{"id":169604,"date":"2025-01-13T11:36:57","date_gmt":"2025-01-13T16:36:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=169604"},"modified":"2025-01-13T13:18:30","modified_gmt":"2025-01-13T18:18:30","slug":"the-tickling-of-the-bulls-a-rodeo-at-madison-square-garden","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/01\/13\/the-tickling-of-the-bulls-a-rodeo-at-madison-square-garden\/","title":{"rendered":"The Tickling of the Bulls: A Rodeo at Madison Square Garden"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Photograph by Austin Aughinbaugh. Courtesy of Studio Augie.<\/p><\/div>\n

A 1,650-pound American bucking bull named Man Hater paused at the entrance to the Madison Square Garden floor and fixed me with his dark, soulful eyes. \u201cHi, puppy,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

A bearded wrangler scoffed. \u201cThat\u2019s no puppy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Before opening night of the Monster Energy Buck Off at the Garden, on January 3\u2014the eighteenth annual such event and first to sell out all three days\u2014a small press corps had gathered by the tunnel to watch the athletes arrive. Not the human athletes but their bovine counterparts, which plodded up the corridor, chased by a mounted cowboy chanting in a low voice. The bulls advanced with the sheepish dignity of prizefighters in ill-fitting suits.<\/p>\n

In a few hours, these animals would try to buck their riders, who would try desperately to stay on for eight seconds\u2014the basic drama of a rodeo. A popular myth claims rodeo bulls are compelled to buck by a strap wrapped around their testicles, but as any spectator can observe, these are clearly swinging free. \u201cTake a rope, tie it around yours, and pull it up tight\u2014and see how high you can jump,\u201d says Chad Berger, a livestock contractor, in a Professional Bull Riders (PBR) promotional video<\/a> meant to dispel this misconception. The real instigator is a strap wrapped around the bull\u2019s flank\u2014an annoyance that provokes an animalistic urgency to get it off<\/em>, a response I know well, having once attempted to put pants on my dog for Halloween.<\/em> \u201cIt\u2019s basically like if I tickle your armpits\u2014that\u2019s about what it does to them bulls,\u201d Berger says. Madison Square Garden\u2019s three-day Monster Energy Buck Off, I learned, would be fueled by a tickling of the bulls.<\/p>\n

We went to the locker room to meet their riders. They have names like Sage Steele Kimzey, Kaiden Loud, Cort McFadden. They\u2019re built like whipcord and hover around five foot six. Most hail from the American West or Southwest or Brazil, whose riders have dominated the sport with four championships in the past five years. \u201cBigger, stronger bulls have bred a different type of rider,\u201d one Brazilian fan told me, implying that the Brazilians are tougher. (The best explanation I could extract from the PBR was that Brazil has a cowboy culture with an abundance of cattle.) Some are tragically handsome, others just tragic, with hoof-shaped dents in their cheekbones. Most are in their late teens or twenties. Rap music played while men worked rosin into their ropes; the American teens scrolled through TikTok. Everybody was very polite, all \u201csirs\u201d and \u201cma\u2019ams,\u201d and they seemed to like one another\u2014many were friends from the road, traveling the PBR circuit together each week, provided their rankings held. One rider said \u201cBonjour\u201d when I told him I was writing for The Paris Review<\/em>. A twenty-five-year-old Texan named Daniel Keeping, who is missing several important teeth, crushed my hand when I reached out and said hello. A door forbidden to media swung open, and I glimpsed the writing on a whiteboard: \u201cPussies don\u2019t win!!!\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

A pyrotechnic explosion kicked off the event: The dirt erupted in flames, lighting up the otherwise dark arena, and thick clouds of artificial smoke billowed up to the rafters. The crowd was jolted into a frenzy\u2014one can only imagine how the bulls felt. As the unmistakable thrum of jock jams began to pulse through the floor, the announcer screamed something incomprehensible. Thirty-five bull riders emerged from the darkness and walked straight through the fire\u2014how, I don\u2019t know\u2014taking their places near the Monster Energy girls, tipping their caps as they were introduced. The announcer called for prayer, and a hush quickly spread through the crowd.<\/p>\n

\u201cHeavenly Father, we come to you tonight, thankful, first and foremost, simply for the gift of life that you\u2019ve given each and every one of us here tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

