By SAMI McGUIRE, Sports Editor
One step forward. Two steps forward. The steam of the horse’s sweat lingers around me, and above me I can hear a roaring crowd. When they fall silent with expectation. I can hear the announcer’s voice booming and intense music complimenting the atmosphere.
Three steps forward. I am being ushered through an alley under the stands where hundreds of people sit waiting. Waiting for me and the many other girls and their horses that are packed under here with me. Although the crowd above us is roaring, the girls down here are silent.
Four steps forward. Down here anticipation swarms around us. My heart pounds in my chest, and the blood rushes down to my fingertips. My fingers fiddle with my rope that is looped around my saddle horn.
Five steps forward. As I sit atop my horse she can feel my apprehension. Her heart beats hard between my knees, and I have to keep tension on the reins to keep her from prancing forward.
Six steps forward. This is all I can think about. This is the rodeo I’ve been waiting for my whole life, the College National Finals Rodeo. It’s the biggest rodeo I have ever been to.
Seven steps forward. Right now I’m surrounded by the best college breakaway ropers in the sport. They are all decked out in their trophy saddles, and sponsor patches.
Eight steps forward. I emerge out of the alley into the holding pen behind the boxes. I can see the sea of people are holding signs and sporting their college colors. As the girl in the box backs her horse into the corner the crowd falls silent. She nods her head and lets her horse go after the calf.
Nine steps forward. It’s time to focus. It is game time. Even my breathing, wiggle my toes, check my rope and brush my hands down my horse’s neck to calm her. I’m inching closer to the box.
Ten steps forward. I’m next. Everything goes silent. I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I can feel the rope’s rough texture between my fingers. I can smell the dirt of the arena. I can see my calf’s slick black hide in the alley behind the chute.
Eleven steps forward. Now I’m in the box. Two men pull the barrier out in front of the box. Other men stand alert behind the chute, where my calf is loaded.
One step back. I back my horse into the corner of the box. She tenses, waiting for her cue. I tense up on the reins, and stare at the back of my calf’s head. I wait for the calf to settle in the chute, and then I nod my head, cuing the man behind the chute to let my calf out.
One swing. My calf leaves the chute. My horse leaves the box. The rope swishes around my head, propelled by the power of my arm, and the momentum of my horse surging forward. My calf trips.
Two swings. My horse closes the distance between me and the calf. Suddenly I’m right within range to throw my rope. I focus in on the calf’s neck to aim my rope.
Three swings. I stand up in my stirrups, and I let my rope fly from my hands. I trust muscle memory to do the rest. I watch as my rope twists around my calf’s neck, the white rope against its black hide. I pull the slack out of the rope, it comes tight around the calf’s neck, and then the white rope flies away in a spiral behind the running calf.
One slide forward. My horse comes to a stop, her momentum sliding her forward as she sits on her butt to end the run. The announcer’s voice comes back in, and the crowd cheers. “2.1 seconds!” he roars through the microphone.
One step forward. Joy and adrenaline take over my body. I grin from ear to ear, and then the announcer says the only thing that could take away my happiness at that moment. I broke the barrier, faulting me, and adding ten seconds on to my run.
Two steps forward. My happiness deflates. I’m no longer winning the round, but sitting nowhere in the standings. I had my moment, and as fast as I had my moment it was ripped out of my hands.
Three steps forward. My horse and I continue out of the area somberly. I give her a pat on the neck and recoil my rope. On to the next rodeo.