This Story Can’t Be Real
Thirty years ago, a 1,800-pound Charbray-cross named Bodacious terrified the rodeo world and redefined modern bull riding. His legend is well known. The stories of the people whose lives he changed are not.
BY TG MAYWALD
Everyone knows Bodacious. Or at least, they think they do.
They know the grainy VHS footage of world-class cowboys being launched like loose hay in the wind. They know the stories of shattered cheekbones, crushed skulls, and careers changed forever. And they know the bull himself: a 1,800-pound yellow Charbray-cross with broad shoulders, midnight-black eyes, and a terrifying reputation that made even hardened World Champions pause when his name appeared in the draw.
For more than three decades, Bodacious has lived between documented history and rodeo folklore. Ask ten people about him, and you’ll likely hear ten different versions of the same myth.
But myths have a habit of smoothing over the truth. The famous wrecks survive in highlight reels. The human stories behind them rarely do.
That isn't because they weren't important. It's because time has a quiet, impersonal way of erasing the past. Programs get tossed. Newspaper clippings fade. Photos get tucked away in cardboard boxes.
I’ll admit I didn't fully understand that distinction when this project began.
On October 1, 2023, I sat down to dinner with my great-niece and two great-nephews. While my niece worked over the stove, I decided to do what I do best—passing the time by telling them a story.
I told them about Tuff Hedeman. I told them about one specific ride, in one specific arena, and the split second that altered the trajectory of professional bull riding forever.
Before I could even finish the scene, my nine-year-old great-nephew stopped me, his eyes wide.
“This story can’t be real!”
I leaned back and smiled. "Oh, it's real."
As I filled in the gruesome, glorious details, the kids leaned across the dinner table, completely hooked. Every answer I gave spawned three more questions. To a generation raised on screens, the sheer, unvarnished danger of that era sounded like science fiction.
Long after the dishes were cleared, that conversation refused to leave me alone. Every generation creates a handful of athletes who become larger than the sport itself.
Baseball had Babe Ruth.
Basketball had Michael Jordan.
Horse racing had Secretariat.
Professional bull riding had Bodacious.
If kids who had never set foot in a rodeo arena could be completely spellbound by his legacy, how many others were waiting to hear it?
When I first set out to write the official biography of Bodacious, I assumed I was researching a single, remarkable animal. I envisioned a handful of interviews, a few months spent digging through newspaper archives, a stack of vintage rodeo programs, and just enough records to piece together the life of the rankest bull the sport had ever seen.
It didn't happen that way.
One phone call became another. Every conversation ended with a new lead scribbled in the margins of my legal pad.
"You ought to call..."
"You need to talk to..."
"If you really want to know what actually happened that night..."
Before long, my notebook looked less like a manuscript draft and more like an interconnected map of professional rodeo in the late 1980s to mid-1990s. World champions. Bullfighters. Stock contractors. Pickup men. Announcers. Judges—an entire subculture of people whose lives collided because of one extraordinary animal.
That’s when the reality of the project hit me: The further I chased Bodacious’s story, the more it came to include the story of everyone around him.
I went in expecting stories of jaw-dropping wrecks and raw adrenaline. Those are certainly in the book. But I wasn't prepared for the unvarnished human stories that had never made the feature articles or podcast interviews.
I heard about the quiet, fiercely loyal friendships forged across thousands of miles of dark, asphalt highway between arenas. I heard about the personal sacrifices, the broken relationships, and the unwavering support of families who often could contribute nothing more than a new riding glove to the boys setting out to live their dream—and how some of those dreams vanished in an eight-second flash.
And the men who tried to ride him? Most had been trying to ride livestock since they were toddlers, driven by an obsession they couldn't articulate. Over years of bruising trial and error, they mastered the invisible language of the sport—reading the dip of a bull's shoulder, calculating rhythm, and timing the counter-move before the animal even planted its hooves.
These weren't just thrill-seekers hanging on for dear life. These were elite, world-class athletes engaged in a sport where mental conditioning and physical precision are just as brutal as anything required in Formula One or the NHL.
There were interviews that ended and I simply sat there staring at my notebook, unable to start a new task. Not because I hadn't gotten what I needed, but because I knew I'd just been handed something irreplaceable. Sometimes I laughed out loud at the dry, cowboy wit (Jim Sharp is a master at this). Sometimes I felt a sudden lump in my throat. Almost always, I was left with the weight of knowing I’d just been trusted with a memory someone had carried quietly for thirty years.
It fundamentally shifted how I approached the work. I wasn’t just chronicling a legendary bull anymore. I was trying to save a disappearing piece of Western history.
They faced a bull that revolutionized the sport. Bodacious became so mythical that audiences stopped coming to cheer for the riders; they bought tickets just to see the legendary bull itself.
And the people who were actually there—the ones who can tell you what was said in the locker rooms, how it felt to wait outside an emergency room, or watch a friend get carried out of the arena on a stretcher knowing they had to compartmentalize their terror and pull their own rope next—are getting older. Some, we have already lost.
"Without Bodacious, the PBR would not be what it is today."
— Founders of the PBR
The deeper I dug, the clearer it became: Bodacious is the anchor of that era, but the men whose lives he touched are the soul of it.
Over the coming months, I’m opening up the notebook and inviting you behind the scenes of this three-year journey.
I’ll be sharing the stories that didn't fit into the final manuscript. Some entries will be funny. Some will be heartbreaking. All of them will change the way you look at the people who built modern bull riding.
When The Official Biography of Bodacious: Master of Disaster finally hits the shelves, my hope is that you’ll recognize it was not built from public records alone. It was built one voice, one memory, and one conversation at a time.
The small details of the book were all gathered from spending hundreds of hours of conversations.
Sammy Andrews taking his coffee black with honey
Jim Sharp’s preference for Whataburger taquitos
Cody Custer’s small notebook that made other riders wonder what it contained
Clint Branger testing his protective mask
Aaron Semas’ taste for Sprees and Laffy Taffy
Bubba Dunn’s real reason for hating to stay away from Louisiana
I will be forever grateful and honored that they gave me access to their lives, thoughts, dreams, and regrets—and allowed me to share them with you.
Thirty years ago, Bodacious changed bull riding forever.
Thirty years later, the people who lived it are helping tell the story before it disappears.
🤠 Join the Journey Behind the Chutes
In this journal, I'll share the stories that couldn't fit into the book, memorable moments from my interviews, historical discoveries, and behind-the-scenes glimpses into the research process.
If you enjoy Western history, great storytelling, and the people who built the sport, I'd be honored to have you follow along.
Follow the Journey
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