B Y - M A R Y - J E S S I C A - H A M M E S
P H O T O G R A P H S - B Y - K I M - B A N C R O F T

SIX YOUNG WOMEN ON GALLOPING HORSES bear six whipping flags of the Confederacy into the Stegeman Coliseum arena. Glitter sprinkles from the animals' hindquarters, sprays of shiny fringe flap on the women's shoulders, and it's all caught in the careening spotlights.

In one voice, the crowd at UGA's Great Southland Stampede Pro Rodeo erupts into patriotic cheers as a seventh woman charges into the arena with an American flag. Church organ music brings rodeo fans from all over Georgia to their feet for a prayer filled with pastureland imagery and cowpoke analogy. Announcer Roger Mooney, manipulating his warm twang like a musical instrument, finishes the prayer with a plea that, when the time comes to head to that great rodeo in the sky, "all we ask is that our entry fee has been paid."

Corey Watson (BS '99) directed every phase of this year's rodeo, from police briefings to physical plant operations that transform the Coliseum into a rodeo site. He also managed a $130,000 budget.

On the dirt floor near the livestock pens, cowboys loosening up for the first event of the evening—bareback riding—kick into the air in a jerky dance and windmill their arms. One rider crouches against the wall, straining his leather chaps, and rocks back and forth to the pulse of tinny country rock. Another leans over a trash can and vomits.

What's entertainment to the fans is rough-and-tumble competition for the 283 contestants who have come to Athens looking for a share of $15,000 in prize money. The organizers of the Great Southland Stampede, UGA's Block and Bridle Club, huddle together in the Coliseum's tunnels, as nervous as the cowboys.

	Makeup identifies him as a clown, but Ellis used to be a bullrider—and that's what makes him so good at "getting everybody out clean." Kevin Ellis studies his face in the mirror of a makeup kit his kid sister gave him, then wets a Q-Tip in his mouth before tracing designs into the white makeup under his eyes and chin. "Don't want to mess up," he says. "Gotta look pretty." But when Ellis (BS '98) is fighting bulls, he hardly thinks about looking pretty. As a rodeo clown, he dances with 1,800-pound bulls, his yellow-gloved hands stretched high above his head as he separates man from beast. He may not look rugged in his red suspenders and baggy jeans, but he is the immediate salvation for any cowboy about to get stomped. Ellis began bullriding as a young boy in Stone Mountain, Ga., but says his interest in the sport eclipsed his skill, despite a few wins. Five years ago, Ellis' mentor, Marty Fink, found himself one bullfighter short going into a rodeo. He asked Ellis if he would consider stepping into a new role. "I told him, 'You're crazy. I'm not fighting bulls for you. I will get on them, but I will not fight them,'" says Ellis, 32. "He promised me he'd buy my lunch, pay me a little bit, so I said okay. I fell in love with it that day." Because his athletic ability supercedes his vaudevillian talents, Ellis opted for bullfighting, which is the more aggressive side of rodeo clowning. His counterparts, the barrel clowns, wheez and whine in search of laughs from the crowd. Bullfighters just try to get out of the ring in one piece. Ellis has cracked his sternum, broken his arm and both bones in his lower leg (supported now by a steel rod), and sustained numerous "little" injuries. Then there are the concussions. For the past two years, Ellis has been selected to fight bulls at the Southeastern circuit finals. This year, he plans to work 40 rodeos—and that's just doing it part-time. In his other life, Ellis installs computer equipment. Of all the traits of a successful rodeo clown, Ellis says his sense of impending trouble—born of his experiences riding bulls—helps him the most. "I can see guys getting into a situation before some other people can," he says. "If there's about to be a wreck, I can maybe stop it before it happens. It's your job to get in there, take the heat, and get everybody out clean: you, the bull, and the cowboy."
	UGA senior Wes Stansill When the emcee introduces saddle bronc rider Wes Stansill as a UGA senior and native Athenian, the Stegeman Coliseum crowd roars. Then the gate to the pen opens and Stansill has to hang on for dear life, his back jounced stiffly backwards as his limbs cut the air. Stansill hasn't put as much preparation into this eight-second ride as he would like, mainly because specific preparation is impossible—unless you have access to a bucking machine. Stansill doesn't, so he rides horses at the ranch in Commerce where he works, and tries to stay in good shape. "There's not much you can do to practice," he says. "You just go to the rodeo and do it." Though Stansill says he stays on about 75-85 percent of his rides, tonight he's thrown to the ground after a few seconds—and receives no score. That sucks, he mouths silently, frustration etched in his face, as he walks from the arena. But falling is an occupational hazard when you enter 30-40 rodeos a year, as Stansill does. "It's the school of hard knocks," he says. "You get thrown off a lot."

