by Cook, R
He offered me Storm Boy, a big Clydesdale crossbred with a particularly quiet temperament. I was happy to have him as I was sore from the previous night’s ride and still a little hungover from too many rum cans. Our role in the show was just one act of the bigger story being told in the arena, from the droving era through to modern mustering techniques with bull catchers and helicopters. The crowd cheered for the most part and kept applauding as we emerged carrying our stock saddles. Soon the broncs would gallop out into the arena and, while the dust still hung in the air, men on horseback would gallop to the front, whips cracking, and muster them into a small holding yard. The horsemen would then lead the buck jumpers one by one out to the riders. I was getting a buzz from the crowd and as usual wanted to put on a good show when Storm Boy was trotted over to where I was standing. The old horse wouldn’t stand still, but I managed to throw on the saddle and tighten the girth without him jumping all over me. He may have been the quietest horse there, but he still had some fire in his belly. Once I was ready to hang and rattle, I grabbed hold of the bucking rein, put my left boot in the stirrup and, just as I was hoisting my leg over, one of the horsemen pulled the flank rope tight. Perhaps it was a little too soon. With my right leg only halfway over the saddle, Storm Boy reared up vertically, as if he were trying to jump the moon. My foot missed the offside stirrup iron, which was now swinging wildly and, as I tried to get balance, the stirrup swung up and hit me square under the chin. The force of the blow knocked me clean out. My unconscious body then bounced along on the bronc’s back for the next few bucks until I was back-flipped high in the air over his rump towards the ground. As I fell headfirst, the horse bucked forward and kicked out, connecting hoof with my lower jaw, cartwheeling me through the air until I landed hard on the arena floor. Still unconscious and bleeding heavily from the mouth, face-down in the dirt, I wasn’t doing real well.
The Buck Jump Show
It started off so gracefully
I was dropped off by a patrol
The grandstands were a rockin’
So the stories told
The pick-up boys led out my bronc
It found its place to stand
The flank rope placed upon its back
Me with whip in hand
Now girths inched up carefully
It’s time to take my seat
Aboard this little buckin’ horse
A point of no retreat
As adrenaline fills my veins
I take one last look around
Forty thousand people, all in seats
At the Brisbane Ekka grounds
I slide up to Storm Boy’s shoulder
To take my final halt
With my foot placed in the oxbow
I’m ready for any jolt
What happened next was indescribable
He bucked backwards twice then reared
I missed the offside iron
But I held on in despair
He was jumpin’ and a kickin’
Across the Ekka grounds
I was loose and out of rhythm
But givin’ up was out of bounds
I finally started to catch him
When I copped that ghastly blow
It hit me somewhere in the head
That bloomin’ loose oxbow
Now shook up from the impact
My hands felt weak and heavy
As I slowly tumbled backwards
The ground my landing jetty
Southbound I was headed
To take my place on the dirt floor
But as if synchronised and practised
Storm Boy kicked me in the jaw
Now your guess is as good as mine
From here on in my memory’s shot
All I remember is the next morning
I lay in a Royal Hospital cot
Two hours of surgery and a new steel jaw
Is simply all I gained
My friends and family gathered around
To try and ease the pain
Off course now you’re probably wondering
How this all came to be
Well we were at the Brisbane Ekka
Displaying our history
’Cause many men have come and tried
The old style buck jump show
The rewards are small and priceless
As only the old style cowboys know
Rob Cook, 2004
Well-known horseman Guy McLean was the first to reach where I lay and tried to wake me. He then used his hand to scrape away the soil from my face to stop the blood from pooling around my mouth and nose, allowing me to breathe. From the bloodied dirt, he also managed to pick up some of my teeth to give to the paramedics when they arrived.
Uncle Steve Cook had been watching from the grandstand and ran over to where I lay, although there wasn’t much he could do to help. He did become frustrated at the ten minutes that the ambulance took to get to me. Still, being in the middle of the city, it was probably the fastest trip to hospital I would ever have. I was soon taken to the Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery Unit at the Royal Brisbane Hospital to have my face put back together. My lower right jaw, the mandible, was shattered so severely that they had to remove a lot of the bone and replace it with a steel plate. The doctors then sewed the gum back on and my teeth were returned and wired into the plate. They did an amazing job. I woke up in hospital a couple of days later in a world of pain.