The cowboys bowed their heads\u2014some wept\u2014as the announcer beseeched God to keep them safe. John Crimber, the nineteen-year-old Texan prodigy, pressed his hat to his chest over his fresh tattoo that read \u201cPsalm 23\u201d\u2014the prayer he whispers before every ride: \u201cI walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The announcer finished with a call for forgiveness from the Lord \u201cbecause we know every breath we take on this earth, we fall short of the glory of your name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"

Photograph by Austin Aughinbaugh. Courtesy of Studio Augie.<\/p><\/div>\n

Behind the gates waited The Undertaker, Ram Rod, Bangarang, and at least forty other bulls, each weighing up to two thousand pounds. Sometime between the printing of the day sheet and the start of the event, a bull was renamed from Daniel Penny\u2014the name of the former marine who became a conservative folk hero after strangling Jordan Neely on a New York City subway\u2014to Bruised Ego. Just two months earlier, Trump held a rally at MSG that became instantly notorious after comedian Tony Hinchcliffe had delivered a set full of racist jokes. I expected this event might be a victory lap, but I spotted only one MAGA<\/small> hat in the sea of Stetsons. The crowd, which skewed male, seemed to be a mix of real cowboys from the tri-state area, families on a day out, New Yorkers test-driving their cowboy-core outfits, and the Garden regulars whom you\u2019d see at any Knicks or Rangers game. Jemima Kirke was in the crowd in a pink vest and rhinestone earrings. The cowboys were undeniably sexy, she told me, but she vacillated between erotic attraction and motherly concern. She said, \u201cSomebody needs to send these boys home to their mommies.\u201d<\/p>\n

Bull riding, like many other sports, is about guys hanging out. One by one, the men mounted their lottery-drawn bulls waiting in their steel chutes. The other cowboys\u2014some aides-de-camp, others pre- or post-ride\u2014gathered around the rider, pulling on ropes, prodding the bull, rubbing the rider\u2019s shoulders, whispering in his ear, until the gate swung open.<\/p>\n

The contest goes like this: If a rider stays on for eight seconds, judges award up to a hundred points\u2014fifty for the cowboy\u2019s control and another fifty based on the difficulty of the bull\u2019s performance. (The bulls, like their riders, maintain rankings throughout the year.) If the riders fall short of eight seconds\u2014and most do\u2014they receive no score and no money. Over three nights, each rider gets three rides, with the top twelve advancing to a championship round. The winner takes home $46,000 from a $143,549 total purse. Last year, the PBR distributed $17 million in prizes across 1,080 competitors\u2014roughly $16,000 per rider, though the elite athletes at the top took home the lion\u2019s share.<\/p>\n

The riders are independent contractors\u2014like Uber drivers, except they get paid for a fraction of their rides, and a typical workday involves a collision that could kill them. Andrew Giangola, the PBR\u2019s head of communications, told me that money comes second to rider camaraderie\u2014in the joyful post-event locker room, you\u2019d never guess who had earned and who was leaving empty-handed. It\u2019s an especially American paradox: a ruthlessly meritocratic system where men nonetheless live to pull each other up by their bootstraps.<\/p>\n

The riding itself involves less thinking, Crimber told me. It\u2019s just like \u201cbrushing your teeth,\u201d he said. \u201cI just go out there with a clear mind, just kind of trusting my body that I\u2019ve prepared for that situation.\u201d I agreed with him that this is what brushing your teeth is like but asked what advice he\u2019d give me if I were going to ride a bull. \u201cJust go out there and have fun,\u201d he said, which seemed like terrible advice.<\/p>\n

Crimber is wholesome and cute in the way the Walmart yodeling boy was wholesome and cute. But his newfound celebrity seems to be nurturing a budding swagger: He had just bought a Rolex, and a girls\u2019 volleyball championship team recently recognized him at the airport. Under his right eye, a purple divot marks where a horn shattered his eye socket in 2023\u2014a week after the injury and before reconstructive surgery, he rode half-blind.<\/p>\n

The riders\u2019 strategy is generally to become rag dolls\u2014a word that appears in the PBR\u2019s promotional material\u2014going limp while swiveling their hips with the bull\u2019s motion, trying to maintain their center of gravity while absorbing multiple forces: violent upward jackrabbit kicks, sudden directional changes, dizzying spins, and gravity. One hand waves in the air like a debutante\u2019s; the other grips a braided rope around the bull\u2019s girth. Every wrap of the bull rope is a calculated gamble: Too loose sends you straight to the dirt, too tight and you might get dragged by your trapped hand beneath the bull\u2019s pounding hooves. In 2013, the PBR began requiring all riders born after October 15, 1994, to wear helmets with face masks, but several older riders at MSG stuck with the traditional cowboy hat.<\/p>\n

