The Bull Rider. Helen DePrima
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
MADISON SQUARE GARDEN had gone cowboy crazy this Sunday in January, with wall-to-wall boots and jeans, denim jackets and wide-brimmed hats. Joanna Dace reflected with wry amusement that her black turtleneck, leggings and ankle boots marked her as a newcomer to the sport of professional bull riding.
A plump blonde wriggled into the third-row seat next to Jo’s and smoothed the fringes on her red satin shirt. “Aren’t these great seats? My husband says get the best you can buy—that’s your Christmas present.” She patted the knee of the burly man seated next to her.
“Whatever makes you happy, babe,” he said with a grin.
“So who’s your favorite rider?” she asked Jo.
“Well, I...”
“Me too—I love ’em all. I hope you don’t mind if I jump around and yell—I wait all year for this. Just kick me if I get too noisy.”
A raucous horn sounded while Warning flashed on the advertising banner boards.
Her new friend tapped her arm. “You’d better cover your ears now if you don’t like it loud.”
Jo obeyed as the lights went down. Men with fuel cans traced a pattern in front of the bucking chutes and then darted away. Jets of fire shot up accompanied by ear-splitting explosions as flames spelled out letters in the dirt. More pyrotechnics and then the announcer’s shout: “Hello, New York City! This is the one and only PBR!”
* * *
“HEY, TOM—A GAL grabbed me up on the concourse. She wants to meet you.” Deke Harkens fished in his shirt pocket. “She gave me her card.”
Tom Cameron buckled on his plain blue chaps without looking at the card. Women often sent bull riders phone numbers and hotel keys, sometimes underwear. He wasn’t interested—not now, not like that, never again.
“Wrong Cameron,” he said. “Luke’s the bunny wrangler.”
“Nope, she said Tom Cameron. And this one’s no buckle bunny—at least she’s not dressed like one.”
“She say what she wants?”
Deke shook his head. “Just she’d like to meet you. You want to grab a look? Brown hair, late twenties, I guess—third row, right next to the chutes.”
Not the cheap seats. Tom adjusted his belt and stuck the card in his pocket. “Maybe after the event.” Bad luck to plan beyond his next ride.
A claxon sounded in the arena. He settled a black Stetson over his brows. “Showtime.”
He followed the other cowboys through the echoing corridors under the Garden and mounted metal stairs in darkness to the center pedestal above the bucking chutes. When the spotlight blinded him, he raised his hat to the sold-out arena as the announcer intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the current number-one bull rider in the world—Tom Cameron!”
He stood in place during the introduction of the bullfighters, including his brother, Luke; the invocation imploring protection for the riders and the bulls; and then the national anthem sung by an army sergeant with a powerful baritone. When the lights came up, he climbed down and headed toward the locker room, stopping when a woman’s voice called his name.
“You’re leading in the event, Tom.” The color commentator thrust a microphone in his face. “Will you pick Gunslinger again in the championship round?”
“I guess I’ll decide when the time comes,” he said. Lisa was a good sort, but he wasn’t big on being interviewed—he’d rather let his riding speak for him. She understood he wasn’t much of a talker and let him go with good wishes for his next ride.
He continued to the locker room while the first bulls were run into the chutes; shed his hat and chaps; and switched from boots to sneakers before making his way to a deserted space behind the bulls’ pens. He closed his eyes for a moment and then began to stretch and strike almost in slow motion, the movements becoming faster and stronger until sweat soaked his collar. He finished the kata and dropped back to cool-down mode until his pulse steadied. At every venue, he managed to find a hidden corner like this, not because he minded the ribbing from the other riders but because it interfered with his concentration. The exercises improved his balance during the ride, and he was able to land on his feet more often than not.
As they always did, the exercises left him feeling loose and peaceful. He’d keep moving until it was his turn to ride, wandering through the maze of pens and chutes holding the bulls for the afternoon’s competition. They were undemanding company, some moving restlessly in their pens, others relaxing in the sawdust bedding. A massive cream-colored Brahman sidled over to the fence and poked his wet muzzle between the metal rails.
Tom scratched behind one floppy ear. “Gunslinger, you’re a phony,” he said. “Some tough guy.” The fence creaked as the bull leaned into the caress. Tom had straddled this bull three times already, always coming up short. No shame in that—no one had made the eight seconds on Gunslinger.
“How about it, buddy?” He tugged on the bull’s ear. “You want to dance again today?”
Tom returned to the locker room and was pulling on his boots when Arlie Johnson’s bull rope with its bell attached crashed