A Dance with the Devil
Bull rider recounts a vivid memory of good ol’ 283.
September/October 2008
J.R. Conser
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Michele Tremaine
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Illustrations by Michele Tremaine
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I don’t know when it was or where it took place, but at some early age, I saw my first bull-riding contest. I decided then and there that I wanted to be a bull rider myself, and when I got into high school, I turned that dream into reality. When word spread that I was going to ride bulls, people were impressed and called me many flattering things, such as dumb, stupid, idiot, ignorant, crazy, insane and suicidal. Despite these discouraging words, I continued to chase that dream, and with a little help from above, survived to tell the tale.
My friend Scott and I entered up in the rodeo in McPherson, Kansas. After we paid our fees, and found out which bulls we had drawn, we headed behind the chutes to have a look. Scott’s bull was a huge, polled Angus. We then saw a much smaller spotted bull with horns. The number 283 was branded on his hip the same way that it is now branded into my brain. This was my bull. He seemed a timid little bull with big puppy-dog eyes. He was so cute. We wanted to give him a cookie.
I was pretty relaxed after I first saw my Bambi-sized bull. I was still relaxed when the hands started loading the chutes, and I saw 283 casually walking down the alley. Little did I know that a demon from below was sitting on the fence, waiting to possess one of the bulls and put on a real show. The animal he chose was 283. I know this because the second that cuddly little guy got into the chute he went from Bambi to ballistic.
Little 283 bellowed, kicking the back of the chute and hooking at us with his horns. There wasn’t time to perform a proper exorcism, so Scott and I tried to put my rope on him without being skewered. But 283 pinned the rope against the side of the chute. I was half expecting his head to start spinning.