Black Boots Goes to Greenville

Folks, a lot has been going on with the PBR in the past week, as you all know, but I have been holding off commenting for the moment because the divine Black Boots made the trip to Greenville and offered to send me her observations on the experience. I think you are going to find this very enlightening. Thanks, Black Boots, for showing us what it was like on the ground.

The good, the bad, the bad, and the good of Greenville

First, a confession: I stole the title of my review straight from the adorable lips of Kiefer Sutherland in the movie Cowboy Up. In it, he plays Hank Braxton, a struggling stock contractor for the newly birthed PBR. Late in the film, he has a conversation with another character (played by Molly Ringwald in a less perky phase) who asks how he’s been doing since his no-count brother, a bull rider, ran off with Hank’s unrequited love, the barrel-racing hussy Celia Jones (played by fish-girl Darryl Hannah).

“Well,” Hank sighs. “Good. And bad. And bad. And good.”

That’s how I feel about Greenville.

Let me set the scene. I’ve never traveled to an event before. Since Greenville is only an hour and change away, the intrepid E and I decided to go, and we brought two brand-new PBR fans with us who were all up for a weekend away from our darling husbands. And Greenville is gorgeous. It’s got the most fabulously planned and resurrected historic district I’ve ever seen (and which was attached to the PBR’s hotel) and spectacular public green spaces. It is a center for arts and culture in that corner of the Carolinas. In other words, Greenville is an urbane town, as urbane as it’ll get this close to Bob Jones University. This will become more significant later.

The good

We couldn’t attend both nights, so we went on Saturday night because of the bulls. One of the arena announcers said, “They call this the BEAST Coast” and they weren’t kidding. Thanks to our proximity to Teague, Robinson, Waggoner, and other contractors’ HQs, we had Bones, Uncle Buck, Major Payne, the front-running Voodoo Child, and that sweet, magnificent baby Chicken on a Chain for the short go, and bulls like Skyhawk Cut-a-Rug, MacNett’s Pinball Wizard, and Super Hou in the second round. We are spoiled rotten for bulls, and they did not disappoint. You all know JB’s ride on Voodoo was spectacular (especially when Voodoo launched him in the dismount like a slingshot), but to be in the audience? Bedlam. It still gives me chills. By the way, he made the 8 seconds, case closed. It was a magnificent ride and well deserved the score. Chicken caught more air than I’d ever seen him catch, but Paulo Lima matched him jump for jump. Two most excellent athletes!

Bulls to watch? Keep an eye on that dadgum Fire Ant. On Saturday, he bucked like a maniac that couldn’t get enough (ask Travis Briscoe.) I was also impressed with the punch-and-go of Monty the Bull with JB, Pinball Wizard with Brendon Clark, and Hot Tamale with Travis Sellers. And Moebandy.com had his best out ever (which didn’t end well for Guilherme, dammit.) Were there riders I hadn’t noticed before last Saturday? Hmm, maybe Travis Sellers. He has excellent balance. And it was great to be in the arena when Paulo Lima caught fire. That out with Chicken is going to boost his confidence. Watch for him to stay on more tough bulls.

and bad. And bad . . .

After listening to the Friday Night Fracas on the event center, E and I knew there might be some tense faces in the hotel Saturday afternoon. In fact, the faces weren’t tense. There was a noticeable absence of faces. Except for Guilherme and a cluster of the younger Brazilians, no one was eating lunch or signing autographs. What was present—at least to me—was a sense of important things being discussed behind closed doors. (Note: JB did do a signing at his t-shirt concession—I got one for my daughter—and was mannerly as always.) We availed ourselves of the aforementioned historic district and then got all flossed up for the event.

The arena was only two city blocks from the hotel, so we walked. We had to wait outside for our other friends, so we squatted on some steps and watched the crowd go in. I observed that the arena staff was waving electronic scanner wands over almost everyone in line, and then the staffer at the end of the line called out, “If you have guns or knives, please do not bring them into the arena. Please take them back to your vehicle.” He repeated this phrase over and over again. At first it was funny, and then I thought, oh, god. Is this because of Renato’s callout?