They should be nervous: they work all year long to prove that students can put on a professional rodeo event with all the trimmings.

Up in the stands, a man casually launches a missile of tobacco-flavored spit into the arena. Like most in the crowd, he wears the unofficial rodeo uniform: starchy crisp shirt, pointy boots, shiny belt buckle, and Wranglers—topped with a Stetson.

The rodeo is Americana heaven, and perhaps the last bastion of cowboy culture. Charmingly antiquated to some, lowbrow to others, it's just plain uncomplicated fun. Juxtaposed with three hours of steer wrestling and calf roping is the comfortable, unspoken bond linking fans in a love for rural life. However saccharine this notion of small-town warmth may sound, certain moments verify a friendliness that distinguishes rodeo from other sports. Competitors appear supportive rather than cutthroat. And the fans don't play favorites: each participant receives the same amount of hollering for their efforts. Those who fall, receiving no score, get an especially encouraging cheer. After all, this isn't a battle of man vs. man. It's man vs. animal, and it's clear who the fans are rootin' for.

The rodeo clowns (see sidebar) are greeted with similar enthusiasm. Their brand of comedy is geared to children in the crowd, though at times it borders on profane. Barrel clown Rick Young wriggles his rear end, sneaks an occasional "hell" into his routine, and pulls an endless array of props from the recesses of his baggy jean shorts.

The rodeo's other main entertainment—aside from the daredeviltry inherent in the seven events—is John Payne, Oklahoma's "One-Armed Bandit," who lost his arm in an accident and now manipulates his horse with his knees and legs, guiding his ride up a ramp to the roof of a trailer. Eight-time winner of Pro Rodeo Act of the Year, Payne's presence lends more prestige—and more fun—to the Great Southland Stampede, which is the largest rodeo in Georgia.

More importantly, it's the only student-run professional rodeo in the country. And UGA has been putting it on for a quarter-century.

Says one participant: "This rodeo has a reputation. Everybody knows about Athens in the rodeo world."

Left: It takes 2 million pounds of dirt to transform the Coliseum into a cowboy stomping grounds—and all that dirt's gotta be packed 10 inches deep. Right: Kids love the pig-tote event, where contestants plop piglets into wheel-barrows and race across the arena.

CLUTCHING A WALKIE-TALKIE and a cell phone, Corey Watson (BS '99) delivers instructions to a group of police officers. It's Thursday evening, shortly before the start of the three-day rodeo, and Watson, like most members of the Block and Bridle Club —which directs the rodeo with virtually no faculty input—is exhausted. As chairperson, Watson secures national as well as local sponsorships, manages a $130,000 budget, and acts as the rodeo's direct link to physical plant and police. He'll spend at least 15 hours a day at the Coliseum this week, directing its transformation from basketball-gymnastics arena to cowboy stomping ground.

On Monday, dump trucks hauled two million pounds of dirt into Stegeman, packing it into a hard, smooth, 10-inch-deep surface. This is the same dirt that's been used for the past 10 years, courtesy of UGA's beef research center grounds. The livestock arrived Tuesday and settled into temporary stables behind the Coliseum. On Wednesday, mentally disabled children attended a miniature rodeo. Every moment, Watson is there.

"There've been headaches and sleepless nights, and I haven't had an appetite in two weeks," he says. "But in the end, it's worth it."

Described by Block and Bridle faculty adviser Calvin Alford, a professor in animal and dairy sciences, as "22 going on 50," Watson has devoted his college career to the rodeo, working his way from assistant PR chair his freshman year to rodeo chair his senior year. It's a family tradition: his cousin Tony Watson (BS '97) was chairman in 1997, and Tony's younger brother, incoming freshman Kevin Watson, joined up this year.

