Not our first rodeo

The man with the microphone had a charming lilt in his voice. He wore a cowboy hat tipped ever-so-slightly to the side. His red cowboy boots gleamed strikingly against his pale blue jeans. The ensemble curiously matched the slant in his elongated vowels.

It was Rodeo Day at the county fair and the vibe around us seemed unusually sedate. Even the dust that tended to float in the air of the grandstand had been tamped down by a sudden and thorough rain. 

The loudspeakers pushed out a mix of country music that in another place, at another time, might have passed for bumble gum pop.

The announcer claimed he didn't care about our politics or religion, but sent his own views as messages out into the air. Praying first for the athletes that would, against all of Willie Nelson's advice be defying their mothers in what profession they grew up to pursuit.

My daughter called "bull-shirt" and smiled as my gaze followed her pointer finger toward the arena, where a very fine bovine specimen was depositing a specimen of his own in the freshly raked footing.

We sat and waited as the rodeo clowns took their positions. 

Now, I could say that I knew what to expect as I'd seen plenty of bull riding film footage to understand the basics, but this would, indeed, be my first time at the rodeo. But I wasn't exactly prepared for the realities of watching a human rag doll flailing around on top of a pointy-horned-animal that weighed more than our family sedan. 

And for the first four seconds (which, as it turns out, is the equivalent of the combined rides of two or three cowpokes) I was able to harbor the misguided belief that rodeo riders, like cats, are prone to land on their feet.

But just as my shoulders started to

receded from my ears, a third bull and

and rider burst forth from the gate. The tension renewed as my daughter started counting Mississippis.

Rounding up to eight Mississippis, we realized the excitement had somehow shifted to panic as the crowd realized the rider had dismounted but couldn't get his leg free of a rope that connected him to the bull. Together they continued to spin awkwardly on the dirt footing.

It seemed like it could go on like this forever when the rider fell facedown in a direction that from our vantage point seemed to be squarely under the bull.

I couldn't watch. 

My daughter couldn't turn away.

There was a gasp from the crowd.

I opened my eyes in time to see the man hop up unharmed as the rodeo clowns guided the animal back into the chute.

The crowd let out a collective sigh and began to cheer.

But I couldn't hear the applause from the heartbeat pounding in my chest. My daughter stood up and announced she was done, thankyouverymuch. ... she sounded just like she had when she was five, and the animated leopard seal tried to devour the primary penguin in what felt like the first eight seconds of the movie "Happy Feet." 

Neither spectacle wasn't for her.

But I had to admit the potential for real-world suffering seemed to be at least part of the appeal.

This time, I didn't try to talk her into toughing it out. I just stood up and walked out behind her. 

Maybe this wasn't our first rodeo after all.