For the Bulls of the PBR!

It happened quite by accident really. I was flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch on TV, when I stumbled upon bull riding.
Thinking it might be a rodeo, I decided to watch a bit of it. I was hoping they’d show barrel racing. That had always been my favorite at the annual rodeos I attended as a teenager at the local fairgrounds (in Dayton, Ohio).
I’d never seen the attraction to bull riding. It has no function other than sport. The bull is bred strictly for the event. It is not a dairy bull, nor a beef bull, only a bucking bull. I find it an arrogant sport at that--the epitome of “small man syndrome” (and by this I refer to smallness of ego, not stature).
The bull is put into a “chute” so he can’t move--it’s the only way to get on his back. A rope is tied around his groin to ensure his annoyance, and a spur-sporting cowboy climbs onto his back. Said bull is then released into the arena, twisting and bucking, trying to throw the cowboy off his back before the eight second buzzer signals a successful “ride.” Who thought of this?!
I envision a bunch of rowdies sittin’ ‘round the campfire drinking grog, when one of ‘em says, “Hey! Let’s make a bull mad and try to ride him!”
You’d think that the first broken rib, or dislocated shoulder--not to mention hitting the hard ground upon “dismount”--would have put an end to this idea, but no-o-o! They just tied themselves on tighter and had at it.
It’s now a Ford sponsored, Las Vegas-big, event. And so, disappointed, I reached for the remote.
But then it happened. The camera zoomed into the chute, where the next cowboy was boarding a bull named Chili Pepper. He was a white bull “peppered” with red spots. “Aptly named,” I thought.
Then the camera caught his eyes. A chill went through me--the kind of chill that goes through me when they show Charlie Manson on TV--the chill of confronting sheer madness. I froze.
Well, they opened the chute and that bull exploded in a fury of bucking and twisting like I’ve never seen. The cowboy was thrown so fast, he might as well have just stayed in the chute--and that part of me that appreciates poetic justice cheered.
I spent the rest of the summer watching PBR bull riding--not for the eight second ride, mind you, but for when the cowboy loses his rope, or his balance, lands in the dirt, and the bull wins. It’s especially exciting when the bull wheels around and chases the limping would-be rider out of the ring. Sometimes it gets serious and the “clowns” (now called bullfighters) have to step in, distracting the bull so the guy can get away.
Do I have any sympathy for the participants in this sport? Who suffer the broken bones and torn muscles, the sprains and dislocated joints? Who risk getting stomped on and gored by maddened animals? Nope. Anyone fool enough to attempt riding a ticked-off, two thousand pound creature reaps what he sows. I have no sympathy--I root for the bulls!