Vegas glitters and shines. It is a world of hopeful actresses, vagabond bums and desperate strippers. Anything can be bought, found or won. Anything can be sold, lost or stolen. But the important thing about Vegas is that it wants you there. It does not distinguish upon race, age or wealth. For a few bucks and the right swagger, the fruits are all yours baby.
I was flying into Vegas with documentary maker Richard Todd. We were there to chronicle the Australian quest for glory in the bull riding world cup. Things are different in Vegas, very different. Do not be alarmed, for example, if you have a room on the twelfth floor and there is an explosion less than ten feet from your window……those would be fireworks. After checking in to our hotel, we had little time to admire peculiar happenings and showered quickly; there was a bull riding event to attend.
On arrival at Thomas and Mack Arena, Toddy requested that our cabbie to drop us at the media check in, insisting that passes would be waiting. At media check in, a man checked a clip board of guests and insisted that we were not on it. Toddy confidently dropped the name of the PBR public relations manager. The man, seemingly caught off balance and running late for the show, reached into a bag and threw us both media passes. He ushered us along a series of endless corridors, through the crowd, and into a laneway that separated the crowd from the bulls.
Richard Todd, stout man of endless charm and speaker of exotic languages, had held firm when tested, and now we were at the bull riding world cup in Vegas – less than a foot from the dirt. I’m not sure if Toddy could possibly understand the depth of the love in my eyes. Seriously, I could have kissed the man. He briefly looked up from the task of assembling camera gear and advised me step away from a barrel-like metal canister.
“Mate, fireworks will be coming out of that thing in 2 minutes.”
How he knew this was not important. I stepped away from the canister. They started the opening ceremony. It was the bull riding world cup in Vegas, we expected the outlandish. There were five countries competing: U.S.A., Brazil, Canada, Mexico, and Australia. The ceremony began with a dramatic promo clip of each country broadcast from a centre screen at the arena. As an Australian, I could have taken umbrage that they’d branded the Aussies convicts, or that it appeared slightly biased team America had taken centre stage as fireworks exploded and “Born in the USA” reverberated around the arena. But it didn’t really matter. This was America. This was the hub of the hip cats, the nook of the crazies, and the kings of the burlesque. You would not want to be in any other place on a Friday night than downtown Vegas, two feet from the dirt in the middle of a 10 000 seat arena about to watch men jump on the back of wild bulls.
About the bulls: they did not appear overly eager to accent to the idea of being ridden. There were sixty bulls bucked on the first night of the world cup, fourteen were ridden for the required eight seconds. Retired two time PBR World Champion and current Brazilian coach Adriano Moraes would later describe them as “the rankest bulls I’ve ever seen under one roof.” At halftime I walked through a sea of cowboy hats to buy a coke and hotdog and contemplate my life as a prospective bull rider. I did not want to be within twenty yards of these animals yet my plan was to ride them. How no riders were seriously disfigured had baffled me.
It was not a good opening night for the Americans. Not only did they fail to finish on top of the leader board, but embarrassingly, they were also piped by the Aussies for second. An idea of how unexpected this was; when previously inquiring about the Australians chances of winning the World Cup to Judd (Gary Leffew’s son) at the ranch, he’d replied that they’d have better luck picking up fiddle sticks with their butt cheeks.
The bull riding continued on the following day with the Americans improving their form. They had now overtaken the Aussies but were still desperately short of points from the Brazilians. There was something audacious about the way the Brazilians had casually descended into the heart of cowboy country. Conjecture was rife on how they were winning. From chatting to other bull riders, I knew many thought they were tampering with the bulls, others believed their advantage lay in the Brazilian rope – which was different to the American kind and, allegedly, had a tendency to draw you back towards the centre of the bull when off balance. There may have been some truth in these theories, but I believed other reasons for Brazil’s success. Having lived there before, I knew they were the kind of people crazy enough to attempt bull riding and athletic enough to master it. There was something magical about their riding. They seemed to accept the bull’s energy rather than fight it and their bodies would flex and contort effortlessly with each ride.
After the event, I snuck around the back of the arena and used my media pass to hijack my way into the press conference. Wearing sand shoes, shorts, a black hoodie and looking nothing like a cowboy, I stood a few feet from legendary bull riders like Ty Murray and listened as the team captains and riders gave explanations of their performance. After the press conference, I struck up a conversation with the Brazilian team. They seemed impressed at my broken Portuguese and told me they were content to be living in America and making a living from bull riding. Team captain Adriano Moraes, short, stocky, quick-witted and charming, confirmed that the team was happy to have the opportunity to make decent money, admitting that apart from Guilherme Marchi, most were from poor backgrounds.
The venue for the World Cup after-party was Gilly’s Saloon – a bar in the foyer of our hotel room. Feeling free and easy, Toddy and I possibly drank too much sake at a Japanese restaurant before arriving. Toddy left the bar with the only room key and passed out in our room. All attempts to contact him failed and I found myself being dramatically evicted from the hotel, on my last night in Vegas, at four o clock in the morning.
(I realize this is a very abrupt and hazy way to finish as little explanation is given to exactly how or why I was evicted from the hotel, but frankly, this blog is already too long. Needless to say, my six hours spent on the streets of Vegas were pretty funny but will be explained further in the book. In a hopeful diversion from my obvious lack of creativity in describing the eviction, I have included a photo. Peace and love…….Sully.)
