Brass Tacks

Now that I have offered up my congratulations to My Main Man Guilherme Marchi, and handed out my gold star award for the best ride of the PBR World Finals, it’s time to consider the very best part of the entire seven-day event: the bulls. This was the most exciting finals I’ve ever watched, and practically all that excitement was because the bulls Cody Lambert wrangled were the best in the world.

Let’s face it—Marchi’s sizable lead going into the finals made it all but impossible for anybody to catch him. As Justin McKee observed several times, any rider coming up behind him would have had to ride EVERYTHING, and Marchi would have had to fall off EVERYTHING, for anyone else to have had a fighting chance at taking the championship away from him. As nervous as we were, we all knew in our hearts that that wasn’t going to happen, didn’t we? Renato Nunes, in second when the event started, was riding just over half his bulls. That’s a commendable stat in a sport in which anything over about 33 percent is rare, but it still means he was getting bucked off half the time. J.B. Mauney, who rode four bulls and won three go-rounds before getting dumped in round five, ended up riding about 60 percent of the time. Marchi was riding about 75 percent of the time when the finals started, and he was riding just about that when the dust settled last Thursday night. Nothing and nobody was going to beat Marchi—he would have had to beat himself, and short of an injury serious enough to knock him out of competition entirely, he was not going to be beaten. No how, no way, Copperhead Slinger notwithstanding.

As much as we love watching Guilherme ride, as much as we wanted to see him win after three seasons as the bridesmaid, what that all could have added up to is one dull World Finals. Frankly, when I watched the first round on Halloween night, I got worried that it was going to be duller than dishwater, what with the Pussy Pen in the house and boys who’d hardly ridden all year sticking like they were glued to their bulls. Thank heaven the Rank Pen showed up on Saturday and set things to rights. As a matter of fact, since I’m queen of this stockyard and I can do anything I damned well please, I am unilaterally disregarding ALL the bulls that competed that Friday night, unless, like Ricky Bobby, they bucked again later in the week and somewhat redeemed themselves. Don’t come talking to me about Cool Whip, Milk Man, Deviled Egg, and their like. I'm having none of it.

If you look, just as an example, at the results of round two, when the rank bulls fought their first engagement and kicked the stuffing out of 36 of the 50 riders, that list of 36 bulls reads like a Who’s Who of bucking bulls. At the risk of boring you senseless, I’m going to reel them off: Major Payne, Chicken on a Chain, Jacob’s Pet, Commotion, Lucky Strike, Bovine Prime, Little Mr. T, Fist Full of Dollars, Pandora’s Box, I’m a Gangster, White Magic, Say I Won’t Gunner, Unabomber, Bones, King Solomon, Full Throttle, Party Time, Show Time, Big Bucks, Hot Stuff, All In, Apache Leap, Raisin’ McCain, Camo, Fire Bird, Cactus, Voodoo Child, Avalanche, Cooper, What I Say, Bad Blood, Zorro, Silver Wings, Spit Fire, Rez Boy, and Billionaire.

There they are, the best of the best, the ones we've seen dozens of times, the ones we'd never seen before, all with blood in their eyes and fire in their bellies, and no doubt in their minds about what their job is. And they just keep bringing it, time and again, rider after rider.

The sport owes Cody Lambert a huge debt, but as great as he is at his job, I have to believe that if he weren’t there, the bulls still would be. Their greatness is unmistakable, and the only thing that could possible stop them would be somebody somewhere deciding to even up the odds and keep the difficult bulls out of the chutes. I hope never to see that, because the bulls are why I keep coming back. A handful of riders have played with my heartstrings, it’s true, but in the end, I’m gonna dance with the one that brung me.

Sometimes, a Girl Just Has to Eat Some Crow

Anybody who has stopped by this blog knows that nobody here is shy about voicing an opinion, though one of the truly gratifying aspects of this community is that everybody seems determined to be polite. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that—I really don’t want to spend my time refereeing dog fights and tossing flamers overboard. So since I feel like I’m in the company of friends here, it’s time for me to stand up and say, Ladies and gentlemen, I was wrong, and I admit it!

