By Virginia Parsons
Special to the Herald
We went to the Rincon Rodeo last month.
I bought a shirt that says, “Not my first Rincon Rodeo” which, of course, it was. We were about 10 minutes late for the start time, dust and hooves were already flying, so we walked the long way around the arena to weasel into whatever seats we could find. As we wrapped around the bend, a bronco in the ring bucked off one of the night’s first cowboys. When he crumpled to the ground, the horse kicked him in the face. As the announcer broadcasted the update for a mercilessly excited crowd, the cowboy stumbled to his feet, looked directly at me and spat his tooth into his hand. This was going to be good.
About ten minutes into the show, the announcer, a handsome, middle-aged man with a well-groomed beard and a shining, white smile, asked for volunteers; three teams each consisting of three men.
The crowd didn’t exactly jump up so he asked again, “I need three teams, back here at the chutes, three teams of three men each, don’t be scared now, come on back and be part of the show.” Two guys in their mid-thirties volunteered, one with long hair and a ball cap, one with dark hair and glasses.
“Alright, we can take a team of two, we need two more teams now, get out of those seats and come on over y’all, two more teams back here at the cow pens.” I gave my husband a look. He looked back with no interest. I stood up slowly. He shook his head and a smile glinted. I handed him my phone and stepped away slowly, expecting him to say ‘aw alright’. He closed his eyes, smiled gently, and shook his head again.
As I approached the arena gate where the two volunteers stood fidgeting, the announcer was still trying to sell this volunteer event.
I caught his eye and shouted “Could I join a team?”
And he, smiling at me over the microphone and speaking to the crowd, said, “Well now, don’t y’all reckon cowgirls can do anything cowboys can do?” and the crowd roared. He gestured me into the ring. “She looks about as tough as woodpecker lips too, I can tell you that much.”
It had not occurred to me that he’d asked for nine men to volunteer, I figured he’d used the term colloquially. It hit me then that this could be a dangerous game I’d volunteered for; but the rich smell of horses and the soft shift of mud beneath my boots got me pumped. Besides, things like this usually veer on the side of gimmicky and overly safe in the interest of insurance premiums, right? Surely, we’d be racing in potato sacks or pinning the tail on a paper donkey.
I stood next to my teammates and asked if they minded if I join. They offered me fist bumps and “Hell yeah’s”. As two other teams of three men finally assembled, perhaps not to be outdone by a woman, the announcer called the taller of my teammates into the center of the ring.
“What’s your name, my man?” he asked
“Will!” my partner answered. The announcer pulled off Will’s ball cap.
“Well, we’re just gonna call you mullet, man, that’s no haircut, that’s overdue is what that is.”
Again, the crown roared, this time with laughter. As my other teammate, Danny, and I introduced ourselves to each other, the announcer named us Team Mullet, and named the other two teams ‘Two’ and ‘Three’.
“There is a bull behind each of these gates,” he gestured toward three narrow farm gates, each adorned with an ad from a restaurant or construction firm in town, “Your job is to wrangle the bull and get these here britches on his back legs and up over his rear end.” I felt my eyebrows raise as I glanced to my teammates. “They had me sign a waiver the last time I volunteered at a rodeo.” Will chuckled quietly. I ran my tongue over my teeth, counting. The rodeo clown, an 11-year-old-boy who was the world’s youngest (and also something like a 4th generation) rodeo entertainer, handed out dramatically over-sized, silky underpants; red, blue, and finally white to us.
My teammates and I exchanged excited, nervous, confident looks. We were guided toward a gate with an El Real Restaurant ad zip-tied to the front; this was our bull. The flankman handed Will, our sturdiest teammate, the rope that was fastened around our bull’s horns. “I’ll get his shoulders down, y’all get him pinned and get those underwear on him.” He nodded, Danny nodded, I nodded. I shifted side to side in the mud, eyes glued to the bull behind the gate.
An air horn split the tension. The gate flung open, the bull was rearing to go; he was dark brown, had a black face and black legs, and was almost as tall as me. They’d trimmed the points off his horns but they were still about two feet across and they cut the air like wildfire.
Will snagged the rope around his horns went for his head, Danny and I hustled around in the dirt, knees bent, arms open, ready for any opportunity to jump in. Will ended up wrapping his arms around the bull’s horns and twisted his head so that they both hit the earth with a frump and a cloud of dust. Danny landed on his shoulders as I grabbed the white, silky britches from the ground.
As I dropped my knees into the mud, I glanced up and tried to open the waistband. A smaller, light brown bull went streaking across the arena, his rope dragging the ground behind him. An entire team of men chased after him, one almost tripping over Will and our bull’s head. “Get ‘em on there!” one of my teammates encouraged, still fighting to keep the steer grounded. I wrapped one leg loop around the bull’s hoof and yanked the waist band so I could find the other loop.
An instinct told me to duck; he kicked and I narrowly missed a sharp hoof to the face. I could feel and taste dust between my teeth. I managed to get both leg openings on over his hocks but he was lying on his hip.
The announcer was watching, “The lady’s having trouble getting the underwear on, but this team’s got the right idea! You just gotta get it over his hips!” Will and Danny gave the bull space to stand up and as he stood, Danny and I pulled the waistband over his tail and hip bones.
“Yeah! There we have it folks, the woman’s team wins! Team Mullet wins!” the announcer cheered. The crowd was deafening, Will, Danny, and I fist-pumped the air, rooted and hollered, high-fived each other. One of the other teams had their bull cornered, the third was all the way across the arena still chasing theirs. We’d done good. A flankman took our bull back to his pen and the three of us made our way to center stage.
“Let’s all give our winning team a big round of applause for being the fastest to get the pants on the steer. Yall ready to see what you win? Give ‘em some dance music, y’all get to dance for everybody!” By this point we were all so jacked up on adrenaline and smiles that we just went for it, albeit messily. I was laughing and breathless when the music went quiet and the announcer thanked us and the crowd.
My teammates and I walked out of the arena, back to the grass and bandstands, and exchanged a few more high fives of congratulations. I brushed the mud off my hands and adjusted my hat as I found my seat with my husband.
After the show we went around to the cattle pens and spotted my bull, naked this time; his underwear now in a heap on the ground, his horn rope draped over the fence.
There were children feeding the calves handfuls of hay under the watchful eye of their parents. One girl noticed me taking a picture of the bulls and said, “You did a good job.” and I knew she was right.
I hadn’t done much, mostly I’d just put some underwear on an angry bull, but I’d also made a point. I’d reminded the women and young girls in my community that there’s no reason we shouldn’t engage in everything the world has to offer. That just because the world asks for men to stand doesn’t mean women should stay seated.
Getting mud on our hands, trying new things, dancing in front of hundreds of people…that’s what life is made of, for men and for women.
[Virginia Parsons is a local writer.]