After each ride, four lunatics known as \u201cbullfighters\u201d must intercept the bull before it can gore or stomp the fallen rider. These protectors wear shirts emblazoned with \u201cU.S. BORDER PATROL\u201d\u2014the PBR\u2019s official federal law enforcement sponsor, which had set up recruitment stations around the arena. \u201cThematically, it\u2019s on point,\u201d Giangola told me. \u201cThe agents in the Border Patrol are essentially protecting Americans, and the bullfighters out on the dirt are putting their bodies in harm\u2019s way to protect the bull riders.\u201d It\u2019s an unusual brand to see promoted in New York City, but the whole event had the quality of a Monster Energy truck idling beside a halal cart.<\/p>\n

The rodeo clown\u2014more of a rodeo Juggalo whose mesh shorts reach his ankles\u2014serves as the emcee and entertainer between rides, offering light color commentary and ham-fisted crowd work. On this night, his signature moves consisted primarily of crip walking around the arena, suggestively undulating his hips, and rudely whipping his hat like a frisbee at the bulls\u2019 heads when the bullfighters struggled to corral them.<\/p>\n

There was a famous person in the dirt, and, boy, were people excited. Neal McDonough. Sharp-angled, silver-haired, and blue-eyed, he looks every bit the cowboy, but the fifty-eight-year-old, originally from Massachusetts, earned his Western credentials playing moneyed villains in Justified<\/em>, Tulsa King<\/em>, and Yellowstone<\/em>. In these circles, that makes him an A-lister; he\u2019d take a photo with anyone who asked and even those who didn\u2019t. He and his family were the event\u2019s guests of honor, there to promote McDonough\u2019s new film, The Last Rodeo<\/em>, about an aging bull rider who lost his wife to cancer (made in partnership with the PBR).<\/p>\n

McDonough held court in the media pit, telling and retelling a story that would be repeated throughout MSG for three days. A decade ago, he was fired from a TV show for refusing to perform a kissing scene. \u201cThese lips are meant for one woman!\u201d he said,<\/u> to his wife Ruv\u00e9’s delight as she stood by his side. Hollywood blacklisted him\u2014the actor who wouldn\u2019t kiss, no small cross to bear\u2014until he lost everything: the beautiful house, the fancy car, even his \u201ccoolness.\u201d \u201cThere wasn\u2019t any booze that I didn’t like,\u201d he said. \u201cI just drank and drank and drank.\u201d After two years, he broke down sobbing, asking God, \u201cWhy have you forgotten about me?\u201d At that moment, he realized he hadn\u2019t been living for God. Then, he said, the phone rang with a job offer. More work followed, and now, with The Last Rodeo<\/em>, came his shot at absolution. He\u2019d cast Ruv\u00e9\u2014who has not worked as an actor before\u2014to play his deceased wife, meaning the film would feature, during a flashback in which the aging bull rider dances with his dying wife, Neal McDonough\u2019s First On-Screen Kiss.<\/em><\/p>\n

Appearing on the Jumbotron for a live interview later, McDonough would promote his new film and his love for his wife. \u201cI milked it for as much as I could,\u201d he said of the kissing scene, relaying to the crowd that he\u2019d insisted on take after take despite on-set pleas to stop. \u201cNo,\u201d he\u2019d said. \u201cI\u2019m going to kiss her a lot. And we did, and it was awesome.\u201d<\/p>\n

All night long, men were launched into the championship banners. Kicked like hacky sacks. Spun like laundry. Horned in the ass. Thrashed against the steel gates. Their bodies hit the ground contorted into letters of the alphabet. If they were able, they scurried away like frightened woodland critters. Occasionally, riders are stomped on. Sometimes they have died\u2014since its 1992 founding, the PBR has lost four riders to stomping injuries; the death toll at unsanctioned events is believed to be higher. A limited accidents policy covers immediate care for competition injuries, though what qualifies as an accident versus the cost of doing business remains unclear to me. \u201cGenerally speaking, it covers the injury and the immediate care,\u201d Sean Gleason, the PBR\u2019s CEO, told me. \u201cIt\u2019s not insurance for the riders, so there is no long-term disability or anything of that sort.\u201d This is why, he told me, charitable organizations are so important in their world.<\/p>\n

