It’s all over the TV. But I contend that people watch in morbid fascination, sort of like creeping up on a six-car pile-up on the Interstate.
It’s hard to look away. It’s hard to change the channel.
PBR events are categorized as mounted sports, but that may be open to interpretation. This is a sport in which lasting eight seconds before doing a full-face plant in the dirt constitutes a successful ride.
To me, a successful ride is when I complete a second-level test and my horse Broadway doesn’t swap out in the counter canter.
Also implied is the fact that afterward, I didn’t have to tape any ribs. And I didn’t need to be dragged from the ring by two guys in clown suits. Oh, and I didn’t die.
These guys think that a saddle consists of a length of rope wrapped twice around a raging bovine. Me, I like my Albion dressage saddle — not quite a Barcalounger, but close.
I’ve often wondered what a tough old bull rider does if he lives long enough to retire. Maybe he’d make a SWAT or Secret Service team: “Base to Team One: Surround the place with rodeo clowns — Nothin’ gets past them guys.” Response to kidnap threats? “Strum a guitar off-key and eat beans three meals a day — nobody’ll come close.”
And how does a bull rider get medical insurance? A barn worker gets his toe stepped on and his medical policy is canceled. I can’t think of many jobs more dangerous than bull riding. Maybe that crazy Aussie crocodile hunter, he does the same thing but with reptiles, and wearing shorts. And Slim Pickens rode an atomic bomb in Dr. Strangelove — but he had a stunt double.
These guys are all totally insane. Why do they do it? It must be the prize money, which is impressive. It’s so competitive, there are now futurities, classics, and high-dollar competitions for the bulls.
Not everyone in the audience is rooting for the cowboy. The stock providers and bull owners are rooting for the four-legged athletes.
Thus the interesting contrast in the Ed and Parker Minchin story — the wide cultural gap between the English and Western sports.
On one weekend, Ed Minchin would be plugging horn holes with chewing tobacco and sending that dazed cowboy back to the chute with a pep talk.
The next weekend, he’ll be sipping champagne in the hospitality tent, watching his wife ride in the Hunter Classic.
