Mama, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys

"Dad, I blend right in, don't I?" Justin asked rhetorically on Sunday as we made our way amongst the cowboys to the main arena of the Woodside Junior Rodeo. He was wearing a too small, kitschy Ponderosa Ranch cowboy hat and had asked me to roll his blue jeans into small cuffs above his tennis shoes. (Why would we own cowboy boots?) Andrew and Kevin were both in shorts, with Andrew also wearing my straw hat (yes, it almost fits him) and Kevin wearing a neon green T-shirt with a faded maroon Stanford Cardinal baseball cap. Quite the family of cowpokes.

"That's right, Justin. You look like you've been going to rodeos your whole life, even though this is your first one." But this was Woodside, after all: horse country, yes, but hardly Lubbock, Texas, so he in fact was not the sole greenhorn among all the equestrians in well-worn western apparel.

I had facetiously warned the boys on the way in that we were here to watch the rodeo, not to join it, despite the heroics of some of our bedtime stories with bull riding and outlaw roping. So the joke was on me when within ten minutes of our arrival we learned that signups were underway for the "Pig Scramble" which would begin in fifteen minutes.

Later at Armadillo Willy's we would agree that the barrel racing was fun, the team roping was great, and the steer and bull riding looked dangerous, but exciting. But the highlight was the Pig Scramble, and luckily so, as Kathy and I each realized during signup that it had the potential to make or break the afternoon.

They grouped the kids into three age categories, our boys entering the youngest group of kids "six and under." When the huge livestock truck drove into the arena and the pig wranglers began wrestling the squealing pigs across the dry dusty grounds, it became apparent that there were advantages and disadvantages to the youngest group going last. It gave the eager youngsters a chance to study a winning strategy and the more timid kids a chance to grow increasingly scared. Kathy and I naturally took the stereotypical parenting roles with her warning the boys to watch out for the pigs' mouths so they wouldn't get bit, and me warning the other dads to stay out of it and let the kids compete on their own merits. (Besides, how could I help all three boys?)

The idea was to release the pigs on the opposite side of the arena, then let the children chase them, catch them, and haul them back by their hind legs to the starting point. Ribbons would be awarded to all participants, but only one trophy would be awarded for each successfully captured pig.

All seemed fine to me until they announced, "Parents, please stand back. We ask you not to run out and catch a pig for your child. But if you do have a youngster who needs a little help, it's okay to help them hang on to the pig." Well, duh! The first two sentences were sufficient, but the final equivocation as much as translated, for many dads, into the words, "Do whatever you like: throw elbows, body check, maim and break limbs; whatever is necessary for your child to get a trophy and not go home disappointed is perfectly okay."

There had to be about fifty kids and nearly as many dads lined up to chase about a dozen pigs. Like most of the kids, Andrew and Justin stood in line half unsure about what to do, but Kevin looked like a sprinter getting into position in the starting block. They blew the whistle and Kevin raced off while the rest of the kids began stampeding en masse through the dust, dividing into groups flowing left and right as they chased the squealing pigs. With all the adults--pig wranglers and dads--and charging kids, I quickly lost track of the boys. I scanned for them to make sure they weren't getting trampled, and after spotting both Justin and Andrew, I turned to locate Kevin again.

We never saw Kevin catch his pig, nor was he himself able to articulate his pig-snatching technique, but he was easy to spot: he was already twenty yards from the finish line in his bright neon shirt, methodically reverse-wheelbarrowing (to coin a phrase) a squealing pig two-thirds his weight back across the arena. The angry pink pig kicked and tussled, but Kevin had decided upon a trophy and there was no chance he was letting go.

Meanwhile, Justin had somehow charmed some grizzled old cowboy into hauling a pig by one leg for him while he hung onto the other, occasionally dropping it and picking it up again. "He just did a big belly-flop on it," Justin would later tell us, "and helped me bring it back."

And unlucky Andrew, flowed with the crowds, moving from group to group, politely asking a bunch of oblivious kids whether they needed his help. He spotted Kevin all by himself about to be the first winner across the finish line, but Kevin was having nothing to do with offers of help. He spotted Justin and Grizzly Adams, but when he tried holding onto a pig foot, he would as quickly drop it again when the pig tried wrestling free.

So Kevin left with a Pig Scrambling trophy to add to his soccer and swim, basketball and T-ball, chess and gymnastics collection. Justin and Andrew agreed to share a second trophy and the ribbon. It took Andrew a short time to contain his disappointment, but he bounces back quickly and we let him know it was very kind of him to offer his assistance to so many kids.

All in all, it was a terrific and memorable rodeo.

And, next year: bull-riding.