Maybe it wasn’t so much that I was wrong about anything factual, or even that I was all that wrong about my attitude. You all know how I feel about J.B. Mauney. I haven’t been reticent about telling the world that I think he needs to quit throwing equipment and kicking gates and acting like he’s 12 instead of 21 when things don’t go his way. A lot of people have had it a lot worse than J.B. Mauney, have endured a lot more and done it with grace, if not with a smile, and it wouldn’t hurt him to think a little about his place in the great chain of human suffering and cool his jets.

And if there’s one thing I’m sick of hearing, it’s that J.B. is a perfectionist and “he’s just upset with himself, that’s why he has to blow off some steam.” Here’s a newsflash for you: Perfectionism is not a virtue, it’s a self-serving neurosis. If you’re a perfectionist, you get to feel superior to everybody because obviously you’re so much better than they are, what with your excellent skills and your can-do attitude and your detemination not to let anybody work harder than you do, but you still get to flagellate yourself when you fall short of your own impossible standards. And you will, because you’re human. What could possibly be better? There’s no way to win, which is the point of perfectionism. Nobody wins, ever. Especially those of us who have to suffer the aftermath.

My vocation is one of the least forgiving imaginable—if you let a spelling mistake get into print, you are likely to hear about it literally for years—so a long time ago, I decided that the best course of action if you fuck up is to fess up, and do your best to fix it. One of the dividends to this approach is that it almost always stops your critics in their tracks—it’s like they can’t believe someone will actually step forward and say, “I made a mistake, and I’ll take care of it.” If they are ungracious enough to keep harping on the subject, the next thing I say is, “What do you want me to do, jump out the window?” That usually shuts them up, right smart. People who think they're always right have no sense of proportion, generally. It's one of the qualities that makes them so endearing.

All this has been a very roundabout (and most likely, not very interesting) way of getting to the point of this post, which is that my feelings about J.B.’s post-ride antics had begun to rub off on my appreciation for his undeniable talent. I actually was starting to wince whenever he climbed into the chute, because I dreaded the possibility that I’d have to watch him slamming his fist into the gate or throwing his bull rope at some innocent bystander. But I have adjusted my attitude somewhat, enough, at least, to proclaim my opinion that J.B. Mauney had the best ride of the PBR World Finals.

No, not on Troubadour, who looked like he had been hanging out at the craps tables all night long before he finally staggered out of the chute a week ago Friday. Not on Ricky Bobby, Boogie Board, Cat Man Do, or Fist Full of Dollars, rank as most of them were. In round four, on Crosswired. I can’t remember when last I saw a bull kick so hard and jump so high, and get stronger and wilder with every jump. He looked like Reindeer Dippin in his prime, like he was going to hit the rafters the next time he went airborne. And I can’t remember ever thinking, before last Friday night, that a rider awarded more than 90 points didn’t get his due. 93.75? Why not 95 or 96? Oh, I forgot—the bull “never went into a spin.” I’m sick to death of hearing that, too.

I guess I should say, in my own defense, that I have never doubted that J.B. could ride the rankest of the rank; I just have a problem with his acting out. But in the spirit of the sport, I have to tip my hat to him this time, and to that 1,500 pound red bull from D&H Cattle Company. Last Thursday night, you both made your mammas proud.

All Hail, Guilherme Marchi!

Since the last four nights of the 2008 World Finals added up to the greatest extravaganza of bull riding I’ve ever been privileged to witness, I have decided that I need to bite it off in little chunks to have the remotest chance of doing it justice. So I have to start by paying my respects to the great Guilherme Marchi, the PBR World Champion for 2008.

It is almost impossible to adequately summarize what an amazing season Marchi has had. Of course, I could always turn to the stats—five event wins, 15 times in the top five, 19 times in the top 10, 13 90-plus point rides, 14 consecutive rides, seven rides out of eight at the finals, and an overall riding percentage of 74.75—but one stat really tells the whole tale. Marchi competed in 33 events this season—every single BFTS held this year. Only four of the top ten riders accomplished that, and besides the good fortune to avoid serious injury, this achievement points to single-mindness and concentration on all their parts. Marchi, however, extended his single-mindedness and concentration beyond just getting to the event, to climbing on the backs of 99 bulls and riding 74 of them. His mastery of the mechanics is just amazing to see, and he did it again, and again, and again, all season long.

