ESSAY: RODEO IN MY BLOOD
Growing up on the dusty rodeo trail of the Dakotas it was common to talk about the glories of elsewhere, in rodeo arenas that felt a world away.
Vegas was the champion’s jackpot, a place where a cowboy could become a legend. The Frontier Days in Cheyenne, Wyo., were an access point to the big leagues, where unheralded cowboys could compete against the world’s best. And Reno was a beautiful spot that tended to attract the land’s best ropers.
But the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, that was something altogether different. Sitting on rusted tailgates, letting the dust settle from another day in the dirt, we’d talk about Houston like it was the rodeo equivalent of Hollywood.
“You know George Strait plays there after the rodeo, right?”
In the Dakotas, we were happy with George Strait cover bands.
“Did Destiny’s Child really perform at a rodeo?”
Up there, if you heard anything through the arena PA system speakers that wasn’t country or classic rock, people wondered if the announcer was having a deep conversation with Jim Beam or Jack Daniels.
So, yeah, the tales of the rodeo’s entertainment reputation made it up north, just shy of the Canadian border. But the discussions always veered back to the fact that RodeoHouston also attracted the best cowboys and cowgirls in Texas and beyond. You wanted to make the Houston rodeo as a badge of pride, then stay for the party.
It’s a legendary rodeo, which is why I’m so excited to witness it for the first time. I’ll be the guy smiling wide and long.