Now you might say, “BB, it’s the South. Isn’t that part of the uniform?” To which I’d have to say, “For Greenville? No way.” It’s a PBR event with lots of kids and families in attendance. It’s not the kind of place the most, um, armed folks would carry their hardware. So why were they wanding everyone (including me?) Why even make that announcement repeatedly if it’s a family event? My deduction (and you’re welcome to agree or disagree) was that there was some concern there would be retaliation against Renato’s callout on McConnell’s slap. You see, I’d had time to read the sickening comments on the PBR’s thread. I knew what kind of craziness was transpiring, and it made me good and mad. And wary.

Because of my new wariness, I jumped like a scalded cat every time fireworks went off in the intro. Renato’s big climactic introduction was not met with boos, but much less applause than the world’s number one bull rider should receive. Afterward, there was so much smoke and fog in the arena that I felt like we were on Alcatraz on a winter morning. It was a jumpy event—not that our friends noticed it, they were entranced with everything—but it felt more jarring and uncertain, even, than events I’ve been to in the past. Not only that, I think we got out of there in record time. Why the bum’s rush?

There was a lot of buzz about Friday night’s drama in the stands. I’d say it was 50/50 as to whether or not Renato should have pushed the button. My opinion? The judging has been erratic and downright racist ever since I’ve watched the PBR. I’ve railed privately in my living room about the men who can’t let go of their personal prejudices or preferences and couldn’t believe that NO ONE in the PBR PTB ever stood up and called out that big pink elephant in the arena. Renato is the only person who has had the guts to point out that elephant. I am in awe of his actions; I also believe that Ryan’s initial reaction was an adrenaline-fueled outburst, and I’m happy with the way he’s calmed down and handled the situation. There was nothing overtly tense behind the chutes on Saturday, so I’m sure the riders felt like it had been resolved. It broke my heart in Leah’s interview with Renato on Sunday’s telecast when he said, “Maybe I just go back to Brazil.” I know his head was nowhere near where it needed to be to ride his bull that night, and we had to see him go down. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he’s turning backflips again; I fervently hope that he can find a way to put this behind him and go back to setting his jaw for a world championship. As always, YMMV. Note: We never saw him at the hotel.

. . . and good.

When we were leaving the arena, the folks who were handing out samples of BBQ sauce foisted an entire case of sample packets on me. My husband is a champeen smoker/griller type, so I knew he’d be happy with me. I tried to give a lot of it away, but took home a big enough supply that my dear hub was indeed tickled.

We did meet a few riders Saturday night after the event at the hotel. I came away with a good impression of Brendon Clark—very yakkity, friendly, and curious. I rode the elevator with Ross Coleman (he assured me that the sauce was good, heh), but he looked utterly exhausted. I remembered that he’d probably flown across the country to get to Greenville, and with jet lag gotten on bulls less than 48 hours after arrival, and then would get back on a 5+ hour flight. No wonder. Adriano blew past us a couple of times at the hotel—E did get a hug from him while I was out doing something else—but he was deep in conversation every time I saw him, I imagine about everything that was going on. JB and Austin have their jaws set and their game faces on, even though they’re cordial. They mean “bidness.” It’s going to be an interesting battle to Vegas.

And in my *squee* fangirl moment of the weekend, I would like to submit that Guilherme’s eyes are the color of dark cinnamon. He’s also every bit as nice as I imagined him to be. *Squee!* Okay, got that out of my system.

And one rider completely irked me. No dude, I was not trying to take a picture of your feeble chin spinach; in fact, if you hadn’t been so busy acting like a “D” list bit player, I might have told you that I applaud your decision to wear a helmet. Instead? Don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out of the Top 40.

The very best thing about the weekend? The elevators. They smelled like eau de bull. How I love those four-legged athletes!

And now I’m going to watch Cowboy Up (minus the ending I hate) for about the eleventy millionth time.