And was there ever anybody happier to be competing? Was there ever anybody so set on being the bride, not the bridesmaid, this time around? Was there ever anybody so determined to conquer the challenges he faces, whether it’s riding a rank one or speaking a foreign language in front of thousands of fans in the arena and tens of thousands more out in the television audience? Was there anybody within earshot whose heart didn’t rush out to him when he proclaimed Sunday night that he was “living my American dream”?

Was there ever a more manly moment in all the history of the PBR than right after Guilherme won the title Saturday night, when that grey-haired gentleman beside him atop the cage kept hugging him and kissing his cheek? Oh, maybe there was—that moment when, down on the arena floor, Marchi and Adriano Moraes collided in a cosmic bear hug, and the confetti and the cheers kept cascading down on them like blessings. I don’t know if there was a dry eye in the house in Vegas right then, but I can tell you, there weren’t any in my living room.

It remains to be seen whether Guilherme Marchi will become the first to win back-to-back world titles, but if he never climbs on the back of another bull, he has earned his place in the panoply of champions, not just because of his riding, but also because of his attitude and his conduct. He is a worthy successor to the mantle of Adriano Moraes, and an excellent representative of the sport. I will never forget the show he put on for us this season. My heartiest congratulations, Guilherme Marchi! We hope to see you back in Vegas, leading the pack, this time next year.

The Bull Diaries

Good afernoon, folks, the Stockyard Queen now brings you, with mixed emotions, the latest installment of SoCal Jay's adventures in bull riding mania. I'm feeling a little sad because soon SoCal Jay will no longer be a rookie and he will become as jaded and cynical as, er, I am. But in the meantime, I invite you to enjoy his wide-eyed wonder as he experiences the finals of our beloved sport for the first time. Remember when we all felt that way? Ladies and gentlemen, I present:

Episode Six: “Omygawd” all over again

Seeking relief from the painful pressures of the presidential election, and noting that the Las Vegas finals were in progress, I reviewed the first five or six rounds of the competition, this morning. I was blown away. Again.

Mind you, it ain’t easy to appreciate the finer nuances of ANYTHING on the screen of a 12-inch iBook, but even so what I watched was stunning, thanks to the PBR website.

To cite but one example, how in the HELL does Guilherme “All the ladies love me” Marchi ride that bull in round five (if memory serves) called “Scaredy Cat”? With one hand? How does a man or anyone at all DO that?

I dunno. I just know it blows my ever-lovin’ mind. The courage of it. The folly of it. It’s insane, clearly, but it’s also beautiful

Meanwhile, I’m quite sure the bulls themselves think: “Yeah, well, all that’s well and good. But give us 10 seconds, or even 20, and THEN see what happens.”

Ha!

Not that most humans would ever consider riding a bull for fun, let alone to make a living. And bulls certainly don’t think in such existential ways. Still, I wonder about such things, which prolongs the simple fact that I need to mow the yard, today.

How the PBR Saved My Life

Gather round, children, for I need to testify. I am weary with well (and not so well) doing. This fall has been one of the most difficult of my life, what with a sudden windfall of work that started in early September, issues with family and friends too far away for me to lend much more than moral support, ailing pets, and this damned presidential election. Folks, I am worried and flurried and sometimes almost paralyzed, checking the polls and the news and declaring that I’m THROUGH watching any political coverage, only to be lured back almost immediately for another fix. This is what addiction feels like, and I don’t like it one bit, but I seem to be helpless to do anything about it, which is the other part about addiction, of course. Only two things are going to pull me through, the first being that come Wednesday morning, one of those guys will be our guy and it will be time for all of us to set aside what divides us and come together to support him and one another. And come Thursday night, the PBR Finals will be back on Versus.

