All’s Well that Ends Well
His mom is my mom’s younger sister. Not only that, but his mom is my godmother, and my mom is his godmother. It’s a tangled web we weave, for sure. To protect his identity, we’ll call him “Jake”, but since that’s his real name, I don’t guess we’re really protecting much.
Back in the day, Jake was a bull rider. You know, I once saw a dude working at a tire shop who was wearing a t-shirt that read, “Ridin’ bulls and punchin’ fools”. If you think about it, that’s like the perfect shirt for a bull rider. If you were to ask someone who knew about bull riders to sum up the bull rider mentality in five words or less, “Ridin’ bulls and punchin’ fools,” would be pretty spot-on. Maybe the only thing better, would be, “Born to ride bulls.”
Indeed, I’m of the opinion that bull riders are born and not made. They’re the kind of folk who are going to find a way to break body parts no matter what they do, so bull riding is as good a way as any for them to make it seem cool to do so.
Case in point; I saw Jake just the other day at the Poteet Strawberry Festival. If you’ve never heard of that event, I suggest you Google it and go someday. It’s tons of fun.
Anyway, when I saw him, Jake’s leg was all swolt’-up on account of he had broken it trying to go “OJ Simpson runnin’ through an airport” over an electric- wire fence while trying to keep up with one of his nine-year-old twin boys (all apologies for the OJ reference, but if you’re over 50 it’s funny).
Due to his injury, Jake was reduced to using crutches and some sort of four-wheeled thingamajig that allowed him to support his bum leg while he scooted around. When Jake opted to use crutches, the thingamajig servedasacartto ferry around his two-yearold son, who is also my godson. It’s confusing, I know, but stay with me. So, at the festival, we got to talking about game warden stuff. There was a time Jake fancied himself as a guy who sometimes did things a game warden and the State of Texas wouldn’t approve of, and he liked to brag that he was good at not getting caught.
I always took that with a grain of salt. But then years ago, Jake invited me and my brother Will to go dove hunting with him on some land our grandparents owned. Will and I hadn’t been out there in a while, so we jumped at the chance.
Everything was just as I remembered it, and all the memories of the dove hunts from days gone by, and all the times we had worked cattle with my grandparents out there, hit me like a cool breeze on a hot day. I loaded up my shotgun and took a familiar position on the southeast side of the stock tank. Then, I looked down.
The milo seed I was standing on was a problem - it’s against the law to hunt over a baited area. “What the heck, Jake???” Jake just kind of laughed. I laughed too and kept hunting – arrowheads. After explaining, at length, how wrong the situation was, Jake and I came to an agreement. I told him I wouldn’t rat him out, but if he ever found himself in a bind with a game warden, I wouldn’t help him either.
And that’s the way it’s been, and it’s all worked out well, so far. Still… I can’t help but rib him about it whenever I see him. I mean, the guy who professed that a game warden could never catch him also couldn’t get a single dove to light on a baited area. Que sera, sera, I guess, and all’s well that ends well.
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