Downtown Nashville
I had been in downtown Nashville plenty of times for different reasons—special occasions, dinners, meetings, concerts—but this weekend was different. There was still the glow of neon lights, loud music competing from one bar doorway to the next, traffic and rushing crowds, but there was another current running through the streets. The cowboy boots and hats weren’t costumes at all. They were part of a lifestyle.
Downtown Nashville was hot and muggy, the kind of mid-August afternoon that made the air feel heavy. A heat advisory hung over the city as crowds moved through the streets toward Bridgestone Arena. I made my way to the designated area, not knowing exactly what was ahead but more excited than I had been in a long time. It was my first PBR event.
Backstage
I met the PR manager and was escorted to the media room. The backstage hallways were filled with staff, riders, teams and seemingly everyone involved in putting on the event. Somewhere nearby, the livestock waited. The concrete eventually gave way to dirt, and the air began to smell like a farm.
It was strangely familiar.
Still, I admit I felt a little intimidated. I had watched PBR on television, but there was something entirely different about seeing these teams in person, decked out in their gear and moving through the hallways just feet away.
Backstage was its own community. There were separate rooms for media, bull handlers, participants, pyro crews, military members, families and friends. Despite the scale of the production, there was an unmistakable sense of camaraderie. People had come from all over. There was talking, laughing and cutting up everywhere I looked. It felt less like the staging ground for a high-energy, high-risk sporting event and more like a family reunion even among the teams.
Prayer
Eventually, it was time to make our way into the arena. Up the elevators, through the lobby and down to the first row beside the dirt. The arena filled with spectators, and the entire place radiated with an undeniable energy. From the front row, where I sat among photographers, special guests and officials, all the way to the highest seats I could barely see, people filled the arena with the same anticipation I felt.
The music started. Then came a sudden explosion of fireworks and pyrotechnics. This was unlike anything I had ever attended, and it was just getting started.
From the shadows near the chutes, the riders emerged and lined up proudly before the crowd. The arena roared.
The National Anthem was performed, and then a prayer was led. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. I could only imagine what each person was praying for, but I thought it was probably something along the lines of safety, protection, favor and courage. There was no doubting that real danger lay ahead.
Spectacle
From Broadway to backstage to the dirt, what initially looks like spectacle reveals itself as an extraordinary collision of power, tradition and risk. The event was star-studded. Public figures, country music singers, entrepreneurs, influencers, UFC fighters, athletes and coaches filled the arena, along with no telling who else watched from the more private boxes above. Thousands more watched from the seats, and countless others were watching from home.
Everything surrounding the sport was polished. The riders were dressed for the occasion. Shirts were pressed and crisp, covered in sponsor logos. Hats were shaped, fringed chaps embellished and boots fitted. Music, lighting, cameras, graphics and pyrotechnics transformed the arena into a massive production and show. Yet beneath all of it was something simple: a rider, a bull and dirt.
No amount of production could soften what was about to happen next.
Grit
The consequences were real and understood. The riders waited near the chutes and prepared for their turn, practicing motions, stretching and hyping themselves up. Maybe they were nervous, maybe scared, but if they were, they sure hid it well. Whatever they were feeling, very little of it showed. Backstage, the riders were serious and intensely focused, their attention narrowing as their turn approached.
I found myself wondering what it had taken each of them to reach this point and what exactly was running through their minds while they waited. There was risk, and there was a lot on the line. How many times had they been bucked off only to get back up and try again? There was something inspiring about it.
I thought about everything converging in that single moment—the cheering crowd, the impatience of the bull in the nearby chute, the anticipation, perhaps a little fear, and the acknowledgment and acceptance of the danger.
These riders had come from all over. Oklahoma. Texas. Arizona. Kansas. I imagined open country, quiet landscapes and stretches of land far removed from the noise of this arena.
Then they made their way toward the chute, surrounded by their team as everyone huddled around the bull.
Eight Seconds
The rider lowered himself onto the bull’s back. His team gathered around him, placing their hands on his back and shoulders. The countdown began—sometimes delayed by the impatience of the bull beneath him. Then the gate swung open. The bull exploded through the gate. And so it began.
Up until this very moment, nearly everything had been planned, controlled and accounted for. There was no coincidence and seemingly no detail of this massive event that had not been discussed and considered: the logistics, riders, bulls, tickets and graphics, lights, music, sponsors, pyrotechnics, camera positions, safety crews, staff and timing. Nearly everything had been planned and rehearsed.
Then the gate opened, and all that control gave way to something totally unpredictable—eight seconds that could not be scripted. What followed was a rapid series of action and reaction—rocking, sliding, leaning, kicking, bucking, spinning, stomping and rising. Strength was displayed by both, and it was a clash of wills.
I didn’t blink, and my eyes widened as I watched through my camera. Even with a high frame rate, it was impossible to keep up with the movement and keep them in frame. The media cage sat at the center of the arena, directly across from the chutes, with the action unfolding on every side. Bulls circled it after their rides, while the platform above provided riders a temporary refuge from the arena dirt below.
For the rider, those eight seconds depended on technique, balance, and reaction. Beneath him, the bull was far less negotiable.
Everyone experienced those seconds differently. Everywhere I looked there was another expression, another kind of intensity – the rider’s resolve matched the defiance of the bull. Behind the action, the teams eagerly watched every second. Coaches and judges watched every movement closely, studying the ride as it unfolded. The safety crew stayed focused, anticipating what might happen next – always just a step or two away. Even in complete chaos, no one on the dirt hesitated. They didn’t have the luxury. One mistake could affect not only them, but everyone around them. They were playing a game of inches, and each person knew exactly what role they had to play.
For the media, we waited for the shot. For the crowd, there was surprise, tension and celebration. At the edge of the dirt, a mounted pickup man waited with a rope coiled at his side—the final measure if the bull refused to leave the arena.
Power
The ride ended, and the bull came rushing past me. I couldn’t find it in me to lean backward, and I couldn’t look away. Dirt flew and landed on my shirt.
The bull surged across the arena looking for somewhere to go—or perhaps someone to challenge. He chased after the horse and rider before being secured. For all the bull’s restlessness, the horse remained composed and steady. It was difficult to predict exactly what a bull would do once the ride was over. Sometimes one became distracted by the bullfighters. Another seemed ready to challenge them. Some chased the horseback rider. Others ignored everyone completely. But their eyes were always moving, scanning the arena. And somehow, many seemed to know the direction of the chutes, even after momentarily losing sight of them.
There is a serious element of danger, no doubt. Not only are these riders athletes who work relentlessly at their craft, but the bulls themselves are bred for this sport. Generations of carefully selected bloodlines have produced animals capable of performing at an elite level. In the arena, a bull may be introduced not only by name, but by the champions that came before him. They are athletes in their own right, bred for explosive strength, agility and the kind of power that makes eight seconds anything but guaranteed. No ride was the same.
Silence
The event concluded. I left the downtown crowds behind, reached I-40, picked up speed and made my way past the city limits back to my quiet corner in Tennessee. The silence felt almost physical.
My ears were muffled by it and still buzzed from the arena.
Experience it for Yourself
Follow the Nashville Stampede as they continue their PBR Teams season, or explore PBR’s full event calendar to find an upcoming event near you.
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Special Thanks
I would like to thank PBR, Nashville Stampede and McCary Media Group for the opportunity and access to document Nashville Stampede Days.