I truthfully cannot express what a relief it was to think about nothing for three days running besides riders and bulls. Thursday night, which was without a doubt the most boring PBR performance I’ve seen since the big Tulsa debacle, I quite literally watched with tears of gratitude running down my face, so great was my relief at being able to forget all this other crap and only pay attention to what was going on in Vegas. Which wasn’t much, let’s be truthful. If ever a bunch of bulls were worthy of the name “Pussy Pen,” the crew that bucked (using the word kindly) on Thursday night was it. I cannot for the life of me figure out why the PBR always runs in the easy bulls on the first night of the finals, unless they are looking to drag some unknowing passersby in off the streets of Vegas and charm them with the spectacle of a bunch of guys twirling around atop bulls that should by now be on their way to Burger King. But you know what? I didn’t care! I didn’t give a damn that it was boring, all that mattered was that it was bull riding.

And then came Friday, when the rank pen showed up and cowboys went flying hither and yon. Only 14 managed to stick for eight seconds, which is just about right, in my book. Weren’t the bulls wonderful? Bones and Major Payne and Chicken on a Chain and all the rest? I could watch Bones throw Justin McBride into the dirt every day for the rest of my life and not get tired of it. So what if J.B. Mauney managed to ride Troubadour? I don’t care what anybody says, that bull had a bad night, for which J.B. should be thanking his lucky stars.

The other good news this weekend is that even though J.B. won two rounds and now leads the event, our man Guilherme also rode all three bulls and trails J.B. by a mere three points. Three points! Don’t go getting a big head yet, J.B., ’cause it ain’t over till it’s over. If Marchi were to win both the title and the finals, I’ll think I’ve died and gone to heaven. Adriano also is looking good, though Smash Hit just flat beat him on Sunday afternoon. He’s riding with concentration and confidence, and I’d love it if he won the finals. That’s one notch on his belt that he doesn’t have yet, and I know I’ll be crying my eyes out when it comes to pass.

So I’m feeling a lot better now, thanks to the PBR finals. They came at just the right minute to save my sanity, for sure, and quite possibly my marriage, since I think if Montana Barn Cat hears me screaming my political point of view at the television just one more time, the next stop might be divorce court. I only have to make it through two more days, and the election will be a done deal, and when Thursday rolls around, I will be well and truly ready to kick back and watch the bulls buck.

Just one plea about the election: Please, folks, if you haven’t already done so, get yourselves to the polls tomorrow and vote. Don’t ever forget that people have died to secure you that right and privilege. I’ll see you here Friday morning, when I plan to post the first of four posts in four days about the finals. Come on back and see me, hear?

Life is Messy

Friends and colleagues, we have arrived at the precipice and now we are looking over the edge and asking ourselves, where did the season go? It seems only yesterday I was bitching about how the PBR had cancelled the Cincinnati event at the last minute— remember that? It was nearly a year ago now! How time flies when you’re having fun!

But we’ve weathered it, all 33 BFTS events, a few Challenger events, the Team Shoot-out, and the Grudge Match, and in two weeks, we will all be glued to the tube, watching the finals in Vegas. If my circumstances were a little different, I’d probably be grateful for the break, since once Vegas starts up there will be no let-up, but I’ve worked at least part of every weekend for the past month, so I’m actually a little bummed that I’ll have no PBR action on my first full weekend off. Maybe I better look for another little job to fill in all the empty hours.

I always get a kick out of the Mohegan Sun Invitational, because it’s at that totally insane Indian casino up in Connecticut, and the interior shots of the crazy waterfalls and so forth cheer me right up. And generally speaking, I was okay with the way the event panned out, since the only competitor who gained any ground on Guilherme was Valdiron. But I would be cheating myself (and my loyal readers) if I didn’t offer up some acerbic observations on the event in particular and the sport in general. I have to warn you that most of what follows is based strictly on my personal prejudices, and of course you are welcome to disagree loudly in the comments field if you feel so moved. Of course, if you want to agree or just “jine in,” as they say where I grew up, you are equally welcome.

