Young female riders, their cowboy hats pulled down hard on their heads and their horses flying around as if they had wings, circled the arena while hoisting almost every flag conceivable.
Flags of all the military services … flags of the various sponsors from Cowtown Boots to Jim Beam … flags of the different events …. and, of course, the flag of Old Glory.
A rodeo clown, more in the line of Jimmy Fallon than Ronald McDonald, and concert-like music revved up the capacity crowd. Cowboy hats outnumbered baseball caps in the stands. Many of the women were dressed up like Dale Evans.
It was cheesy. It was adrenalin fueled. It was La Fiesta de los Vaqueros — the Tucson Rodeo.
And forgive me if you have to, but I loved it.
I’m probably like a lot of you. I grew up watching the Saturday morning cowboy shows on TV. Songs like George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning” about an aging rodeo star (“I’ll be looking for eight when they pull that gate and I hope that judge ain’t blind.”) are still in my wheelhouse. And there’s just something about a man vs. beast showdown that appeals to my inner (and ancient) warrior.
It’s American Ninja Warrior played out in the saddle.
I watched an 18-year-old named Rocker Steiner, already a third-generation rodeo star, ride a bucking bronc with his long hair flowing out of his cowboy hat and holding on for the needed eight seconds. Then the native of Weatherford, Texas, vaulted up and over the fence as if he were a gymnast.
Most of the older cowboys took a little more time exiting the arena with their old injuries and energy-saving pace. They all had that swagger.
My favorites had to be the steer wrestlers — or bulldoggers — who drop off their hard-charging horses onto a steer and pull it to the ground by its horns. These guys look like they could have been Navy SEALS in another life.
After they’re done, they saunter off in a way that you can’t tell if they had a good ride or a bad one. They’re cowboy cool, after all.
And then there are the women, with Steely Steiner, Rocker’s older sister, setting the pace in the barrel racing on her horse, Hillbilly Bombshell. If the men supply the grit to the rodeo, the women supply the grace with the way they maneuver their steeds around the barrels at breakneck speed.
Most of these cowboys and cowgirls come from little dots on the map and probably down dusty roads, too. Some of their names and hometowns could be put into song.
Here’s a few: Team roper Cash Duty from Weimer, Texas … bull rider Creek Young from Fort Scott, Kansas, … barrel racer Blythe Beshears from Gilbert, Arizona, … and saddle broncers Wyatt Casper from Miami, Texas, and Brody Cress from Hillsdale, Wyoming. And how about barrel racer Sonya Dodginghorse from the Tsuut’ana Nation in Alberta, Canada.
Great names. Great competitors.
Cowboys may be a dying breed, but rodeos do a good job of keeping their rough and raw-boned legacy alive.
Of course, when it comes to rodeo, there’s always the elephant in the room. Or shall we say a Brahma bull in the room. Animal-rights advocates hate rodeos and I am not discounting their points. I just don’t know enough about it to take a side.
I do know that some of the calves and steers got jerked pretty hard and the bucking straps tightened around bulls’ and horses’ flanks can’t feel good for those several seconds that they are on. But every animal that we saw jogged — or sprinted — off after their brief time in the arena.
Cowboys don’t jog. As I said, they swagger. And I love them for it.