I didn't set out to write about bull athletes, bull riders and rodeo—I set out to preserve a way of life.

I believe we're living through the last opportunity to capture the stories of a remarkable generation—the men and women who built the modern era of professional bull riding long before cell phones, social media, and the internet recorded every moment.

Their lives were not documented through social media posts and videos.

The miles traveled together, conversations over coffee, all-night drives, cramped motel rooms, and calls home from pay phones were not captured by anything other than their memories.

Those are the stories I want to preserve.

Growing up, and long before I ever thought about writing books, I was sitting on wooden porches in the Texas Hill Country, listening to the old-timers in my family tell stories.

They weren't trying to preserve history. They were simply remembering the people they'd known and the lives they'd lived.

Looking back, I realize those stories shaped the way I see the world.

They taught me that history isn't found only in textbooks and museums. Sometimes it's passed from one generation to the next in the simple act of sitting down and listening—the old-time way.

Their stories were sometimes shocking. Often hilarious. And always enthralling. I loved them all.

I write narrative nonfiction that captures more than the events of bull riding's golden era. I'm interested in preserving the character, values, and way of life that made it extraordinary.

The championships matter. The wrecks matter. The records matter. But what fascinates me most are the people behind them—their humor, resilience, loyalty, determination, and the quiet moments that reveal who they were when the arena lights went dark.

The real history is found in the friendships built over thousands of miles, the families who sacrificed alongside the competitors, the stock contractors who shaped the sport, the bullfighters who risked their lives for all of them, and the community that existed long before technology made the world feel small.

It was a time when people depended on one another, when reputations were earned face-to-face, and when stories were passed from one generation to the next simply by taking the time to listen.

My hope is that decades from now, readers won't simply know what happened—I hope they'll understand who these people were.

Because championships eventually become statistics, records are broken, and headlines fade.

The victories tell us what they did. Their stories tell us who they were.

That's the legacy I hope my work will preserve.