Cowboys who came back too soon
There are three riders in particular who have come back from pretty serious injuries recently, and every one of them should have just skipped this event (and quite possibly a few earlier ones) and tried to heal up for the finals. They include Brian Canter (head laceration and broken jaw) and Travis Briscoe (broken leg), neither of whom has ridden worth a damn since returning, and Beau Hill, who is riding with broken ribs and makes me want to mainline morphine every time I watch him climb aboard. I suppose I can’t really understand the pressure on these boys to ride, and of course I know nothing about their financial solvency (or lack thereof), but I find it hard to believe that the chance to win some money will make up for a punctured lung and a long hospital stay in Las Vegas. Canter in particular looks to me like he’s lost all confidence, and why wouldn’t he? He was lucky to get out of that wreck alive and unless he is totally absent upstairs, he has to have thought about that at least once in a while during his extended convalescence. My thanks, by the way, to reader Sheila (Flash of Blue), who pointed out after Hill got hurt that he, too, is a member of the class of 2005.

Cowboys who need to consider a different line of work
In this category, we find various and sundry individuals at various and sundry points in the careers, but did that ever stop me? I hereby recommend that Ned Cross, Matt Bohon, and Jared Farley all take some time off and reassess their options. None of them has ridden squat lately, and frankly it’s a miracle to me that any of them are going to the finals. I’d throw Luke Snyder in that pile, as well, but he’s riding about 50 percent of the time, so it must be my imagination that every time he gets on, I see him flying through the air well before the whistle. I know he won Rookie of the Year about a million years ago, and I know he’s got that Titanium Man thing going, but enough is enough. Bohon in particular looks like he needs to go back to Cole Camp and think about what he might like to do with the rest of his life. Today.

Cowboys who need to retire
In the enough is truly enough category, I put Brian Herman and Ross Coleman, who have both ridden well and badly throughout the season and who just seem to be to be taking up oxygen. Both of them seem like nice enough guys, but I’m ready for some new blood.

Another cowboy who should hang it up is Mike Lee. I’ve never been able to get any sense of Mike’s personality and I gather I’m not alone in that, since even a lot of the other riders seem to find him an enigma, but I really think he’s suffered so many head injuries that the next one could cause him permanent harm, assuming that hasn’t already happened. You have a wife and twin baby boys, Mike, and career winnings of better than $2.5 million. If you won’t give it up for your own sake, do it for them. And for us. None of us likes seeing you lying on the ground while Tandy tries to get you to tell him what your babies’ names are.

And Ednei Caminhas really has to go. He just barely managed to qualify for the finals this weekend, and he practically said himself that it was because he screwed around all season long and then got caught up short when he realized he might not get to go to Vegas. I’d say the fire is gone. Unless you’re planning to sign up for some motivational course during the off-season, make this the last trip, Ednei. It’s time to go home.

Cowboys who need help
If Mike Lee doesn’t retire (and of course he won’t, because he was raised up by a maniac who practically forced him into the sport), then Dr. Tandy or somebody who cares about him should really insist that he go see an expert on head injuries and get the straight skinny on what his status is. I’m not a doctor (though my family is riddled with doctors like some are riddled with cancer), so this is based strictly on my observations, but I don’t think Mike is the same guy I saw the first few years I watched the PBR.

Another dude who needs serious professional help is J.B. Mauney, whose antics after he fails to ride are wearing thin. This weekend, Ty Murray went on and on about how he loves to see that kind of passion, but I say that anybody who throws a temper tantrum before he even gets out of the arena either needs a spanking, like your mamma used to give you when you acted up in the grocery store, or some counseling. People who hit inanimate objects sometimes do hit other people and animals, you know. At this point, the best we can hope for is that he’ll break a toe or a hand instead of cold-cocking some innocent bystander or cowboy who has the poor judgment to mouth off at him. The facts of life tell us that everybody falls off his bull sometimes. Cool your jets, J.B., and show us you can act like a mature individual who takes the bad in stride. If you can’t do it on your own, go talk to somebody who can show you how to cope.

Pleasant surprises
Two riders I was really pleased with this past weekend are Robson Palermo, who is also back from an injury and riding well, and Zack Brown, the bright thread running the wrong way through the pattern and throwing everything off balance. Given how well he’d done early in the season, I’m not entirely stunned that Palermo is back in a big way, but Brown has ridden so hot and cold that it’s a pleasure to watch him when he’s hot. I hope both of them do well at the finals—it would be great if they could end their seasons the way they both started off.

Bulls to watch
Several bulls performed exceptionally well at Mohegan Sun, and since we might not see them again this season, I want to tip my hat to Catie Did it, Whiplash, Hammer Handle, Lil Wicked, and Lil Feller.

