Back 50 years ago, life was simple. We drove old cars, we never had money, but got by on forty cents for lunch and bought gas for fifty cents a gallon.
As a College High student, there was a group of us who had set up the Rodeo Club. We liked horses, cattle, dogs, tall boots, broad brimmed cowboy hats, 60's pickups, a dip of Skoal tucked between 'cheek and gum' and goose down vests to wear in the winter.
Mike was a year ahead, a small fella that wore an off white, kind of a sheep skin hat that still had wool on it, western shirts, and all 5' 6" of him said cowboy. He looked and for a large part, lived the life.
He had bought a used bronc saddle with well used reins and because he had a couple of well-broke horses, he would spend a lot of time practicing his kicking and riding and figuring out the best way to win.
Getting to business. We had the rodeo in Copan. The stands were full, the secretary, Terry a cute junior, handled the books, Sam was announcer and about as goofy as they came, the 4F Rodeo Co. was the stock contractor, there was popcorn and it was a perfect October Saturday night, with just a pinch of coolness to the air.
Saddle Broncs were the opening event. Three of the riders had ridden, two getting bucked off in three to six seconds, one managing to ride and getting a score of sixty-nine. Everyone was pumped up, it was rodeo, and people loved being there.
Mike was next up, the horses had been moved into the bucking shoots. Cowboys were all over getting things ready, moving people around, putting saddles on horses, the riders were there, chaps on, jeans tucked in their boots. I watched as Mike pulled down his body onto the broad back of that horse. Slipping his feet into the stirrups, the judges ready, the gate tautly shut, waiting for that second when Mike would tip his hat and the gate would fly open and he would ride to fame upon that great stallion.
Eight seconds of staying upright, one hand looped through the white rope, his left hand in the air, his knees tucked in to the sides of the horse, Mike nodded his head. The gate flew open. Eight seconds. Just eight.
One: Gate is open and the bronc comes up on his back legs and explodes into the arena.
Two: Horse's front two legs come down hard against the dirt, his body twisted right, blowing down, then up like a box of dynamite, Mike is leaning back, his feet forward, left hand up, right hand pulling that rope hard.
Three: Horse is pushing up on his hind legs, rocking toward that pipe fence on the side of the arena, Mike leans forward, his legs kick back.
Four: This is where the world started to melt and get all warped. Mike's left foot was blown out of the stirrup, as the horse hit the ground. Barreling down the right hand side of the arena, Mike's butt came up out of the saddle, his left leg followed it up, the horse threw in a small twist to the left and Mike's body took a turn backward, his right hand pulling the rope, and through all that torment, his right cowboy boot was anchored in the right stirrup and began to twist.
Five: The horse continued his pace, Mike's body was turned completely backward, the rein was gone, his right foot was locked to the saddle and the horse took another leap, his backend flying high with his feet kicking out . When he came down, Mike's left foot was over the top of the six foot pipe fence. His backside met with the three inch top rail, providing him no resistance, both arms were instantly wrapped around that pipe and his right foot was trapped in the saddle.
Six: Judging was dropped as quickly as Mike had come loose from the rigging. The horse was still kicking. running the right side of the arena, Mike was holding on to the fence when he hit a vertical pipe, that blew his arms apart, the horse lept again, Mike came down again, the two separated company, the horse moved out to the arena, and Mike bouncing out of the arena.
Seven
Eight
Clock had stopped, crowd was still cheering, pickup men rode their horses down and gathered up the bucking horse. Mike felt like every bone in his body had dissapeared, and he was squashed up, stacked down, one foot behind him, one in front of him, both arms wrapped around, and his head sunk low, about three feet from the end of the bleachers, and he heard the next rider called.
In the total six seconds he stayed on that horse, Mike's body had suffered from compression, extraction, pulling and pushing, sitting forward, riding backward, it would have been enough to make anyone cry. Mike had taken many a kick like that and still come up to whistle. He kept his pride and humility deep inside and knew that it might take a week, or two, or three before he felt normal and could walk again, but that he would.
Oh well, there was always the next week to ride.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Picture taken at Claremore, Oklahoma
Memory from Copan, Oklahoma
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