I take a deep breath.
Just as I dare to let it out?—
The bronc violently rises up on his back legs.
Time slows as I stare helplessly at the horse holding Logan hostage in mid-air. Somehow, Logan stays on.
Logan’s told me that a bucking bronco looks worse to the crowd watching than it feels for the rider. He says that when you’re the one on the horse, all you’re thinking about is surviving. Death doesn’t enter your mind in the moment. I get that bronc riders are a different breed, and they’ve made peace with the dangers of their sport.
But I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him to keep his right hand steady because it looks like it’s slipping. But I can’t. I can’t do anything because I’m outside the arena looking in.
He’s going to get first place in three, two…
All I can do is watch. My throat is sore from screaming. My teeth clench together. I pray as hard as I can.
Logan
Holy fuck.
I’m not in rhythm.
I fight to hold on.
When things are going well in a contest, the bronc and I are always in sync.
But not today.
Today, this fellow is angry.
And he’s letting me know it.
I try to re-grip.
The crowd is a blur.
The world outside of the bronc and me disappears.
I can’t be afraid. There’s no time to do anything but respond to what’s right in front of me.
I re-grip once again.
The bronc rears up brutally.
My hand is ripped off the grip.
I’m flying.
Twisting.
No control.
I can’t stop my fall.
Can’t stop.
The wall is too close. I need to rotate my body, need to turn somehow…
I hit the ground hard. Too hard.
