Split Seconds

It was windy, and cool. Even though they had finally gotten a little rain, the arena in the small panhandle town of Post, Texas was damp but dry enough not to dampen the spirits of the spectators or contestants. Behind the chutes it looked like a small tornado had come through or large tack room had exploded. There were saddles and other gear scattered all around and the riders were standing amongst it all. Some were making small talk, some sizing the other riders up, and still others were laughing and raucous, maybe to hide the butterflies in their stomachs.

Several horses were run into the alley that narrowed slowly dumping them into the bucking chutes. As each one came to his place the gate we shut and latched behind him. The big bay stood shaking and nervous as a cat. He stomped his feet and reared up. He was as disruptive as he could be during the prayer and the singing of the national anthem, neighing, snorting, and kicking the sides of the chute. Even the people in the stands across the arena could see his nostrils flare and his bulging white eyes. He had been here numerous times before, after all he was getting old for a bucking horse and was a seasoned veteran at throwing riders who thought he could be ridden, and thought they were just the one who could do it. Many had tried, and most, close to all of them in fact, had failed. Unbeknownst to anyone but his owner, this would be his last time out before being retired.

When the numbers were drawn and the draw was posted, the riders began to get ready for the horse that had been assigned for each of them to ride. The name listed by the bay's number on the sheet of paper stapled to the board next to the chutes was a name known to everyone here. He had won this event before, several years ago and ironically, on this horse. Yes, he was one of only a small handful of cowboys who had made the whistle on this big, strapping, Roman nosed bronc. He had already said it was his last year to ride and rumors floated around that it might be the last year for the big, stout bay.

Slowly the bronc halter and rein were put on the head of the wild-eyed bay. The saddle was lowered over his back and carefully secured. It was time. The announcer told stories about horse and rider, bragging about the reputation and ability of both. This would be the "ultimate matchup" he would say.

The cowboy, knowing every eye was on him, tried to keep his mind on the matters at hand. He could hide his nerves if he kept his mind on the ride. As the cinch was tightened and the flank strap as well, the arena crew got ready to open the gate when they were given the sign. The rider carefully measured out the rein and stepped over the top rail. Planting his left foot on the saddle seat, he lowered his right foot then the left into the stirrups. He rested in the cantle just long enough to raise the rein until it was taught. He held his free hand in the air and nodding his head he tensed up as they opened the gate. The bay reared up and lunged forward, the rider almost upside down. Digging in his heals, he let the forward momentum of the bronc pull him back upright as the two front hooves pounded the thick, soft, red dirt of the arena. Each time the horse bucked he was higher off the ground. Every landing like a pile driver on the back, hips, and every fiber in the cowboy's body. The crowd cheered and jumped to their feet. Cameras flashed all over the arena. The cowboy partially lost his balance but with the next lunge in the air he regained his place in the middle of the storm.

It takes much longer to describe the ride than it lasted, for though he rode out the eight seconds required, that's all he did. He landed on his left shoulder and side with a thud. As he rolled, the bronc jumped and kicked just over his head with one more short flight. As the bronc ran around the arena and the pickup men finally escorted him out the gate to the pens out back, the cowboy rose to his feet and regaining his composure, retreated from the arena himself, waving his hat to the cheering crowd. The crowd waited patiently for the announcement. Waiting, waiting, then the moment of truth. When the score was announced the crowd went wild again. The ultimate matchup had lived up to the hype . The horse had bucked his hardest. In fact, he bucked the cowboy off, it just took a little longer than eight seconds to get it done. The cowboy rode his best. He held on, in control, at least for eight seconds. That's all it took. That was all that was required and he was glad. Though he may not want to admit it, it was probably all he could stand.

The awards were given, the crowd made their way to their vehicles and off to home or to their hotel rooms to clean up and come back for the dance. The story would be told, and remembered for years to come. But it would be the cowboy who received the accolades, not the horse. After a little while at the dance, the cowboy slipped out and made his way out to the arena and the corral out back of the chutes where the broncs were kept until they would be loaded out the next morning and taken home. They mingled around eating the remnants of hay they were fed just a couple of hours earlier. The cowboy looked around a bit until he saw him. Standing off to himself was the big, stout, bay horse he had ridden earlier to maybe his best win of all. At least the one he would be best known for. At that moment the horse didn't look quite so big nor ominous. He even looked a little sad. Just for a moment, the depth of the experience soaked in and the cowboy knew it could have ended completely different. He could have been bucked off a split second sooner. Another cowboy would be wearing the championship buckle and the bronc's last time out would have been triumphant. That split second had meant a vast difference in both of their lives. They would never cross paths again. He would never even see the horse again. But from then on, when asked about the ride, the cowboy would say, "I didn't ride him. He bucked me off. Just not quite soon enough."

Our lives are a series of split seconds. We have to make each and every one count or the rest of our lives may just be completely different, affecting every one and every thing around us. How many seconds do we waste in our lives? They add up to minutes, hours, days...minutes , hours, and days with others, the people we love and care about. Some we may not know but how we take advantage of those seconds with them could affect their lives forever. A smile, a kind word, a firm handshake, or a pat on the back could mean everything, at least to them. A split second could be the difference between a championship buckle and a mouthful of dirt. Even more important, it could make a difference in someone else's life. All of a sudden, that split second doesn't seem so small.