Before Texas Changed: A Fort Worth Boyhood

Chapter 14

14. The small town of Benbrook, on the southwest edge of Fort Worth, was the namesake of the lake and dam created to prevent another flood like the 1949 disaster. In its fields Murchison and I had camped and killed a box full of field mice. Benbrook also boasted a makeshift rodeo arena where, in my junior year, as if more excitement were needed, I and several others began riding Brahma bulls. Surely this sport had something to do with our rodeo heritage and western environment, but more than anything it was the challenge that was appealing. On certain nights, in events called “buckouts,” neophytes were offered the opportunity, for one dollar, to ride bulls. I actually paid to do this. The old arena had some lights strung around. Pens for the bulls were down at one end, leading to several gates that opened into the arena. Some gnarled old cowboys, who must have spent their whole lives doing this sort of thing, were on hand to give assistance and to run the operation. Other onlookers, who apparently enjoyed watching people get slung from bulls, drove in from around that area and peered through the wire fence. Something in me was determined to see if I could do this. I soon learned it was one thing to watch bull riding and quite another to participate. The first night I attempted this feat, Murchison and I, along with two friends, Jim Greenlee and Bruce Gorman, drove out together. Not sure I would actually go through with it, I paid my dollar and watched through the fence for a while, as one rider after another was slammed to the hard ground. Someone hollered, “Okay, we’re ready for you guys,” and the 230 next thing I knew I was climbing up the side of the holding pen, straddling it, and looking down at the biggest, angriest bull I had ever seen. He was throwing himself back and forth against the sides of the pen. I was perched over him, legs spread, while a man fastened the bullrope around his body and then motioned for me to climb down on him. My legs barely fit between the bull’s sides and the pen. “First time you ever done this?” he asked, surely knowing the answer. I nodded my head but doubt he noticed because, with the jerking of the bull, my whole body was nodding. “Just hold tight,” he said, “and when you hit the ground, find the bull and start running.” While he wrapped my right, gloved hand in a rope, the bull pushed and shoved to get free, slamming me against the sides of the pen. Now there was no turning back. I was committed. “Let him go!” someone yelled, and the gate flew open. I had never felt anything like this in my life. There was no way to anticipate this kind of power. As if I weighed nothing, I was being thrown three or four directions at once—sideways, up and down, twisting— so fast, there was no time for any strategy. I’m not sure there was even time to be scared. It was a matter of survival, of keeping the rope gripped in my hand and my spurs on his side. This was no contest. The goal was to last eight seconds. Eight seconds! It might as well have been eight minutes. My goal was a little different: to escape alive. At some point, considerably sooner than eight seconds, the bull lurched one way and I flew the other, landing on my head and shoulders. I quickly looked around to locate the bull and then ran for the fence. Though a little banged up around the shoulders, not only had I survived but also had the feeling that if I ever got the knack of it, I could actually improve. The fact that bull riding was dangerous didn’t matter. Never was this more clear than the night Charlie joined us to ride while still wearing his cast from the shooting. He figured since the cast was on his left arm, he could still hold on with his right hand and do fine. He was correct. Keeping his cast high in the air, he did a f o r t w o r t h b o y h o o d 231 about as well as the rest of us. Even his crash to...