Eighteen hundred pounds of heaving, restless beast heaved under Jim like breakers on a beach, as he poised above, feet on the rails.  He took a deep breath and, for a moment, let his attention move to the crowd, also a heaving, restless beast.  He smelled the sweat of the animal below him, the bull they called Twister, an enemy of old. Jim’s chaps and protective vest were added warmth on an already warm night here in Salinas. Sweat trickled down his back. He lowered himself down on the massive creature’s back, making sure to point his feet forward.  He didn’t want to let the spurs touch the bull in the chute. Then, grasping the rope below him, he twisted it and looped it around his hand, the rosin sticky on his gloved fingers, as the cowboy tightened the strap, and he heard the jingle of the bells.  Twister heard it too and shifted with a snort that sounded like a steam engine. Jim adjusted the rope, once, twice, and when he was satisfied, he raised his left hand into the air above him and took a quick breath.  His heart was pounding, and the bull beneath him quivered and snorted again. Jim nodded. “Ok, boys.” And the gate swang away.

The crowd roared as Twister exploded out of the chute.  Eight seconds was all he needed. Twister bucked out, reared, and twisted, his signature and namesake move. The crowd was a blur of color and sound, but Jim focused on the bull below him. Jim moved with the spinning beast, his body flung in all directions as he kept his left-hand high. Twister roared, and a final flip sent Jim cartwheeling to the dusty ground.  The buzzer sounded.  This round went to Twister. Jim scrambled to his feet and ran to the rails as the bullfighters wrangled Twister out of the stadium.