The P.B.R. is nothing short of a delicacy. To relax with one of the ‘bulls’ in its respective world is an experience I wouldn’t trade for the world. Who the hell wants the world anyways? The famed P.B.R. shows face usually on a Friday or Saturday night. Occasionally a Sunday for those brave enough to not let Monday ruin the Lord’s Day. Those who haven’t experienced it are missing out on a Milwaukee staple.
Enough about the beer, though. I want to deep-dive into my experience with an all-access media pass at the Professional Bull Riding event at the Madison Square Garden – the real Garden. The green room. The locker room. The plenty of room I had below those less fortunate than myself. I had the chance to experience this all right next to the chute on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night. This is how it went.
The Green Room
Anyone who has been in a green room will agree with this: there isn’t a single hue of green to be found in that place. If I had to guess, it would be more of an ivory tusk on the walls. Maybe a bone white. But they did offer copious bottles of water, free coffee, and an overall very pleasant staff. It was an enormous ego boost being the young guns in the room. It was an enormous ego killer knowing they all belonged there and I didn’t. When anyone asked my role, I told them I was a ‘scribe’ for Cangro. Little did they know, I had already spilt half of a Mike’s Harder Lemonade all over the journal I should have been inscribing.
The absolute highlight of the green room was the people that filled it. Each person had their own unique story to tell. Their own agendas and peculiar avocations that gathered each of us into the same room. I cannot give a bigger shoutout to Jordan Weaver – host of the Flatbed Podcast. Talk about a passionate, adept man in the world of the westerners. He could sell sand to a camel, and it was a privilege to meet him. Enough of the necking, though.
The Locker Room
There is being in your local gym men’s locker room, and then there is being in the MSG locker room with bull riders. A single man in that room had more testosterone than my entire high school soccer team. I watched as they all polished their rope for the bulls with an amber rosin. Each had a fire behind their eyes, and the room reeked of fervent ambition. Their castles in the sky became more concrete by the second. On the other side of their 8-second ride was glory, veneration, and most importantly, a paycheck.
Needless to say, they all had something in that room I didn’t: purpose. It was incredible to watch people work towards a goal of theirs. I left the locker room inspired, and ready to pursue dreams of my own. I knew creating an island for homeless people would be difficult, but I was determined. There, primal nature will once again prove the strong will always eat the weak, and only the elite of that society can leave the island and reenter society with a guaranteed server position at a Cracker Barrel. My dream is still in the “relax; you know it’s a good idea” stage of success.
The Floor
I was floored, both mentally and physically. I stood there right behind the gate, a mere nobody, and watched as names like Chris Distefano, Cowboy Cerrone, and Andrew Schulz shuffled past me. The air of fleeting superiority that gravitated around me was quickly drowned out by their presence. I was doing this for three days. Them? The rest of their Foie-Gras-indulging lives.
Nevertheless, I was going to soak it all in like a sponge submerged in some fine French cognac. A Rémy Martin Louis XIII, perhaps. It was cool to see everyone with a job down there. The riders ride. The bulls buck. Cangro cangros. And I just leaned against and watched as the P.B.R. was in full swing. The riders hitting their 8 seconds, the bulls nearly trampling those who slipped up, and even the fellas who coerce the bulls back in the chute by creating mayhem of sorts for them. It was all incredible to watch up close, and I would absolutely do it again given the opportunity.