Those rip-roaring rodeo days:

Bouncing baby buckeroos!

Gaston de Rosayro

In the late 1950s, when ‘us Ole Timers’ were somewhat younger, we frequented the matinees at the local cinema. A bunch of us occupied the gallery seats, affectionately and often, accurately known, the ‘gallows.’ The ‘gallows’ cost half rates, 50 cents for pint sized eight or ten-year-old rapscallions.

At the matinees we watched all of those ‘Cowboy Heroes’ who helped form our childhood ideas of the ‘Code of the American West.’ What great screen legends they were, and my, what flashy outfits they wore! On screen they rarely missed a shot from the hip and they were faster with a six gun than the meanest gunslinger.

My fascination for the Wild and Woolly West goes back a long way to when I was knee-high to my grandfather and living in his suburban country estate. In proximity to the expansive home was the placid Bolgoda Lake and various intriguing channels that fed the surrounding paddy cultivations. There were happy cries of children intermingled with the rhythm of frolic in a sprawling plantation. The rapture of little boys in those bucolic surroundings is easy to understand. To us it was a complete and sheer fantasy world where we played and gamboled to our heart’s content.

During the vacations, when my brothers and numerous cousins would visit we would organise all kinds of outlandish games. We were all attracted by the mystique of the cowboy. So we played ‘Giddy up Cowboy’ a game celebrating the rodeo! To get in on all the hoof-stomping, mud-slinging fun was easy. Well we had the space and the livestock was always there grazing in the vast plantation. So all we had to do was corral the calves in a large outdoor pen and prepare for the fun.

And we were not spectators viewing it from the comfort of a chair, mind you. We were rough-riding participants enjoying the action bareback on the back of a calf. Yes bareback, saddle-less, bridle-less with only a coir rope around its neck. It is all fun and games until you are bucked off, and then you find you are skidding’ on your backside across the gravel driveway or the grassy meadow. Believe me I tried it and it is just not any load of bull. It may only have been calves but they sure did make a bum steer of most of us and darn Sir Isaac Newton and his gravity tree when you find yourself plunged neck deep in some herbaceous border.

There was this maverick young bull named Percy. His father was a monstrous one-eyed brute we christened Cyclops. Percy was far bigger than the other calves and was the most fearsome of the herd.No one had managed to stay on his back for more than three seconds and he had a mean disposition.

Oh, yes, with Percy in the fray it was a violent sport alright. The city boys might have crashed on their pushbikes and thought it an adventure for life. But there is one big difference here. If you fall off your bike, it is not going to chase after you. But Percy would and he did.

The last time I rode Percy and was bucked off in two seconds I lay completely winded. Frozen, I held my breath for what seemed like ages. I knew that son of a Cyclops was scanning the meadow for me.

His horns were just beginning to form and he tried to gore me. I kicked him in the snout. He moved sideways and kicked back. Some sidekick he proved to be!

It certainly was not a sport for the faint-hearted, but we were cowboys through and through. Yes, through bumps, through bruises and through bashed bodies. But it was the bravado, the adrenaline rush and the atmosphere that kept us constantly coming back for more. It was not a question of whether or not you were going to get hurt.

It was when and how badly. With Percy it was a case of a 60 or 70 pound child versus 300 pounds of raging bull-calf, capable of twirling and tossing riders through the air like a paper plane.

Still no one wanted to ride the formidable Percy until that fateful day when a five-year-old cousin Errol volunteered. The previous experience he had had was on his nursery rocking horse. But here the rocking bull was very real.

Our little cousin stepped forward confidently saying: “I can do that. I can ride him!” We all yelled at him in chorus: No you can’t! You’ll get yourself killed if you try and ride that monster.” Errol didn’t listen. He climbed on the crude paddock fence, leapt smartly onto the bullock’s back and yelled: “Watch this! Open the gate!” The young bull froze for a moment then thrashed wildly, up and down, from side to side, around in circles but still a grim-faced Errol clung to its neck rope.

After ten seconds which seemed like an eternity Percy was bucking almost vertically and spinning until the child was just a blur. Errol clung on for thirty seconds more until the bucking bull slowed down. He then casually dismounted smartly while Percy broke loose and took off as if a little devil from hell was after him. Errol had created a record that would go into the annals of family history. Acknowledging the cheers of his kinsfolk and with an airy wave of his little hand Errol moved away.

We surrounded the bouncing baby buckeroo and asked: “Where in tarnation did you learn to ride a bucking bull like that?” He eyed us for a moment before explaining: “Remember three months ago when I had whooping cough? Every time I rode my rocking horse I could never stop!”