
“Who did you draw, Brownie?” Jason asks.
“I’m up next. Who did you get, Ted?” Brownie asks, his voice tinged with anticipation.
Ted grimaces and sneers. “Twister…”
Jason sharply remarks, “He’s a piece of shit. He’ll jerk you down into the well every time if he doesn’t foul ya out of the gate first.”
Ted pulls up close to Brownie and confidentially says, “What you need is a nice, honest bull that will score you in the mid-80s if you cover it.”
Brownie steps up to the table, and the stockman draws a slip of paper from the greasy, sweat-stained straw cowboy hat. “You got Grave Digger.” A wave of mutterings sweeps through the gathered competitors. Some spit on the dirt, a few shift restlessly, and another turns his back and shakes his head dejectedly.
“You bet! You drew Grave Digger! Holy shit, that’s awesome!” says Jason.
Ted shakes his head, says, “My god…” and stalks off.
Jason claps Brownie on the back, a big grin plastered on his face. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just pissed he drew Twister.”
“Is Grave Digger pretty rank?” asks Brownie.
“He only jumps four feet in the air and kicks high, over his head, every move. Anybody who covers him will easily score the mid to high 90s. Cover him, and no doubt you’ll be getting the buckle. Come on, I’ll show him to ya.”
“I don’t know, man…” croaks out Brownie.
“You’re going to win a buckle on this bull, I’m telling you,” Jason says, slapping down on the brim of Brownie’s hat.
From underneath the feet of the bulls, the smell of fresh manure and urine-soaked alfalfa sifts through the 8-foot-tall stock panels. The Brahma relaxes, lying in the middle, calmly chewing his cud, flipping his tail lazily at the flies. Separated from the others is Ted’s bull, Twister, who’s bellowing out angrily, climbing the fence. “Look at Grave Digger; he’s just a big baby, a big kindergartener.
Grave digger is a gorgeous, athletic, silver-grey 2000-pound Brahma; his coat is shiny and healthy. His hump is more significant than average, probably 20 inches. Even with Brownie’s tall and lanky stature, he can in no way see over it.
Ted walks up from behind, arms folded, and interrupts, “You can’t cover him. You’ll get hurt–you need to draw out. Stay in your lane, man. There’s nothing to regret. Just know when to admit you’re gettin’ in over your head.”
“Fuck that shit, Ted. Don’t wuss out. Get your vest and helmet on. You’re up next. Come on, cowboy up,” says Jason, sticking out his chest, puffed up like a bullfrog.
“I know how he rides; I’ve seen him at my arena on my bulls. Juan thinks you should draw out too,” says Ted, throwing him a stern look. “I know what you’re thinking. No guts, no glory. How do you think he got into that wheelchair? He knows us. Ya get me?”
“I’m not drawing out, Ted,” says Brownie. “I want my first buckle by god, in a real way.”
“Show time,” says Jason.
Don’t weaken, Brownie. Just show him your rope before you get in the shoot. Good. Ok, good, get that Rosin hot and sticky, man. That’s good and tacky. Work it in. You’re stiff, breathe! Once you knee up on him, you better nod, like right now, or he’ll blow up on you if you try to reset on him in the shoot. Just knee up, nod, and go. Remember to breathe. Get er’ Done, You got this.
Brownie nods. The rodeo clown pounds down on the latch and then jerks the rope. The gate crashes against the adjacent metal panels. The Brahma flies out and jump kicks over his head. Brownie resets and knees up. “Spur him!” yells Jason. “Kick.” Brownie spurs the bull with his right heel as Grave Digger, sure enough, jumps four feet–on cue–in the air and turns into his infamous spin to the left. Brownie gets blown up into the air, out of his seat, and gets jerked down, face-planting on the hump, cracking his helmet.
“He’s out, he’s out–” yells Ted, as he tears off his black Stetson.
Brownie is hung up, his hand caught in the bull rope, twisted over. With each turn to the left, he floats like a big balloon being pulled along and drifting in space as time collapses around him.
“Open your hand!” screams Jason, running down to the arena fence.
“It is open!” Brownie sputters out as if they were sitting in the same room.
He gets sucked under, one more jump kick to the left, and the bull comes down, stomping him in the lower right chest, sucking the wind away from his lungs. He oofs out in pain.
The bull rope drags loose off the bull as he finishes his last move.
Brownie feels the deep, cold dirt on his cheek through the side of his face guard. He rolls over and climbs to his knees, his right arm curled lamely, up tight to his body.
Three bullfighters scramble to his aid, two distracting the bull, and the other takes Brownie’s good arm over his shoulder and hustles him over into the open shoot. The bullfighters swing it closed behind them.
The bull rope drags loose off the bull as he finishes kicking it free.
Grave Digger exits the arena, as if he knows he can now return to the serenity, laid out in flakes of hay, back in the holding pen; his reward for a job well done, for the train wreck the viewers, cheering raucously, paid to see.
“You alright?” says Jason, climbing up behind the shoot.
“I’m pretty sure I broke some ribs…” Brownie gasps.
“What was it like getting hung up on that bull, Brownie?”
“I heard you tell me to open my hand–and I said it is open…”
