stamping. The bull seems fit to burst, but that doesn’t stop Beau.
He climbs up the side of the chute, his easy athleticism on display as he throws one leg over the gate and lifts his hat off his head.
The crowd goes wild, roaring a huge cheer that does nothing to improve Lucky Shot’s mood.
He rams forward again, rattling the chute.
This time the spotlights are roaming the audience to build hype, so I see the way Beau grins, cocky as fuck, like he finds the bull’s obvious outrage hilarious.
I’ve seen all the other riders do the same thing, so I don’t know why my heart is in my mouth as Beau starts preparing to get on the bull—pushing on his gloves, limbering up his body.
He looks down at the animal and both of them go completely still for a moment.
I hold my breath. It’s like a challenge, a meeting of the minds, or a testing of the wills.
I lean forward a little, wanting to be a part of that silent communication, to understand it better.
Then he’s reaching over the chute, curving one hand around the railing, before swinging his leg down and dropping into position.
The beast reacts instantly, bucking. The crowd erupts, the music gets louder, but Beau doesn’t respond.
He’s completely focused now, locked in. I watch him go through more of the routines I’ve seen the other riders do, pulling on ropes then getting them in position—but somehow, this just feels different.
Every move he makes has an opposite reaction from the bull. As Beau gradually asserts his control and dominance, the bull responds by bucking and fighting, then the bull stills—like the eye of a storm.
I don’t even realise how far forward I’ve leaned until the coldness of the steel bar presses against my chest. I don’t pull back. I hold my breath, needing to see this, to see it all.
Time seems to slow right down. Beau lowers his head and his chest moves with each exhalation.
A woman calls something, above the din of the crowd; the bull makes a loud snorting noise.
Beau is completely still, his eyes locked straight ahead.
The bull’s name is read over the loudspeaker, and a moment later Beau’s.
The crowd roars and Beau nods to the operator.
The chute gate slams open, banging, metal on metal, and the bull bursts out, hard and fast, clearly furious.
Dust from the ground plumes behind them; I jerk my head to the left, then leap to my feet, staring as the bull bucks and twists, Beau’s body flat against the bull’s back for a second.
At one point, he jumps to face me, and I swear my eyes and the bull’s meet, his darker than night, deathlier than sin.
Blood pounds in my veins as though I’m the one in the firing line, as though I’m the one about to be bucked.
My whole body feels like it’s on tenterhooks.
I wait, nails digging into my palms. My eyes flick to the clock across the stadium. Three seconds gone.
How can it have only been three seconds?