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Red Malone was drunk again. But even drunk, Red could pull a bull rope better than most men could sober. He had an intuitive sense of how tight to pull a rope for any bull. Didnt matter if hed ever seen the bull or not. Didnt matter what your riding style was. Red would pull your rope and when he stopped, you better just take your tail and start your wrap.
I knew some hands that thought they knew better. Theyd declare that they rode with a tighter or looser rope, or theyd say they had seen this bull before and Red hadnt. Didnt matter. If they took more rope or let off from where Red had stopped, theyd either buck off or make such a bad ride that they wouldnt place.
Id seen it hundreds of times, so when Red stopped pulling my rope on The Reverend, I asked him to pinch it off even though I would normally have let off a little bit in deference to The Reverends famous strength. The black Brahma cross was known to jump high and then let the front end drop right out from underneath you. That usually brought a rider down on the two, straight nine-inch horns-black but tipped with streaks of grey at the very point. And The Reverend could feel you coming. He knew how to catch you with those clown stabbers and had done it more times than not.
In fact, thats how he got his name. He had once been called Black 3 for his color and the brand on his left hip, but then came the day, they said, when he had given the last rites to a bull rider. And the name The Reverend had stuck ever since. Hed been unridden by the pros for three years now, ever since hed been sold to big-time stock contractor Shorty Coffield.
Only person who had ever ridden the black bull was Red, back when the bull was being bucked in an amateur rodeo string in South Texas. I hadnt seen it, but a friend of mine had. He said it had been the wildest, best ride hed ever seen. Went 92 points. And thats something you dont usually see in amateur rodeos. My friend had said it was magical. But that was probably because Red had been a pro. Hed made the Finals two or three years back in the 50s and had been second in the bull riding each of those years when the Finals was over. Always the bridesmaid, it seemed.
But he had ridden The Reverend. And hed been 54 years old when hed done it. That was one reason most of the young bull riders tolerated him. Even the young hotshot, 18-year-old kids with all their scientific bull riding schools and theories couldnt ride The Reverend. But Red had. And at an age that most of them equated with nursing homes. He was a legend. A living legend. And, as usual, the living legend was drunk.
I could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath as he stuck his head as close to the slats as he could to whisper to me.
"When he drops, let him. Dont fight against it. Give it to him, push on your arm, then take it back. Itll take the power away from him. When he asks for the rope, just shove it at him and let him have it. Then when he spins, keep looking at his outside shoulder. Hell drop that inside shoulder and drop you in the well. And when that dont work, hell go high and throw the power at you again."
And then he was gone.
The whisper had been so low that I wasnt even sure I had heard it. Red usually pulled everyones rope he could, but he almost never gave anyone any advice. By now, he was probably 60 and I guess he was kind of fed up with listening to all the young banty roosters crowing and just got his satisfaction out of seeing them fall.
The Reverend shifted weight and gave me a chance to slide into position. I did and called for the gate.
Outside, Ranger Williams opened the gate a notch to get The Reverend to look, then swung it wide when he did.
The black bull erupted from the chute in a cloud of dirt, and a long string of slobber arced back from his mouth. He made a twisting turn to the left, hit the ground and immediately reversed to the right. Nothing out of the ordinary yet. His big jump usually came about three out.
Sure enough, he made one more jump to the right and bucked for the stars. I knew the bottom was getting ready to drop out and I started to tense up for it, but a little voice somewhere in the back of my brain said, just loud enough for me to hear, "Give it to him." I relaxed, let the black bull jerk my arm straight, and pushed with my riding arm.
Somewhere below the black hump in front of my riding arm and rope, the bulls hooves hit the ground with a jolt and I felt the shock all the way up my arm. But as if stimulated by the jolt, Reds next words came, "Then take it back." And I let my elbow flex, pulled my butt back up against my riding hand, and shuffled my feet for a better hold.
Then The Reverend was coming up again, and I knew that if Red hadnt told me about him, I would have relaxed a bit, thinking the worst was over. As it was, I felt him come around to the left, away from my riding hand, and I tucked my chin into my right shoulder and looked just to the right of my gloved hand. Not enough, though. I felt the inside shoulder of the big black bull drop and it rolled me slightly that way. If Id looked right at my riding hand like I usually did, Id have been dumped into the well right there, away from my hand and hung up where the clowns couldnt even get to me past the hooves and horns.
I pressed my chin and right cheek harder into my shoulder and felt that smooth feeling you get when youre sitting right on the line, not being dropped into well and not having the centrifugal force pulling you outside. I was right in the one spot where the forces counteracted each other. I kept it up for two more rounds before I felt the spin slow when The Reverend hit the ground again. Id been there enough to know what that meant.
Sure enough, the big black felt like he went to his knees, gathering up all the force he could in those massive four legs in order to make that spectacular leap he was known for. And for the second time in the ride, I let Reds words come to me again. And for the second time, I weathered the move that for three years had rained cowboys in arenas all over the country.