‘It’s great that you have your appetite back, Mr Cook,’ said a nurse, wheeling in some food. ‘Here is your lunch, do you need help to eat?’
Still groggy, I struggled to understand what she was saying. There was a jaw brace attached to my face, as well as a brace around my neck and I certainly hadn’t eaten since the accident. It was then I noticed one of the other riders and my mate Aaron Ryan sitting beside the bed in the visitors’ chair.
‘It’s OK nurse,’ said Aaron. ‘I’ll help him with that.’
As the nurse left the room, he stood up and started picking at my food. It became apparent that he had been living there for the past couple of days devouring my meals. Of course the nurses just assumed I had been eating so they kept bringing in the meals. Once Aaron knew I was awake enough to know what was happening he argued the point.
‘Well, there’s got to be some perks to sitting in this hardarsed chair,’ he protested.
Not that I was aware of it at the time, but Sarah arrived in Brisbane the day after the accident while I was in surgery. Aaron met her at the hospital entrance and quickly ushered her to the elevator, instructing her not to talk to or even make eye contact with anyone. Apparently the local reporters had been following Aaron trying to get the scoop on my story.
Aaron had also made sure I was in a good room with my own shower and toilet so he could make himself more comfortable. Aaron was a good mate for staying with me during that time, and Sarah arrived the very next day also. I have always been lucky to have blokes like Aaron around me.
On the seventh and final night of the Outback Spectacular show at the Ekka, I was allowed out of hospital to attend. From the back of a ute and looking like I’d been hit by a train, I waved to the crowd as I was driven around the arena and the story of my accident was told over the loudspeaker. A television news crew, which had captured the fall on video, later sent me a copy of the tape. It was good for me to watch as I had no recollection of what had happened – it’s not for the faint-hearted. You could see bits of teeth fly out of my mouth as I was booted. Back at home and for a long time after, Ryan Frame would pull the piss out of me by continuously repeating the words used by the news reporter in the video.
That injury put me on the edge of a bed for fifteen weeks, living on yogurt and pumpkin soup. I was forced to sadly wave goodbye to the all-round cowboy title that I was leading at the time on the Queensland circuit. The accident created a psychological barrier for me and this accident was one I needed to overcome. He who hesitates in the sport of rodeo generally misses out. Eve
n though I still had wire on my teeth I figured after being out of action for more than three months, it was time to step up again. Other than some slight soreness, my face was back to normal.
I travelled to a small rodeo at Bell, near Dalby, and although I desperately wanted to get on a bull, I knew I had to get another bronc ridden first. The ride itself went well, placing me third overall, but with each jump it felt like I was being hit with a jack hammer. My jaw was jolting in my head – boy, did it hurt. So I took another three weeks off to give myself more time to recover and eventually I felt ready to go again. Over the Christmas and New Year period, I took part in the ‘golden run’ on the Australian professional bull rider’s circuit; three bull rides in four days on the Queensland coast. The first was in Maroochydore, then further north in Rockhampton and lastly back down south again in Mooloolaba. It was a surreal experience to ride up against the best in the country. Maroochydore was my first ride as a professional and, fittingly, I drew a bull called Billy the Kid. The fact that it shared my father’s name was a good omen; everything felt perfect and I got him covered. I came second in the round and fourth in the average at Maroochydore, second overall at Rockhampton and fourth overall at Mooloolaba. Ecstatic with the results, I was determined to get fair dinkum about my bull riding and took the chance to go professional in 2004.