But I have to save my big salute for Sir Patrick. What a magnificent animal he is! Owned by Chad Berger, Clay Struve, and Julie Rosen, he has 59 outs on the BFTS and has been ridden only nine times—an 84.7 buck-off rate. He always has the same trip—one big lunge out of the chute with his heels about touching the ceiling, into the spin and then reversing with a sharp, whipping action, and in about 4.15 seconds, the cowboy is usually flying off the bull’s butt and Sir Patrick is ambling to the exit. I could watch him buck all day long.

And guess what—according to the PBR stats, Sir Patrick also is a member of the class of 2005. His first out in the BFTS was in Columbus, when he dumped Sean Willingham and got a bull score of 42.5. Some things never change.

The finals have been a long time coming, haven’t they? Let’s hope they are worth the wait. I could say a lot more as preamble, but for now, I’m ready to park it in front of the television and watch it all play out. See you in Vegas!

Oh, Sweet Bird of Youth

Gentle readers, I greet you today somewhat mollified because on Sunday afternoon, having worked most of Saturday, I managed to watch one hour of X-Treme Bulls in Cody, Wyoming, four hours of the PBR in Cincinnati, and a bonus hour in the form of CW’s series “In Harm’s Way,” which focused on professional bull riders. Thus, I feel like I finally managed to get enough bull riding into my system to keep me from just going crazy under this huge pile of work. Not that I’m complaining about having plenty to do. I feel really fortunate to be in that position, given the way the economy is imploding all around us.

Had I to rank my bull-riding watching, I’d have to say (sorry, Jean and William) that the X-Treme Bulls event, filmed over the 4th of July weekend, just did not cut it. It was pleasant to see the old stomping ground, of course, what with the mountains looming up behind the Cody Stampede stadium, but frankly, the riders were nothing to write home about and the bulls, er, sucked. The only bull I recognized was Nervous Waters, who appears to be on the downhill slide to the packing plant, but he did manage to buck his rider off right smart. One thing I did like about it was that the scores were relatively low, but since just about every cowboy managed to ride, that didn’t help my attitude much. And I was really conflicted about seeing Wesley Silcox, because it only reminded me that after he and Dustin Elliott won the PBR Team Shootout in Molalla, Oregon on August 9, Silcox got stepped on during an X-Treme Bulls event in Bremerton, Washington, on August 24 and suffered a broken leg. I am not sure whether he’s been back in action since, but at the very least, it had to slow him down some.

The PBR events in Oakland and Cincinnati did calm my nerves some, since Guilherme Marchi is riding rather better than he was. He got bucked off his bull in the short-go, but he still came in sixth overall, and J.B. Mauney, Mike Lee, and Valdiron didn’t gain any ground on him. I’m not quite ready to relax totally, but maybe I won’t wake up sweating, worrying about Marchi for a while.

By far the most interesting, though, was the CW show, which documented the run-up to the Tulsa event this season. Naturally it focused way more on Justin McBride than I would have liked, ending up with his 94.5 ride on Voodoo Child. But it also featured Robson Palermo, who is one of my favorite riders, and Mauney, who is not. I was happy to see that Palermo has apparently settled down in Texas with his family and seems to be doing well. But a good portion of the show dealt with Paulo Crimber, who appears to live fairly close to Palermo and was hanging out with him at the ranch. Palermo remarked that Crimber, who was tricked out in the biggest cervical collar I’ve ever seen, had only a 1 percent chance of returning to riding bulls. I hadn’t heard that, of course, since it seems like we never hear much about the truly badly injured on PBR broadcasts. What was the last time you heard Tandy Freeman talk about Paulo Crimber? Chris Shivers? Lee Akin? It’s almost like it’s out of sight, out of mind, or maybe it’s more like it’s bad luck to talk about it.

I am willing to consider that maybe my present state of melancholy was actually brought on by the same thing that lifted my spirits temporarily—that is, watching all that bull riding, pretty much back-to-back, while I tended to various domestic chores of a Sunday afternoon. It just reinforced how inconceivably young these boys are, and how astoundingly tough they are, and how fragile, in the end, we all are.