My mind was racing, wondering what might come next if I actually made it through that move, when I heard the buzzer. Before the black had another chance, I pulled my tail and let his next move send me flying off and to the right. I landed on my feet and the world returned to normal.
Folks that have never ridden bulls or broncs or clowned usually dont know how it feels for that eight seconds. Sometimes, everything is a blur. Sometimes, everything is extremely clear, but it feels like youre getting every third frame in a movie. Occasionally, you feel like it was a dream because you think you made that whole ride in your mind. You know you made the physical moves required, but you also know that it was in your mind that the real contest took place. But almost always, you have no real concept of the crowd, the judges, the arena-no knowledge of anything existing except whatever piece of you and the bull comes into view. You hear nothing else, you see nothing else. If it isnt directly tied to him throwing you off or you staying on, it doesnt exist. You feel like youre in another world of blurred motion and your brain talking to itself and your body. Youre in some sort of spell cast by a wizard that stops all that extra stuff. And when you hit the ground, whether on your head or on your feet, the spell is broken and the world returns to its usual loud, frantic pace.
And thats just what happened when my feet hit the ground. Suddenly, the deafening roar of the crowd filled my ears just as Barney Lithgow, the bullfighter, moved past, pushed me on the butt with one hand, and said, "Move it, cowboy!" Even before he touched me, I had been in motion, heading for the closest fence, about six feet away. Behind me I heard Barney holler at the bull and the snort that answered. As I pulled myself up, I chanced a glance behind and saw Barney expertly taking the bull in the opposite direction.
That was when I realized that the entire coliseum was standing on its feet, screaming and clapping. Six or seven hands slapped me on the shoulders and, despite the din, I heard Lane Chambers, my travelling buddy, saying something in my ear.
"&fantastic. Jesus, Marty, his goddamned butt was so far over his head I thought he was gonna turn a friggin somersault!! Twice!!!!! And that spin&"
The announcer broke through the noise of the crowd and clipped off the rest of Lanes remark.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a new arena record. Ninety three points for Marty Sanders of Dripping Springs, Texas. And only two points below the all-time record for a bull ride in professional rodeo."
After that, things sort of slowed down. I thanked a lot of folks for their comments, I shook a lot of hands, I grinned a lot. I finally got my gear back into my rigging bag and threw it over my shoulder.
The whole time since the ride, I hadnt seen Red Malone. I made my way through a crowd of bareback riders and buckle bunnies near the entrance of the tunnel leading out of the coliseum and there he was. Standing kind of haphazard against the doorway, a big grin on his face.
For the first time since Id met him, Red didnt look drunk. I could still smell the whiskey on him, but it didnt seem so dank and stale as it had when hed whispered to me through the slats. Maybe it was because he wasnt so close. He had his thumbs hooked in his front pockets and was leaning against the doorjamb like cowboys do, wearing that big grin. He took his right hand out of his pocket long enough to push his hat back just a little, the way old-timers do when theyre gonna say something, and nodded at me. I wanted to beat him to it.
"Thanks, Red," I said. "Id have sure wasted him if hadnt been for you."
Still grinning, Red shook his head slightly.
"Naw, youd a-figured it out okay. Maybe not this time, but next time, or the next. Youre smarter than the rest and you dont quit."
"Well, thanks anyway. No way I can repay you. Can I buy you a drink or something?"
Red looked off across the parking lot as if someone were waiting for him there.
"Naw, I got to go."
Where? I wondered. Red usually hung around after the show, waiting for someone to buy him a drink or two.
"Red?"
"Yeah?"
"Whyd you do it? Tell me, I mean. Why didnt you let me just crash and burn and learn it the next time?"
I thought I saw a wet spot on the corner of one eye.
"You never taunted me, kid. The others all thought I was just an old drunk. Yeah, they knew I rode The Reverend, and they put up with me. But I heard the stuff they said behind my back. You never did. I appreciate that."
Again, he looked off across the parking lot. He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me one more smile before he left. I felt a tingle run through my body and I felt like I could do anything all of a sudden.
"Well, I got to go, kid."
I nodded at him and he started walking off across the parking lot, not like some old drunk, but like the champ he had almost been. Just before he got out of the circle of light at the entrance, just before he entered the inky black darkness of the parking lot, he turned one more time and waved at me. Almost as an afterthought, his cracked, old voice said one more thing.
"Besides, its time I passed it on."
Then he turned and was gone before I asked what that meant.
I never saw Red Malone again. He died in a wreck that night. I went to his funeral. Me and four or five others, mostly old-timers. Each one stopped to thank me for coming and, as I shook hands with them, each one looked at me funny, as if Id shocked them when our hands touched. Then, each one smiled and nodded at me and left.
That year, I went to the Finals in second place. In the final round I won the bull riding world championship. The bull I drew in that final round was one Shorty Coffield had bought about a week after Id ridden The Reverend. He was a big Santa Gertrudis bull with an M brand on his hip. They called him Red M.
*~*~*~*~*
Copyright © 2002 George Wilhite. All rights reserved.
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