That one’s mine so keep it western

I was 13 years old and a group of about 12 or so neighbor kids were playing a pick-up game of baseball in an open field on the corner of Smith Ave. and Ashland St., when a foul ball to the left side bounced its way into a neighboring flowerbed.

Even though 26 years have passed, I still haven't forgotten that day.

We didn't have enough kids to field two complete teams, so I was playing third base and shortstop. Being the closest, I jogged across the street and made two steps in between the flowers, bent down to pick up the ball, and was startled when I leaned back up. I was face-to-face with a man who had apparently been gardening.

He reached out with both hands against my chest and pushed me to the ground.

I was two steps into his yard, but I made a sudden backward plunge onto the sidewalk. The ball came loose from my hand and rolled a few feet away, and a plastic replica of a Milwaukee Brewers batting helmet that I was wearing cracked into two pieces when it hit the concrete.

I laid there on the ground for just a minute or so, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

After he yelled for all of us to stay out of his yard, I reached out for the ball, stood up holding the broken helmet, tossed the ball back across the way to my friends and then jogged down the street and around the corner to my house.

I hadn't even told the entire story to my dad when he hopped on a bicycle and rode off down the driveway. There he went – 48 years old on my mom's bike with one of those girly bars – to find out what just happened.

By the time I jogged back around the corner, to my left side, I could see everyone standing in outfield--intently staring over at the garden. To my right, I could see my dad on the back porch knocking on the man's door.

OK, he wasn't knocking, he was pounding. I could hear him yelling something about wanting the "coward who beats up little kids" to come outside and be a man.

Eventually this guy – whose name, all these years later, escapes me – actually opened the door, stepped out and, by then, my dad was no longer on the porch, so they walked over toward one another and they were face-to-face – just I had been 5 or 10 minutes earlier.

And just as suddenly as I had been pushed, my dad made a fist, reared back, and punched him in the side of face.

This guy fell straight down to the ground. He didn't fall backward. He fell in the exact spot he was standing when he got hit. My dad was towering over him, as if he were Mohammad Ali looking down at Sonny Liston after he famously knocked him out.

I was standing with my friends when my dad pointed at me, while looking at this guy, who was visibly shaken by what had just transpired, and said, "That one's mine. You even think of touching him again and I'll break your arms."

Barely a teenager, I was the one kid in the entire neighborhood, who could say, "My dad can beat up your dad."

I haven't thought about that day in years, but this morning I was reminded of that story as I read through some more Web feature and blog comments left by PBR fans.

Now, I'm a self-proclaimed Johnny-come-lately when it comes to covering professional bull riding – I've been with the PBR for just over one year now – but I'm surprised and somewhat disappointed when I read comments about who's the bigger fan or how the sport sold out for more fans, or even the debate over who's been a fan longer.

I was having a morning coffee – a Venti-sized white chocolate mocha from Starbucks – and skimming through the comments – yes, we do read them – when, out of the blue, I made some sort of correlation between "that one's mine" and "keep it western."

I know they're years apart and one has nothing to do with the other, yet they both represent the same thing.

Both comments were made out of frustration.

What I mean by that is obviously my dad was protecting his family, which is something he valued; he felt my safety had been harmed. He wasn't really going to break anyone's arms – although, I must admit, he was pretty darn upset – but he wanted to be heard and, more importantly, he wanted to be taken seriously.

I think the same holds true here.

It's hard to imagine that someone – even a traditional rodeo fan from long before the PBR was founded in a Scottsdale, Ariz., motel room – could watch a PBR event and be so disappointed with the product that they would really consider walking away.

Something tells me that person can be compared to my dad on that Sunday afternoon 26 years ago.

The hateful statements are no different than a punch to the face and – for the record – my dad apologized a couple days later. He wasn't ever going to let his emotions carryover that far. It was an impulsive action and he said it more out of the frustration of not knowing what else to say at that moment.

I believe the same can be said of some of the comments posted below various blogs and Web features. I think it's out of self-preservation and the raw emotion of feeling left out.

Let me assure you that the PBR doesn't value one fan more than another.

Whether you purchase a $10 ticket to one event or a $100 ticket to a half dozen events, your support is treasured the same as it is if you're a Team PBR member or an avid viewer of the weekly television broadcast.

The continued growth of the sport can only be achieved with the help of each and every one of you.

I read where someone wrote she had wished it never changed, and I also read where we need to keep it western.

It's cliché to say that change is good, so instead I'll point out the fact that we ought to be glad things have changed. Had there never been any change, there wouldn't be a PBR or any other bull riding organization.

Not only would all of us be without any of the Web sites that keep us informed, but no one would have to worry about whether or not the PBR should be on NBC, because we'd still be watching a rodeo at a dusty old fairground facility, as opposed to watching the top riders and the rankest bulls at a state-of-the-art indoor arena.

It doesn't matter if you grew up dusting off your britches on a ranch in Montana or being coddled by a nanny in a New York City penthouse – I grew up in neither of those situations, but my dad could beat up your dad, at least on that summer day in Wisconsin – if you have an affinity for the PBR, the feeling is mutual.

So, no, it's not your sport. It's our sport--as in you, me and everyone else.