Texas is not a state.

But Texas is a strange, strange place. It’s a country in itself
(there’s actually a Texan Embassy in London that dates back to when
Texas existed as an independent republic), and in the country of
Texas, the national anthem is probably Dwight Yoakam’s “T for
Texas,” since “If You’re Gonna Play in Texas” was most likely ruled
out because of the sacrilegious name of the group (Alabama). The
national slogans are “Remember the Alamo” and “Don’t Mess with
Texas,” and the national pastime is none other than bulls and
blood, dust and mud–a thing they call rodeo.

We foreigners, especially us of the lowest kind (yankees), have
a hard time grasping the concept of Texas in every respect, from
roads that don’t make sense to bail bond offices on nearly every
corner. Traffic is normally atrocious in the cities, but on a
special weekend, the pickup truck-saturated highways encircling the
city shortly after sunset mean only one thing–rodeo night.

I consider myself fairly cultured, and I think I have an open
mind about what constitutes a sport. To no Yankee’s surprise,
rodeos never made the list of the finer sports in life.
Technically, rodeos never made my list of sports at all.

Saturday night, I sat in the upper decks of the American
Airlines Center in Dallas and watched about 12,000 natives decked
out in their finest cowboy hats, their shiniest belt buckles and
tightest Wranglers mill through the stadium to watch the Texas
Stampede Professional Rodeo.

We got to the hallowed event a few minutes after it began (we
didn’t miss much other than the national anthems–I think they play
“The Star Spangled Banner” at these things, as well), but just in
time to hear the announcer refer to one of the bulls as 1,500
pounds of fajita meat, which was only mildly revolting to this
vegetarian. You can only imagine my excitement. And the bull’s.

To my utter astonishment, what I saw resembled a sport.

Every element of modern professional athletics was there, from
media coverage by every country music station and The Dallas
Morning Star, to corporate sponsorship from Interstate Batteries
and Pace (as in picante sauce), to the valiant super-athlete
(though I use the term “athlete” loosely) carried off the arena
floor by a medical team, while waving his cowboy hat to the crow
after being injured in the bull-riding event. He scored a 91 in his
miraculous go-around, which assured him a later career walking on
water if his injury was so severe that it ended his bull-riding
days. (Thankfully, it wasn’t).

Through my Yankee eyes, the whole thing looked like nothing more
than country boys and girls congregating in a strange and foreign
ritual. But whether it was something in the water or just the
contagious spirit of country fun, my vision changed–and I saw a
sport.

Competition was in the air, and fans turned out in droves to
celebrate their national pastime and cheer on the victors of the
night. A glance around the arena led me to realize that these fans
really weren’t any different than those who fill the same seats
during Dallas Mavericks or Dallas Stars games. They came, they paid
$10 to park and $4 for a beer, they cheered and they dressed in the
attire of their idols; only instead of wearing Mavs and Stars gear,
they sported boots and hats.

The nature of competitive rodeos actually makes some sense when
you stop and think about it. Here’s a sport that took a group of
people’s everyday activities, whether it is riding a horse, roping
a cow or trying to avoid being heaved into the air by a large,
angry mass of “fajita meat,” and transformed them into a challenge
to see who is the very best, complete with rules, a code of points
and the spirit of competition–which is how every other sport under
the clear blue sky originated, everything from the Greeks creating
the sport of gymnastics to a couple of peach baskets hung from
poles morphing into the game of basketball.

Cowboys in rodeos make sacrifices and suffer injuries just like
competitors in any other sport. But at the end of the night, when
the roar of the crowd no longer echoes in the arena and all the
spurs and latigo are hung up, as Garth Brooks said, there’s still
the joy and the pain that comes with chasing the dream (of any
sport), including the one they call rodeo.