God, When The Gates Open

The chute breathes around him—hot and close, air heavy with manure and the sting of piss-soaked sawdust.

Flies feast at a raw gash on the bull’s flank; dark blood mats the hair. The hide twitches under his legs, muscle rolling like cables, heat soaking through denim. Down the line a gate slams; the clang shivers the steel. Dust hangs in slow swirls, clinging to the sweat on his neck.

He pulls the tail and sets the wrap, glove squeaks on rosin-slick braid. The bull rolls a shoulder—the jolt climbs through his knees into his spine.

Outside, the crowd is a living thing—stomping, hollering, riding the swell. In here, it’s breath and heartbeat: rope fibers ticking under his glove, the animal’s hot exhale against his boot. The eight-count clicks in his head. Everything else waits on the gate.

He rolls his shoulders; scar tissue in the left shoulder pops like knuckles. His right knee throbs before the gate even swings. The years have caught him, but this is still the one place the noise in his head goes quiet. The only place he knows who he is.

Not a divorced man.

Not the guy who didn’t show up when he was needed.

Not the stranger his daughter learned to live without.

Here, for eight seconds at a time, he’s still somebody.

He hasn’t talked to God in years. He figured praying wouldn’t fix what he broke. Forty-four now—stitched with scar tissue, ribs taped, a knee that grinds—he clamps his legs to a bull that wants to kill him, and the words come without asking.

God, when the gates open… Watch over me. I could use Your help now.

The chute boss leans in. “Ready?”

He nods once. Steel bangs open.

The bull detonates into the arena and the shock runs straight up his spine. The first hit slams his teeth together; the next twist whips his head back until the grandstand tilts. The rope bites his palm; heat blooms under the leather. Every muscle in his arm burns to hold.

He leans into the next kick, but the bull’s faster. The shoulders drop and rise like pistons, snapping him forward, then slinging him wide. Dirt blasts into his mouth; grit grinds his molars. The lights streak overhead. He tries to breathe with it—chin down, weight forward—but the handle bites and the years in his knee and shoulder answer back.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth jolt, his past elbows through. A motel in Nebraska. Lonely. A bottle sweating on the nightstand. The phone facedown; he couldn’t stand to hear her voice and know he’d stay on the road anyway.

The bull drops out from under him—hard and mean—and her voice comes off the machine, sixteen, asking why he didn’t come to graduation.

The next snap-back brings his father’s face—hard as a gatepost—the night he slammed the door and swore he wouldn’t be back.

The buzzer’s close now. He feels it running up the rope into his bones.

The rope slips free. He clears the shoulder—weightless for a breath—then the dirt rushes up and takes it back.

A shadow sweeps over. An unyielding weight drives through his chest; bone gives with a sharp, wet crack. The pain goes white-hot; the world pinholes.

Copper and dust flood his mouth, grit rasping his teeth. His chest tries to rise and hits a wall. No breath. Only a thin electric ringing where sound should be.

The noise drains. The heat drains. And suddenly, he’s standing. Whole again.

He’s in the arena—but not the one he left.

The grandstands are empty—no stomping, no hollering, no dust hanging in the lights. Just quiet. The kind he hasn’t heard in years.

The dirt is smooth, untouched. No hoofprints. No boot tracks.

One chute stands open at the far end; light pours out so bright he can’t see beyond. The glow spills across the floor, warm and steady, like late-autumn sun.

A figure steps from the light. Slow. Unhurried.

Broad-shouldered. Hat pulled low. A stride like he’s been walking toward him his whole life.

Familiar somehow, though he can’t place why.

He squints into the light. His voice cracks.

“Where were you when she needed me?”

The figure is still, hat low. “With her.”

Dust holds between them.

“Why here? Why now?”

“Because you finally asked.”

“What now?”

No answer. The light holds.

Suddenly another voice calls out, ripping him from the light.

“Daddy!”

The gates are gone. He’s back in the dirt, chest aching, dust thick in his throat. His daughter is over him, tears streaking through the grime on her face, her hands gripping his.

He pulls her in, the pain sharp but welcome.

Somewhere a horn sounds—or a siren. The big clock over the chutes blinks 8.00 and keeps going. He watches her instead and counts that: one breath, then another. Medics cut and press and talk; he doesn’t let go.

They roll the stretcher toward the tunnel. She walks with him, hand in his. At the rail they have to part. He squeezes once; she answers.

The stretcher bumps forward. He leaves the eight seconds in the dirt and holds what matters—her squeeze, a breath, a new start.