A true slice of Americana came to Providence on Sept. 16, as the Dunkin' Donuts Center played host to professional bull riding. Top beef jockeys from all over the country were on hand as part of a rare Northeastern tour. I (almost) peed myself when I first heard that all my favorite rodeo heroes would be coming to town. The show did not disappoint.
For one night, the Drunkin' Donuts Center created an atmosphere unbeknownst to most of Providence. This was an atmosphere where a person could openly don a cowboy hat, sing along to Garth Brooks - and make crude jokes about minorities (that last part is obviously a joke, but please send hate mail if you are feeling particularly righteous - it's your duty as an American). This was professional bull riding. The Sport of Kings, bull riding was clearly created in God's image. I was giddy at the prospect of attending such a spectacle.
Nobody puts on a rodeo quite like Providence. Spectators in large gold chains and perfectly gelled hair piled into the arena amidst the sounds of country music legends Ludacris and "Fiddy" Cent. Six dollar beers and Rhody accents gave the event a warm local feel. (Side note: The Rhode Island accent is like a dog whistle to the cowboy's ears: painfully audible, vaguely understandable, thankfully regional).
There is a certain level of drunkenness a person needs have achieved be in order to properly understand bull riding. I remembered this as I rode white-knuckled to the arena in care of an angry, lead-footed driver. We were involved in a minor fender-bender a block from the venue. I tried in vain to teach my driver the old American trick of "hit-and-run." Luckily the driver of the other vehicle had already achieved the aforementioned level of drunkenness and was making as much sense as nonalcoholic beer. That's when my driver taught me an old trick of her own called; "Lie, lie, lie; deny, deny, deny." I continued on foot leaving the new friends to discuss their problems.
Once inside I was amazed to find the place less than half full. What was going on in Providence that would draw thousands of the city's cowpokes and rodeo fiends away from this amazing event? After much research, I am still perplexed. I took advantage of the low turnout and slipped into an open seat next to the cattle holding pen. Ahh yes! The sights! The sounds! The smells ... the smells ... the god-awful smells! It was truly a dream come true.
There is a common misconception that bull riders are a half-drunk, full-crazy breed of hillbillies. This is not true. You don't want to be anywhere near drunk when you're trying to mount 2,000 pounds of hell on hooves. Bull riding is the turf of adrenaline, Copenhagen and cheap amphetamines. Your nerves have to be whipping and crackling, your eyes blazing unnatural lights. Profes-sional bull riders must be strong, quick and tough - like if Barry Bonds were on steroids ... nevermind.
I quickly realized that my favorite part of the show was the rodeo clown. He was short and stout, bedecked in a head mic and as many patterns of red, white and blue as humanly possible. Historically, the rodeo clown was used to distract bulls from fallen riders, but the job has since changed into that of a host. This clown delighted the crowd with such classic jokes as, "Look how fat I am," and "I have W.B.R.D.S. - White Boy Rhythm Deficiency Syndrome." As far as I'm concerned, the clown is the hardest-working man in bull business (I know a few dumb jokes of my own). Still, I have a feeling he cries himself to sleep at night. Rest easy, tiny dancer, you have my respect.
For two hours I watched skinny men in chaps and handlebar mustaches ride massive brutes like greased weasels in heat. A strange mating ritual it is indeed. More often than not, the bulls won, but unfortunately no one was gored. I lost $50 because of this. I was very disappointed in the bulls' effort. With an 1,800-pound advantage, you would think they could gore at least one person in an entire night of hand-to-horn combat. I suspect the bulls were shaving points, but I can't prove it ... yet.
I finally abandoned my seat at the end of the show at the request of the usher whom I was feeling bad for. Culture had shocked the hell out of this poor local. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a larger and drunker-than-average Kansan who was screaming for an encore. I conceded defeat after realizing that bull riders don't do encores in "Blue" states.
Despite the lack of blood, the show was the most exciting sporting event I've seen outside of a cock-fight. I guess a good demolition derby could give it a run for its money, but that's neither here nor there. PETA and I give it five stars - truly a good time.
I left the arena with a whole new outlook on life. I could now greet the world head on. I could die a happy man. I could do anything I set my mind to. The world was my plaything. Miracles happen. Dreams do come true. I was proud to be an American and all that. Yes my friends, bull riding in Prov-idence is real. It's not just a smoky mist, an urban legend. It's real, and I've seen it.
Hugh Murphy '06 would gore the cowboys - but not the rodeo clowns - if he were a bull.
