My dad took me to the rodeo as a kid…I was probably 8 years old, but I remember it like yesterday. Dorton Arena, Raleigh North Carolina. The air was thick with smoke, bull poo, and the melodious sounds of the late, great, Hank Williams. We sat directly behind the gate, so close that we were occasionally sprayed with bull snot. Ain’t gonna lie, when you’re 8 years old, that’s about the coolest thing ever.
Ten minutes in, the crowd was getting raucous and I had already learned 3 new words to share with my friends at school on Monday. With little fanfare and no warning, this older fella brushes past us and climbs the chute to straddle a bull the size of a Winnebago. The incredible bovine was sporting razor sharp horns, chronic gas, a surly disposition, and was aptly named “Death Knell.” The guy, probably 50 (but pushing 60), was rocking old gator-skin boots, 
faded Wrangler jeans, a cheap plaid shirt, a starched white cowboy hat, and a giant belt buckle, the likes of which I had only seen on the Nature Boy Ric Flair. His ornery attitude was equaled only by the wheezing beast he was attempting to mount.
With a Marlboro Red fixed tightly between his lips, he began cussing that animal to the point even my dad was blushing. Without any warning, the gate flung open and Death Knell took off with the old fella locked in…still cussing, still smoking, still riding, and still holding on bare-knuckled. After 8 seconds of what can only be described as a whirling dervish, the buzzer sounded, and old fella lept off the defeated porter-house-to-be, landing squarely on his feet. He even managed to swing around and kick old Nelly in the rear as he swept in for a cheap shot…the cigarette never once leaving his pursed, foul mouth. I don’t think the ash even fell off.
Over the next 2 hours we were treated to an amazing display of unbridled testosterone. This guy kicked a bull, called the announcer’s Mama a heifer, spit on another competitor, punched a clown, sucked down 4 airplane bottles of Jack Daniels, ate some beef jerky, smoked 2 packs of Marlboros, and 
eventually won the thing after 3 successful rides. I understand he took home $350 for the trouble. We watched from the parking lot as he flicked his cigarette at a group of kids hoping for an autograph, then climbed into a ratty old Ford F100. He sprayed dust and rocks against the other cars as he drove off nursing a Budweiser tall boy concealed in a brown paper bag.
This, my friends, has been my baseline for ‘badassedness‘ since that day, and frankly, no one else has ever come close. He was #Merica before #Merica was a thing. More than once when asked “if you could have a meal with anyone, who would it be with” I’ve responded “the Marlboro man from the rodeo when I was 8.” I’m a little ashamed to say, he was my hero, and has continued to be, for many years in absentia.
Fast forward to present day: Over 35 years later I’m eating chips and flipping through the TV when I noticed bull riding was on some obscure channel I didn’t even know I was paying for. Those memories of my childhood hero flooded in…I could still feel the bull snot across my cheek. Or maybe it was queso…either way it was beautiful. This would be a teaching moment…father-son time. Bonding. Testosterone. Foul language. Country music. Man vs Beast. Queso.
I started to call my son (The Boy) into the room to watch this incredible display of untamed manliness, when I heard the unmistakable croon of Jason Derulo bubbling over the arena sound
system. Jason Derulo…at a rodeo? Um, ok. I get it…I’m in marketing. Appeal to a younger, more diverse crowd. Of course, I think the diversity discussion should probably begin with getting Pepsi & Coke in the same restaurant, but if you wanna start it with Jason Derulo at a rodeo, then Ok. Weird, but Ok.
The camera panned across a spectacular arena adorned with every measure of advertising one would expect to find at a Justin Bieber concert, before finally settling on the first bull loaded into the chute…
Who was named…
“Freckles.”
Yes, you read that right. Freckles.
So, I’m giving a pass here…cause he’s a pretty mean looking animal. Even if his horns were sawed off. SAWED COMPLETELY OFF. I understand if its a safety thing, but hello…it’s BULL riding. And FRECKLES? That’s the best name they could come up with? Was Pumpkin taken? Did a kindergarten class come up with this? Thing didn’t even have spots for crying out loud. Sigh. Did I mention that this was the cleanest bull I’ve ever seen? His hair was better conditioned than my own.
Anywho, next thing I know, Bruno Mars ‘Uptown Funk’ starts throbbing through the speakers, Hank Sr. is quietly spinning cartwheels in his grave, and now they go and plop a little fella from Canada (no, not Canada, Texas…but like, the real Canada…the cold one) on this bull…the spot-less bull named Freckles. A cadre of well-wishers and hangers-on spend what seemed like 20 minutes patting the little fella on the back and essentially ‘tie’ him to Freckles the spot-less, horn-less, snot-less, beautiful bull. I have to assume this bull is missing a couple other things…but let’s not get tacky.
While Bob McKenzie is getting strapped down by no less than 8 
people, I notice he’s wearing what appears to be…yes, it is… a bullet-proof, Kevlar vest. And Kevlar gloves. And Kevlar pants. And Kevlar arm pads. And a Kevlar helmet covered in energy drink stickers and a full metal cage across the front. As I’m wondering aloud how he’s gonna spit a wad of chaw through that wire mesh or reach through for a tug of his Marlboro I see the huge “NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ALLOWED” sign plastered behind him. What in the wide world of sports? No Red Man? No Levi Garrett? No (gulp) Marlboros? Bet they’re serving tofu at the concession stand with Stella Artois on tap. Travesty. Meanwhile, this little canuck guy is petting old Freckles like a long lost Labrador retriever and whispering sweet nothings into his ear before he finally stammers out, “Okie-dokey guys, let’s turn her loosey!”
My head was buried in my hands at this point, so I missed him getting thrown 
back into the gate 2.3 seconds into the ride, but I lifted it just in time to hear him opine that maybe his “glove was loose.” His Kevlar glove. His PINK Kevlar glove. The very one still lashed into the rope that Freckles was dragging past a barrel painted like a friggin Stella Artois bottle (told you). By the end, this guy finished third, thanked no less than 47 sponsors and collected a check for $5,000. Clutching a diet Coke, he walked off the stage hugging everyone along the way and signing autographs for scantily clad super models (who are inexplicably on the front row of a rodeo).
Finally, the Boy sauntered into the room…
“Whatcha watchin’ pops?”
“I don’t know, son. I just really don’t know.”
Now, don’t get me wrong…I couldn’t do it. I’ll admit that straight up, and hats off to all of those guys…even the little Canadian fella in body armour. This over-weight wuss ain’t getting on a bull named Tootsie, Nadine, or Juicy Fruit, much less Freckles. I’m not discounting what these guys do either…they’re probably as tough as they come…but man, things sure have changed.
I honestly sit awake at night and wonder what that old fella from Dorton Arena with the Marlboro Reds thinks of all this. Surely he’s still alive…you just can’t kill a man like that.
Unless he happened to watch this. Yeah, that would probably do it.
~dso
t to bed. Whether she actually liked the name or was simply exasperated with my sloth-like ability to make a decision will need to be inferred by you, the reader. Regardless, I’ve plunked down my 12 bucks, bought the name, and made at least some semblance of a commitment to bring literary entertainment to people outside my Facebook circle.
s those thoughts make it to type, and sometimes they annoy my wife on our back porch after a couple of frothy adult beverages. She pretends to listen, nods her head at all the right times, and subtly reminds me that she’s the spit and sweat that’s held this marriage together for almost 20 years (all without even uttering a word). Amazing woman.
for craft beer, smoked pork, and classical movies like Smokey & the Bandit.