Backstage, a bull was sticking its head through the gate and nuzzling against the nose of another. \u201cAw,\u201d I said. \u201cThey\u2019re kissing.\u201d (Kissing was on my mind.) \u201cThey ain\u2019t kissin\u2019,\u201d the bearded wrangler said and disappeared into the herd.<\/p>\n

In the crowd, men who had entered as strangers brushed shoulders during a \u201cPiano Man\u201d singalong. The rendition of \u201cY.M.C.A.\u201d was rapturous. Two bull-riding aficionados high-fived and waxed poetic about the quality of the animal athletes: \u201cThese bulls are just different,\u201d one said. \u201cThey can feel which way you\u2019re moving, jerk you down and jerk you off.\u201d<\/p>\n

The drama was in the dirt\u20141.5 million pounds of it\u2014where each rider stepped forward to test their fate with the bulls. Sometimes the bull bucked before being let out of the chutes, smashing its rider\u2019s legs into the steel (\u201cOw! Ow! Stop it, dang it!\u201d). Other times it failed to buck at all and was driven riderless into the tunnel\u2014straight to the steakhouse kitchen? (Truthfully, these bulls, which can be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and their semen worth tens, seem to be treated about as well as livestock anywhere.) Austin Richardson rode Buckshot for 88.25 points and performed the Griddy dance. Crimber rode Crazy Party for 85.5, tossing off his helmet to show his pretty face to the adoring crowd. Daniel Keeping was sent airborne, landing ribs first on Punchy Pete\u2019s head mid-buck. The audience gasped, he staggered out of the ring with the help of two cowboys, and I thought about what he\u2019d done to my hand.<\/p>\n

As the tournament went on, the riders\u2019 screams intensified\u2014agony, ecstasy, primal roars. In McDonough\u2019s next Jumbotron appearance<\/a>, he poured a Monster Energy tallboy into his wife\u2019s cowboy boot and drank it. (Giangola later made a point of telling me that Ruv\u00e9 had not been wearing socks.) This triggered a chain reaction throughout the arena\u2014men yanking off boots from nearby women and girls, pouring beer into them, and chugging. (\u201cI love seeing guys rip off their wives\u2019 boots and have at it,\u201d McDonough told me.) The fun wasn\u2019t limited to couples: A young boy drank Coca-Cola from his sister\u2019s boot. Beside me, a lone fan drank an Aquafina out of his own old Saucony.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\"\"

Photograph by Austin Aughinbaugh. Courtesy of Studio Augie.<\/p><\/div>\n

Three days, 123 rides, and 79 buck offs culminated in the championship round. Man Hater dispatched Brady Fielder, the field\u2019s lone Aussie, while the bull\u2019s owner, Jean Clark\u2014a sixty-nine-year-old real estate businesswoman and heiress from Cooperstown, New York\u2014watched with satisfaction. Always Been Crazy sent eighteen-year-old Tennessean Hudson Bolton immediately horizontal. Derek Kolbaba fouled out by grazing Smokestack with his non-rope hand at 6.5 seconds\u2014a heartbreaker for the rider, who broke his neck in 2023. Of the twelve championship round riders, only three went the distance. Lucas Divino, a soft-spoken, helmetless PBR veteran from Brazil, took home the trophy with an eight-second, 88.75-point ride of Punchy Pete. His voice quavered and eyes welled up with tears as he spoke<\/a> to the ringside reporter. \u201cToday, I was walking here toward the chutes, and God was telling me\u2014the Holy Spirit was telling me\u2014\u2018It\u2019s okay. You\u2019re going to be the champion.\u2019 And here\u2019s the truth: I\u2019m the champion.\u201d<\/p>\n

Media, friends, and family spilled onto the dirt. Parents photographed their children with Border Patrol officers and accepted their recruitment pamphlets. The riders\u2014winners and losers alike, all worse for the wear\u2014backslapped and posed for selfies. They gathered at the podium to celebrate Divino, who, the announcer told us, had led their locker room prayer.<\/p>\n

The fans filed out. Two guys in cowboy hats sitting in front of me said their goodbyes. They\u2019d been warming to each other throughout the event, chatting, even buying one another beers. I wondered if they were going to exchange numbers.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, man,\u201d one cowboy said to the other, as they turned to go their separate ways. \u201cAre you on LinkedIn?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jasper<\/span> Nathaniel is a Brooklyn-based writer and reporter. He covers Israel\u2019s occupation of the West Bank and other political and cultural affairs on his Substack, Infinite Jaz<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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