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I can’t believe how well the rehab is going.
Every session with Dr. Carmine pulls me closer to a complete recovery, and I can feel the strength returning to my knee. The doctor has been impressed with my progress, even giving me the nod to start practicing bull riding again, but only under the watchful eyes of a seasoned bull rider. There's no way I’m messing this up again. I’ve worked too hard to throw it away now.
“Hey, you ready for this?” Sarah’s voice cuts through my thoughts, making me smile. Her constant support has been my bedrock, and just hearing her encourage me fuels my desire to get back on a bull.
“More than ever,” I reply, looking into her eyes. “Can’t thank you enough for sticking with me through all this.”
“Always,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’re in this together.”
We walk around the ranch after my appointment, and seeing those bulls brings a rush of memories and a surge of adrenaline. It’s been too long since I last felt the thrill of the ride, but I know I’m more prepared than ever, and it's all because of Sarah’s strong belief in me.
“Tyler, I’ve got someone for you to meet,” Jake calls out, motioning toward an older, stern-looking cowboy. My eyes widen at recognition once I realize that he's Bill "Blue Buffalo" Turner, a seasoned bull rider who is now retired.
I’m startled by the sudden introduction. Sarah excuses herself with a sly smile and leaves me with her brother and a legendary bull rider.
“This here’s Bill. He’s been riding longer than you’ve been alive, and he's going to make sure you do this right,” Jake says, as I raise an eyebrow in confusion. “We’re going to ensure you return to riding a bull, and practice makes perfect. I’m pretty sure you know how well-rounded Bill is, and if you know his career, then you know you have the best ready to assist you.”
Bill nods at me, not one for many words, but his presence is reassuring. “Ready when you are,” he states, his voice gravelly and seasoned. Jake nods at both of us to depart and leave us to it. I see Bill is more about action and not standing around shooting pleasantries.
My nerves are high as Bill and I approach the fenced-in practice arena. I feel every fiber of my being humming with anticipation and nerves.
Under Bill’s supervision, I begin the slow process of getting reacquainted with the bulls. Each practice session is grueling, but a fire in my belly burns hotter each day, ignited by Sarah’s faith in me.
Bill’s quiet confidence does wonders to calm the storm inside me, even if he isn’t one for talking much. He glances at me, his eyes two piercing blue orbs that seem to see right through into my soul.
"First things first," Bill says, his voice as rough as the leather of his gloves. "You have to remember the basics. No fancy tricks. Fundamentals are your best friend out there."
I nod, taking his words to heart. The fundamentals are what got me this far, and they're what will carry me forward. Bill gestures for me to get up on the practice bull—a mechanical beast designed to mimic the unpredictable nature of a real one.
As I climb on, Bill stands by, hands on his hips, watching every move I make. "Find your grip," he instructs. "You ever forget your anchor hand, and you'll be tossed like a rag doll."
My hands sweat as I grip the rope, feeling the familiar texture beneath my fingers. I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, centering myself just as Bill showed me. He hits the switch, and the mechanical bull roars to life. It bucks and spins, trying to throw me off, but I hold tight, muscles burning with the effort to stay centered.
"Good! Remember, your balance is everything!" Bill shouts over the whirring machine. "Move with the bull! Don’t fight it!"
I try to sync my movements with the jerky rhythm of the bull, struggling at first but gradually finding my stride. Each successful ride, though small, builds my confidence.
After a while, Bill stops the machine. I pant heavily, my shirt sticking to my body with sweat. "You’re getting there," he says, an edge of approval in his tone. Coming from him, it's high praise.
We move on to the next stage of training. Bill sets up a bull, indicating that I practice my grip and positioning. He demonstrates fluid and precise movements, even at his age.
"See that? Your free hand has to stay steady, like this," he explains, gesturing with his free arm, keeping it tight but flexible. "It’s your balance arm. You’ve got nothing without it."
I imitate his stance as closely as possible. Still, I have a lot to relearn. Bill’s stoic nature gives way just slightly to offer more detailed critiques, each one more insightful than the last.
During a brief break, Sarah joins us with some cold water. “How’s it going?” she asks, eyes scanning my face, searching for any sign of discouragement.
“Pretty well, I think,” I reply, grinning despite the fatigue. “Bill’s the best there is.”
Bill chuckles, a rare sound. “Been doing this a good while,” he admits. “But it’s up to you to work hard.”
Sarah smiles at him. “Thank you for helping him. He’s got more heart than anyone I know.”
Bill nods solemnly. “Heart’s a good start. Needs to be matched by skill, though.”
We resume training, Bill pushing me further each time, correcting my posture, timing, and every move. The grueling hours blur together, each one a step closer to returning to prime riding shape.
One afternoon, as the sun dips low and bathes the practice yard in a golden hue, Bill surprises me with a real bull. “Time to see how you do with the genuine article,” he announces. My heart skips a beat, but I know I’m ready—or at least as ready as I can be under these circumstances.
