Some Folks Are Serious About Rodeo, and That’s No Bull

So great is my dislike for the Winter Olympics, so desperate am I to find anything besides them to occupy my time that I did something Saturday night I never thought I’d do. I went to the rodeo.

The Flying U Rodeo took over the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim for two shows this weekend. It looked like a completely different place, with dirt all over the floors, corral on the western end. The regular advertisements on the dasher boards of the hockey rink were covered and replaced by ads for motor oil and whiskey.

It smelled different too, sort of a barnyard odor as opposed to the lingering stench of the first half of the Mighty Ducks’ season.

Slightly different crowd. I didn’t know there were so many cowboy hats in Southern California. Or Chevy pickup trucks. Or pickup trucks with Texas license plates.

This being Southern California, there were more people in the parking lot than inside the arena as the 7:30 starting time neared. I was worried they would miss the . . . what exactly is the beginning of a rodeo called? Football has a kickoff, basketball has a tipoff, hockey has a faceoff. Does rodeo have a falloff?

I found out the answer when I got inside and the public address announcer said there were still three or four minutes before “official rodeo performance time.”

I also discovered the rodeo folks are very accommodating. They even delayed the official rodeo performance time to enable more people to see it.

Finally, it was time to start. The lights went down, and the music started, “The Eye in the Sky” by the Alan Parsons Project. After living in Chicago for six years, whenever I hear that song the next thing I expect to hear is: “And now, the starting lineup for your world champion Chicago Bulls!”

But in rodeo, the horses come first, then the bulls.

You know what the featured attraction was? The national anthem. What a production. A rider held a large flag as her horse galloped around the corral to a recording of John Wayne waxing patriotic about all the wondrous things that make America great.

Everyone stood up, the horse picked up speed and the top of the flag lit up like a sparkler.

Then there were fireworks (I’m sure that did wonders for the temperaments of the horses) and a huge flag unfurled from the midpoint of the upper deck down to within about 15 feet of the floor.

All in all it was quite patriotic. What made it even more amazing was a quote from Flying U Rodeo president Cotton Rosser in an article for American Cowboy. Rosser said he “kept going back to college to duck the draft. I didn’t want to go to Korea.”

Guess he’s had a change of heart.

After the anthem finished it was time to settle in for a night of people riding animals. Kids ages 3 to 9 rode bucking sheep. A woman with 20 grandchildren rode a bucking bronco. A man who has appeared in the second and third “Mighty Ducks” movies (and isn’t afraid to admit it) rode a bucking bull.

There were plenty of chaps, boots and large belt buckles, but thank God not a sequin in sight. This wasn’t figure skating.

Unfortunately, it did have judges. I have a friend who says, anything that is decided by subjective judging isn’t a sport. (Boxing has judges, but the boxer has the ability to render them moot by knocking out the opponent.)

Horse and bull riders must hold on to the animal with one hand for eight seconds, while keeping the other hand free. Then they receive a score, and the performance of the animal is factored in. The riders are rated for their “spurring,” kicking backward as the animal goes up and forward as the animal descends.

Bull riders had a tough time of it; only one hung on the required eight seconds to record a score.

The best ride of the night was an exhibition, when Ernesto Franco rode a bull backward, his legs hanging around the animal’s head while he held tightly to its shoulders.

The barrel racing event, in which riders navigate a triangular course, at least has an objective judge--a clock--but it lacks the danger that makes the other events so exciting.

For all of the risk that comes with a bunch of 2,000-pound animals romping around (one fallen rider came this close to having his most private of parts stomped on), the worst mishap of the night occurred in the “backstage” area. A motorized cart carrying clowns rammed a man into a fence.

It figured a car would be responsible. It just reaffirmed what I felt all along: Those bull riders might have it tough, but it’s nothing compared to driving on the 405 every day.