Cowboys: It’s Time To Show Your Best Scars

The rodeo is in full buck at the Spokane Arena this weekend, and frankly, I may picket.

Not because the rodeo is harmful to animals, but because the rodeo is harmful to me. I have the scar to prove it.

You see, I was in a rodeo once. However, I am not exactly a real rodeo cowboy like Larry Mahan or Ty Murray. I’m not even a real rodeo cowboy like Slim Pickens or Andy Devine. I am a reporter, and I was in a rodeo as part of a Media Calf-Tying Contest staged in my Wyoming town.

Each of the town’s media outlets was invited to field a team in this event, which meant that my newspaper was competing against the town’s other media powerhouses, the radio station and the Li’l Nickel Want Ads.

Our team of three had prepared diligently for this event by polishing our boots and purchasing new hats. I took the preparation a step further by practicing my granny knot to perfection.

The instructions were simple: A cute little calf would be let loose in the arena. We were to run after it, throw it to the ground, lash three of its legs together and then raise our hands in triumph.

I noticed a problem as soon as that calf burst out of the chute. I had envisioned some kind of little baby calf, all gangly legs and big eyes, like the newborn calves on “All Creatures Great and Small.” But this calf was the size of a small pickup. It wasn’t a baby; it was a buffed-up teenager.

Also, this calf was fast. It galloped toward the far end of the arena, where it turned and gave us a surly stare. We plodded after it. When we finally arrived, it streaked past us to the other end of the arena.

As I staggered in its wake, I heard an odd rumbling sound from the distant grandstand. It was the sound of 1,000 spectators laughing.

At this moment, it dawned on me that our role in this event was not to provide sheer heart-pounding thrills. Our role was to provide slapstick comedy.

Humiliation is an excellent motivator. After about three minutes of chasing, we finally surrounded that calf. We jumped on it and tried to drag it down, somewhat like three Pee Wee football players trying to drag down Emmitt Smith. Finally, the calf tripped over one of us and went down.

My job was to hold three legs together while one of my partners wielded the rope. I had never understood, in all of my reading and education, exactly how strongly a calf is opposed to having its legs tied together. I’d get two hooves in my hand and would be reaching for a third when the two in my grasp would come loose, flailing as if pedaling a bicycle.

We were about five minutes into this spectacle, but the crowd was still with us. They were enjoying themselves immensely.

Finally, I managed to corral all three legs in my hands.

“Come on! Get ‘em tied!” I shouted to one of my partners, who had apparently not been practicing his granny.

He was just about finished when all of a sudden my field of vision was filled by an enormous muddy hoof. I heard a profound clanging noise, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the Liberty Bell.

The next thing I knew, I was lying flat on my back. My head throbbed; a roaring noise filled my ears. It took me a second to realize what had happened. The calf had let fly with one killer hoof and caught me right on the brow line. Blood was trickling into my eye.

It also took me a second to realize what that roaring sound was. It was the crowd, cheering.

I jumped back up and grabbed that calf’s legs. Blood had been drawn; now I meant business. We got that granny tied in record time, and we threw our arms up in triumph.

The crowd went nuts, possibly in appreciation of our accomplishment, or possibly in appreciation of the sight of blood.

There was no permanent damage except for that small scar above my eyebrow, but you can imagine how this has affected my feelings toward rodeo animals.

I have a hard time seeing them as persecuted. In fact, I’ll bet some of them know they have a dream job: Eat, sleep, and every couple of days, pound a human into the ground.

To leave a message on Jim Kershner’s voice-mail, call 459-5493. Or send e-mail to jimk@spokesman.com, or regular mail to Spokesman-Review, P.O. Box 2160, Spokane, WA 99210.

, DataTimes The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Jim Kershner The Spokesman-Review