It didn’t seem fair
to the horse
trying to buck him off,
Benny’s feet almost dragging
in the arena dirt. Literally
he was larger than life
for this butch-waxed,
popcorn muncher sporting
four-inch rolled-up cuffs
on his husky jeans.
Benny Reynolds ruled
the day all around
at the Powell County Rodeo:
steer wrestling, bull riding,
saddle bronc and bareback,
he dwarfed the stock,
made it look too easy.
And since the Old Man
had wrangled horses
in the Big Hole with Johnny,
Benny’s older brother,
he took me behind the chutes
with him when he went
to congratulate the Kid
and check in with the Melrose
boys. Of course I did
and didn’t want to go.
I felt embarrassed, unworthy
of meeting someone like that,
somebody of mythic stature: a King,
the Superman of Montana
Rodeo. I hung back a step
behind my dad, peeked
around him, felt my face
go red when Benny’s eyes
caught mine and he smiled at me.
John waved us in and offered
my dad a beer. Benny sat
on the opened tailgate of a pick up
truck, stuck out a huge paw
the size of my baseball mitt
and shook the Old Man’s hand.
He was all angles
under that black cowboy hat
and those arching eyebrows,
big boned, long armed and legged,
even long jawed. But all those
oversized features seemed necessary
to support his huge grin
when my dad kidded him
about “drawing all nags.”
He blushed, shockingly shy
as me, and nodded his head,
stole glances at the crew-cut little-
fat-kid while Johnny and the Old Man
sipped on Great Falls Select
and reminisced about names
I didn’t know and days working
on hay rakes and beaver slides.
Benny was quiet. He listened
and smiled. He did remind me
of “a kid” in a giant’s body.
He was what every child hopes
a hero will be—gentle,
kind, all modesty, humility,
and strength—possessing super-human
abilities—yet capable of calming
a panicked colt or scratching
a half-feral barn cat behind the ears
before putting out the lights
each starry, big-sky night, then
snuggling into his mama’s arms.
