Desert Dispatch by Richard deRosa

Day at the Rodeo Features Impressive Skills, Shared Sense of Pride

A while ago, we spent the day at the annual Tucson rodeo. Quite a day; fascinating from many perspectives. How can one not come away in awe of 4-6 year-old “mutton busters” holding on for dear life astride a bucking sheep while being dragged hundreds of feet across the arena dirt. And then, standing tall while waving to the adoring crowd. Gotta start young in this business. Later came the bareback bronc riding. Most riders were able to hold on for the minimum time, while a few barely made it out of the chute. One rider was thrown over his buckskin bronc’s head, ending in a heap just as the bronc’s forelegs appeared headed for his face. Fortunately, the hooves missed; a close call.

As impressive as these daredevils’ skills were, we marveled at the work of the several pick-up riders who, after plucking each rider from the bronc and dropping him to the ground, herded the bronc into a holding pen at the far end of the area. However, in one instance—try as they might to extricate the rider from the horse as it bucked and galloped around the edge of the area, the rider flapping back and forth as if tossed by a gale force wind—it took several attempts at full gallop to extricate the poor guy. Once the horse was freed of his rider, or tormentor, there ensued a merry chase, with the pickup guys herding the still angry horse out of the arena. The rider, as is customary with these very tough cowboys, stomped the ground with his boots, stretched a bit and sauntered off toward the chutes as if all is in a day’s work, which it is. Only a cynic or a fool would come away from witnessing such daunting displays of, well, courage without a sense of awe at what these guys go through day in and day out.

The first few hours of the day were devoted to a junior rodeo. One of the most intriguing events was goat roping. They bring out a goat (always an alternate goat in reserve), tie it to a stake and make sure it is standing. Then out of the chute gallops a young girl, who stops short of the goat, jumps off her horse, grabs the goat by the neck, flops it over on its back, and ties its three legs together. And, if successful, raises her arms up in triumph at the crowd. The youngest of these kids was 6—amazing. The next event, barrel racing, proved equally exciting. Just watching these young girls (all girls) ages 6-13 zoom around the barrels at high speed, their mounts bent into each turn at a very acute angle, fills one with pride in what they have accomplished and a sense of the artistry of it all.

Perhaps some might quibble with characterizing such feats as artistry, but to me there is no room for debate on this one. I would describe all the events we subsequently watched as exhibiting amazing artistry, be it the steer roping, both individually and in teams of two, saddle bronc riding, or a lone rider galloping after a steer and leaping off his horse onto the steer to bring it down on its back within the prescribed time limit.

There is another aspect of the day that has given me much to think about. First of all, if one wants to experience a very real, eye-opening slice of American life, a rodeo is a great place. Checking out the crowd it is easy to see, if visual inspections of this sort have any reliability, folks from all walks of life: cowgirls and cowboys of all ages, buckle-bunnies galore, snowbirds, the tattooed and un-tattooed, all manner of body shapes and sizes enjoying what can only be described as generally unhealthy carnival fare, and beer available everywhere, courtesy of Coors. If one has either a passing interest in ornamentation style or a deeper interest from an anthropological perspective, a rodeo is a great place to gather colorful data. Imagine anything possible and you’ve got it. Suffice it to say, all slices of American life came together on a sunny Arizona day to enjoy the enduringly American spectacle that a rodeo is.

I am neither a religious guy, nor someone particularly fond of excessive displays of nationalism or jingoism in its most virulent forms. However, I remain affected by the thoughts and feelings I felt that afternoon. At the start of the afternoon’s events, the announcer offered up a lengthy prayer with unabashed patriotic overtones. Okay. That was followed by the national anthem sung by a member of the U.S. Navy, my branch, and at the same time a cowgirl with flag hoisted galloped around the arena, the flag waving proudly in the breeze. It was clear that everyone there was deeply affected by the rituals, as was I, quite to my surprise. There is something ineffable, almost indefinable, about feelings aroused at such moments. I felt a oneness with others that I have not experienced in that way in a long time. I shared the pride felt by the crowd. I felt very patriotic at a time when my feelings of patriotism are all too often effaced by so much that is detestable in our culture these days. But that momentary coming together of a shared sense of pride in who we are and what we CAN stand for dumped a bit more hopefulness into my spirit.

At the end of the day, we made our way to the VFW tent. An announcement had been made inviting Vietnam vets to stop by to get a pin commemorating their service. I usually eschew that sort of thing, but Sandy pushed me despite my reluctance. Not possible to describe my feelings when I shook the hands of two young soldiers who thanked me for my service and handed me a pin as a moment. Kind of choked up a bit; not my customary response to that sort of thing. Glad I did it. It does not change my basic assumptions and feelings about that long-ago war that wrecked thousands of lives needlessly. But I think the choking unearthed a latent sense of patriotism of the kind that still believes that if we follow the lead of our better angels well, there is hope. Can’t wait until the next rodeo.