Throwing the Bull

A year ago, Marilyn watched the Country Music Awards on television. While passing the set, I stopped to hear an interview with Reba McIntyre. “This,” the interviewer said, “is your tenth year to host the Awards. How does it make you feel?”

Reba’s answer went something like this: “I can’t believe it’s been ten years and I can’t believe they keep inviting me back.”

Ten years is a long time but not the first time that I saw Reba in person. It was at Gilley’s – the honky-tonk immortalized by the movie Urban Cowboy - in Pasadena, Texas near Houston, the year 1981.

I was on a road trip with friends Andy and John to attend off-road motorcycle races at the Houston Astrodome. All the racers were riding road bikes, except for one racer. He had a small-block dirt bike, I can’t remember the make, and he did a number on all the other racers.

Dirt bikes weren’t a novelty at the time and I wonder now why someone hadn’t thought of the idea before 1981. As it stands, I now think that I witnessed the changing of the guard when it comes to off-road racing.

John, Andy and I – especially Andy – were motorcycle enthusiasts, Andy a racer himself. Andy had an Italian Laverda Motoplast and we once rented Hallett Motor Speedway, just outside Tulsa, for the weekend, but that’s another story. We saw plenty of motorcycle racing during the weekend and did lots of drinking. One of the bars we visited was Gilley’s.

The disco era was all but done but country and western line dancing was almost like disco. John Travolta is a great actor but probably thought of more as a dancer after his hit movie Saturday Night Fever. I’m sure his dancing ability got him the part but his acting was flawless – as was everyone else’s in the movie.

We were already half-tanked when we made it to Gilley’s. The place was large, loud and dark. It seems like it had about four distinct areas, the bar, a game room, dance floor and the mechanized bull area. I could be wrong about this because, like I said, we were all half-tanked.

I’m sure we paid a cover charge at the door because there were two bands that night, a warm-up band whose name I can’t remember, and the one that backed up young C & W singer Reba McIntyre. It didn’t take anyone in the place very long before realizing she would soon be a certified country super star.

After many more Buds, I tried a little line dancing. The steps, as I mentioned, were a lot like disco line dancing and I had no trouble melding in, though I wore no jeans, boots or Stetson. Finally, sufficiently liquored up, we made it to the room with the motorized bull. John and Andy were too intelligent to try the mechanized beast but, well, I wasn’t that smart. Before long I was waving to the cheering crowd and climbing on the bull.

There are no mechanized bulls anymore, at least as far as I know. The reason is simple: they are far too dangerous. I found this out about ten seconds into the ride. The operator started out slow as I held on with one hand, whooping it up like some deranged banshee. Finally, he cranked it up a notch, sending my heart, and my rear end, up around my throat. I landed on the hardwood floor like a sack of ripe potatoes, bouncing a time or two before coming to an ignominious stop.

All the pretty cowgirls and the less-than-impressed cowboys booed me as I limped off the stage. A real cowboy took the bull shortly after my unending, thankfully stealing away the attention from me as I slunk away into the darkness. John and Andy were rolling in laughter but at least they had a cold beer for me.

As I watched Reba, I realized the years have been good to her. And me? I’m a little smarter now because I still remember that saucer-sized bruise on my butt from bouncing around on Gilley’s hardwood floor. Hey, not much smarter because with the right amount of Budweiser, I might give the old bull one more try.

Fiction South