“. . . the shot . . .” The woman’s head bobs, and she’s out cold.
“Ladies and gents, we’ve had a little setback down on the ground, but the next rider will be out in just a few minutes.” The announcer fills the audience in as the bullfighters stride out to the center of the arena to entertain the waiting crowd.
Their faces painted, ridiculous rags hanging from their waists, and bright-colored shirts with the buttons done up all the way up their necks, they look hilarious. Which, right now, is exactly what this show needs.
Logan backflips his way to the oversized neon yellow barrel in the center and jumps up. Walking around the arena on it, his two buddies, dressed equally as ridiculous, squeeze themselves into the tiniest excuse for a car ever known to man, honking a horn as they chase Logan on the barrel.
The crowd roars with laughter, drowning out the photographer’s semiconscious groans as the paramedics finally arrive and lift her out and carry her away.
With a nervous look on his face, Brady adjusts his strapping and tugs his Tiffany glove on tight before trying his luck to strap down on Tornado for a second time.
The bull rams the chutes.
Brady lowers himself onto the bull’s back, pulling his rope round until his hand piece is right where he needs it.
On Brady’s nod, the cowboy hovering above him tugs it tight.
Brady pulls it tighter still, laying it over his open palm in the hand piece. Closing his fist, he smashes his other into it, locking his grip down tight. He flicks the loose end of the rope over Tornado and away from the gate.
His blue eyes meet mine.
I give him a subtle dip of my hat, and the fire in his eyes flares.
He tugs his helmet down, sets his shoulders back...
Then, with a nod of his head, the gate flies open.