Corey's command of both himself and the event enables him to acknowledge half a dozen people at once, all the while striding through the Coliseum's halls, walkie-talkie glued to his lips. "I've always loved a challenge," he says, in a voice that's more tired than enthusiastic. "And this has definitely become the biggest challenge of my life."

IT WAS A CHALLENGE simply to start the rodeo. Some 25 years ago, a group of determined but financially-strapped students approached an Athens bank, offering their own trucks and washing machines as collateral to secure a loan.

"Nobody believed we could do it," says Lee Eggert (BS '72), the former Block and Bridle president who proposed the rodeo as a replacement for the club's annual American Quarter Horse Association show, which returned little profit for the work invested. Profits from that first rodeo financed the club's livestock judging team's travels. Now the funds are substantial enough to fund student scholarships, community service programs, and the club's Little International Livestock show.

In 1974, the UGA rodeo was officially sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, an organization widely considered to be the major league of rodeo. UGA's rodeo planning committee must be approved by the PRCA, and all contestants must be PRCA members and pay entry fees to compete. The points contestants earn at the UGA rodeo count toward the official standings of the Dodge National Circuit Finals rodeo.

Besides gaining notoriety and financial strength over the past quarter-century, the Block and Bridle Club has added its own signature event to the rodeo: the pig-tote. In this highly competitive event, contestants plop squealing piglets into wheelbarrows and race across the dirt.

For faculty adviser Alford, the pig-tote alone makes the rodeo "a social event." Last year, Alford's siblings from Virginia won the pig-tote. "The Block and Bridle rodeo is their Christmas or Easter," he says.

The pig-tote isn't everybody's favorite, however. Animal rights activists, who have historically opposed rodeos, have picketed UGA's. The protests have ranged from boisterous sign-carriers to the mysterious "freeing" of cattle duirng last year's rodeo. This year, protesters are nowhere to be found.

"A lot of people obviously question whether or not the rodeo hurts those animals," says Watson, who explains that UGA's rodeo meets all PRCA guidelines: a veterinarian is on the premises at all times, animals can only be bucked 16 seconds in a three-day period, and they can travel no more than 500 miles or eight hours in one day.

Still, it's hard not to wonder if the animals are in pain in events like steer wrestling, where a cowboy body-slams the animal by twisting its neck. Or when a calf's body is whipped backward in the air in the calf-roping event.

"The protests are blown out of proportion," says animal and dairy science professor Julia McCann, who also advises the Block and Bridle Club. "If the animals aren't treated well, they can't do their job."

Concerns for animal safety aren't the only ones rodeo planners face. There was the year the dirt came in wet. When it dried, it shrank, and the floor level dropped. To ensure barrel racers' safety, more dirt had to be hauled in.

"There were 30 dump trucks lined up behind the Coliseum at midnight on the Thursday of the rodeo, bringing more dirt back in," says Watson.

Bullfighting clowns aren't there to make fans laugh. They help separate riders from animals which might want to do them harm.

THIS YEAR'S MINOR MISHAPS—including the giveaway Dodge truck that got its tire popped on a wheelbarrow—are instantly forgotten when the last event of the evening, the bull-riding competition, gets underway. Clearly the crowd favorite, the event commences with a blaring Queen song:

"We will . . . we will . . . rock you!"

The fans scream along, stomping the beat into a body-vibrating rhythm.

"GET ROWDY!" proclaims the Copenhagen/Skoal scoreboard.

In the pen, a bull is mounted by a rider wearing dull spurs that are a "cruelty-free" one-eighth of an inch. Out in the arena, a bullfighting clown crouches, ready to leap into battle. The buzzer sounds, and the bull tears across the arena, ripping chunks of dirt into the air in a massive, bucking frenzy of muscle and limbs.

This is what the fans come for: a fleeting escape to a world where things are as simple as the battle of man vs. animal. This is also the moment Block and Bridle organizers are lost in, the dreamy witness to the completion of another year's work.

Next week, it all begins again.

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