The Old Broke Rancher Invents A Sport
I hope this doesn't burn any bridges between us, dear reader, but I never was much of a sports guy.
When I was a kid, I was a scrawny little sawbuck with arms like cooked spaghetti and an attitude which you couldn't call "good." Nobody wanted me for first pick on their team, whether for baseball, basketball, football, or anything that required you to throw, catch, slide, skate or run. If it were a competition for falling over or being rejected at the school dance, I might have fared better.
This morning, inspecting myself in the mirror, it occurs to me that I might have had a decent career as a sumo wrestler, had that noble sport ever made any inroads in the Treasure State. And fishing? Give me a break. Fishing's not a sport. At least not the way I do it.
Anyway, that's why I never developed an affinity for the sporting life. Well, no great loss. But what I am sadder to have missed out on is being a sports fan. It looks like fun. There are hats, and the food seems tasty. Plus, I have a truck, and I'm capable of making a hamburger in a parking lot, so tailgating sounds appealing. Hell, I've even got buns and ketchup and pickles. What I'm lacking is the excuse.
Plus, I'm a guy who likes a hat. I've got dozens. I've got one that says "Time to pull over and change the air in your head" on it. That one's my favorite. I've got one that says "Big Bill's Feed and Seed." Who is Big Bill? Don't remember. I've got three that say John Deere, a museum in miniature to the evolution of their logo. I've even got a navy blue cap that says USS Montana and has a picture of the ship. Though I've had it forever, I'm not sure where I got it from. I didn't serve on the ship as far as I can remember...
Now, what I haven't got is a hat with a sports team on it. And that means that I'm denied access to that wonderful world of hamburgers and hot dogs made in trucks, of a day drinking beers all day on the asphalt, intermittently interrupted by a shouting match or a fist fight. Why oh why wasn't I born a sports fan!
And don't say, "Why not become a fan of college ball, support your old alma mater MSU?" No, absolutely not. Not until I'm finally given that honorary doctorate.
So when I think about what it would actually take to make a sports fan of me, I have to think about what I'm loyal to. I mean loyal the same way that some guy in Philly spends his whole life from the cradle to the grave wearing Phillies jerseys, going to Phillies bars, riding around in vehicles bedecked in Phillies stickers. What makes me feel that way? Only one thing.
What if Montana had a professional sports team? Well, then I'd be obligated to be a fan. But let's think even bigger. Let's not go with any of those boring, quotidian sports that everyone else plays. Let's invent our own. There's precedent, after all—basketball was only invented in 1891 when someone had the bright idea of throwing a ball in a basket. Well, I can do that too. What if you throw a ball in a bucket? Or even a pail? Or even, uh, or even, um, some sort of hamper or bin?
Or we could head farther afield, maybe to something that Montanans are particularly good at so that we start with an advantage. In not-too-many decades past, nearly every Montanan was an expert at the thirty-yard sprint, a track and field event in which the participant, in variable stage of dress, sometimes with that little butt flap on your pajamas open, quickly dashes to the outhouse first thing in the morning. Sometimes in a few feet of snow.
And don't forget, the tourists to our fair state have invented their own sport which is easy to play. You hear about it every year about this time. Some tourist from New Jersey or Florida goes to Yellowstone, pick out a solitary bison, steps in between the bison and his females, and sees how fast he can get himself gored (or herself, because to be fair to the fair sex, sometimes it's a lady). It's dangerous, sure, but is it that much worse than soccer?
And as for rules? There are no rules. There's only one sort of helpful guideline: it's safer if you don't try it sober.
The only problem there is, what do you call the team? The Montana Out-of-Staters?
No, I've got it: the Montana Bison Baiters.
Okay, all we need is a billion-dollar stadium and a mascot that'll sell T-shirts. Something eye-popping and kind of lovable, like the Phillie Phanatic or the San Diego Chicken. Somebody that is sort of cute in a roly-poly way, but also recognizably and specifically Montanan.
Hell, you don't even have to ask. Of course you can name him the Montana Old Broke Rancher. With a small licensing fee, of course.
But I reckon it might be a while before that stadium gets built. In the meantime, the sun is shining, the tourists are milling about Yellowstone, and summer is in full swing. Summer, after all, is bison baiting season, whether the sport is officially recognized yet or not. And those burgers and brats aren't getting any younger. In fact, after giving them a cursory sniff, they're getting a little ripe. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pack these in a freezer, collect my "change the air in your head" hat, and drive to Yellowstone and get tailgating. It's only a matter of time before the bison baiting begins!
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