When Going Gets Tough, Tuff Really Gets Going

When these guys speak of playing the Broncos, they don’t mean John Elway and company, they mean the real thing. The kind that bite and kick. Not a bunch of ex-college boys in orange and blue in Denver. A bunch of four-footed rogues from the range who had to be caught with a rope and brought back in with a whip and a rowel.

When you play these broncs, there’s no zebra with a rule book to protect you. They couldn’t care less whether they’re offside or hit you after the whistle. Unnecessary roughness is a way of life to them.

When these guys play the Bulls, they don’t mean Michael Jordan. This bunch will slam dunk you, all right. They’ll foul you on the fast break. Their idea of a three-point play is to buck you, kick you and gore you. Some athletes can’t read or write, but this bunch can’t even talk. If they could, you wouldn’t want to hear what they’re saying. There’s no home-court advantage with this group. They couldn’t care less whether the crowd is with them.

When these guys play the Longhorns, it’s the real article, not some college kids from Austin. When you make a tackle, you go in over real horns, not ones painted on a helmet. When you make an open-field tackle, you’re taking on a real Iron Head--not Ironhead Heyward. He doesn’t have horns. These iron heads do.

When they play the Mavericks, they don’t mean the kind with shorts on.

The National Finals Rodeo hit Las Vegas this week, the last stand of the Old West, the last bunch of guys since the Christians and lions to fight animals for a living with their bare hands. Everything but Nero in an emperor’s box.

In other parts of the world, guys fight bulls. But they have a sword and a cape. These guys just have a glove and a strap.

The top of a 2,000-pound homicidal Brahma is one of the last places you want to be in the world. It’s a little like being in the cockpit of a crashing plane, the foredeck of a sinking ship.

It should come as no surprise that a guy who makes his living on top of one of these one-ton maniacs should have the nickname, “Tuff.”

Richard Neale Hedeman acquired the nickname at the tender age of 4 when he got on top of a bad-tempered calf and turned him into something that would drink milk out of a saucer.

Tuff Hedeman didn’t set out to ride bulls for a living. He came from the jockey country around El Paso, where Bill Shoemaker and the Valenzuelas--Milo, Angel and Patrick--got their starts, along with Cash Asmussen and Jerry Bailey. But one summer, he grew six inches and gained 30 pounds, so he switched from horseback to bull-back.

Tuff actually rode saddle broncs and team-roped for a while, but the minute he got on a bull, riding a bronc seemed as tame as riding in the back seat of a station wagon. Being astride a spinning bull for eight seconds can be like spending an afternoon inside an industrial-sized washing machine.

The trick is to try to get as far over the bull’s head as possible, Hedeman says. But this technique can be complicated by the fact a bull periodically tosses its head back in the hopes he might catch your eye--or your teeth--on the tip. Bulls don’t like to get ridden any more than sharks or alligators do, and they take it personally when somebody has the audacity to climb on them. When they throw the rider, they go looking for him. The only thing more dangerous than being on a bull is being under him.

Tuff Hedeman has been both. Only the other night, he found himself in an unaccustomed position in a rodeo--on the bottom of an outraged bull.

They usually give these animals names like “Double Trouble” or “Texas Chainsaw “ or “Rotten to the Core,” but this one didn’t need any advertising. He was called simply “555,” probably in honor of his lifetime buck-offs.

He put Tuff into the tanbark early. “I wasn’t aggressive enough,” Tuff acknowledges. A bull is like any other athlete, Tuff says. You have to show him who’s boss.

Bullriding is the only sport this side of tennis where you have to do it one-handed. In fact, no two-handed backhand is allowed. You tie yourself onto the bull’s rope with one hand and keep the other one flying in the air where the judges can see it. If it touches any part of the bull, the rider or the rope, the ride is disqualified.

A National Finals Rodeo is the Super Bowl of riding and roping. Only the best 15 cowboys and the best 100 animals (out of 2,000 in stock) get to show their wares.

Because a ride is scored 50% on the animal’s performance and 50% on the rider’s, it behooves Tuff to hope for a four-footed serial killer to score on. Four judges rate the ride, a perfect ride earning 50 points. The total is then halved. So, a perfect score would be 100.

While gymnasts frequently score a perfect 10, no bullrider in history has ever scored 100 in a National Finals Rodeo, and only a handful have ever scored 100 anywhere.

Hedeman, who won the NFR twice in his career, was not dismayed by his buck-off in Round 4 of the rodeo’s 10 nightly rounds at the Thomas & Mack Arena here. Only two riders in history have ever ridden all 10 bulls in a National Finals Rodeo. Hedeman is sure there will be other bull-shedders to join him on his 10-gallon hat before the 10-day event is finished. “I have ridden rodeos where I only stayed on eight bulls,” he concedes.

You get ready to take on rodeo bulls the same way you do Chicago Bulls, Hedeman says. You scout them for tendencies, you probe them for weaknesses. “Some are fast and light (Ed. note: Light , in this case, means he weighs only 1,750 pounds versus the full one-ton), others are strong and heavy and muscle you off.”

Because the rider in this case is giving away 1,725 pounds to the bull--to say nothing of horns and hoofs--the trick is to be twice as smart as the bull.

While this would not seem to be too difficult an intellectual feat, you have to remember we are not dealing with mechanical bulls here. While there are no Phi Beta Kappa in the chutes, look at it this way: Bulls know better than to climb on a bull’s back for a living. And there’s no record of the bull ever getting a fractured skull, broken nose or shattered arm. They work eight seconds--or less--every other night for room and board. And a career in show business. How dumb can they be?