Sarah, Framey and I were still renting the house in Dulacca, and if I wasn’t at a rodeo somewhere, I was off cutting timber or contract fencing. Sarah continued her registered nursing studies and worked casually at the hospital in Miles. I wanted to stay in Queensland because it was close to the professional circuit. Drinking and smoking were two bad habits I had picked up as a teenager and, according to Dad, were the ones that would hold me back if I wanted to be serious about bull riding. The Dulacca pub was an easy one-hundred metre stroll from our house. It became another favourite watering hole of mine, and we’d made friends with another publican, this time ‘Jonesy’. One afternoon, a large group of us went to the hotel, including my cousin, Shane Cook. After many hours of drinking, we started playing quoits, in which each player throws three small rubber hoops at a wall-mounted board that has a number of hooks, with the aim of catching the hoops on the hooks holding the greatest number of points.
‘Hey Rob, if you can hit the centre ring, I’ll buy you rums for the night,’ challenged Shane.
As usual, I took up his challenge. Standing back at the line, I threw the first hoop and completely missed. To my disappointment, so too did the last two rings. Taking my cap off, I threw it at the centre ring but again it failed to hook on the board. Frustrated at my lack of coordination, I then pulled my singlet off and managed to land it on one of the bottom hooks. My thongs and shorts followed, both pelted at the wall as everyone cheered me on. But I rarely wore jocks and this was one of those days I was letting everything hang loose. Standing there naked had my mates in stitches, and there were no women or children present so I wasn’t worried about offending anyone. I was more disappointed that I had missed out on some free rums. But while I was casually attempting to cover up, Shane picked up my clothes and ran outside, placing them in the centre of the road. Public nudity wasn’t something that worried me, so I walked down the pub stairs and waited for a road train to pass before collecting my clothes. Another car slowed down as it passed me, and stopped. I thought I was about to cop some abuse from someone inside, until I realised there were two young couples just taking a closer look.
‘Are you right mate?’ they asked.
‘Yeah I’m fine, just a friendly gag going on here at the pub,’ I replied. ‘You should come in.’
So they decided to pull over and have a beer too. Once I pulled my shorts on and walked back into the pub, I realised Shane was now also buck-naked sitting at the bar. I didn’t want to leave him hanging, so I took my shorts off again and pulled up another bar stool next to him. The young couples stayed for a beer and then kept going, believing it was too weird to stay any longer. Jonesy didn’t mind, though, daring us to sit there for a couple more drinks.
Despite the long drinking sessions with the boys at the pub, I began thinking more about my future and how I would like to get serious about starting a family. The next step for me was an obvious one, but it took time to work up the courage. Eventually, I decided to ask Sarah’s parents, Graeme and Lois, for permission to marry their daughter. Once I had both their blessings, I pulled Sarah aside in her bedroom of the house in which she had grown up, and sat down on the bed. Not having much money at the time, the ring I had bought was as good as it gets on a cowboy’s pay packet. But as I softly spoke to Sarah about my love for her, I explained why we didn’t need a flash ring to represent our unity. Reaching out to hold her hand, I tied a piece of string around her wedding finger, the other end of which was already attached to my finger.
‘A wedding ring is just a symbol of marriage. It needs only to be as strong as this piece of string,’ I said. ‘Will you marry me?’
As Sarah looked at her hand, I opened my left hand, releasing a ring to spiral down the string and fall onto her finger. I was honoured to have her agree to be my wife. We would later be married on 6 March 2004 at the Miles Catholic Church. It was a wonderful day, with over 200 friends and family. Dad was my best man, and Brad and Cam were my groomsmen. I nearly fell over when Sarah entered the church; I’d seen a lot of beautiful women but no one could ever compare to my wife-to-be. Wolf whistles and cheering filled the church when I kissed my wife for the first time. The reception finished at 2 a.m., and we were back a few hours later to help clean up the building. Sarah and I had big plans for the rest of the year, which began with us moving that day to Dysart in central Queensland. There was no time for a honeymoon because I was beginning a new job back in the mines. My uncle, Tim Stitt, who is married to Dad’s sister Cath, was able to get me a position working as a shot firer’s assistant at the Saraji Coal Mine, as well as accommodation for the both of us, until we had saved enough money to buy our own house.
I enjoyed the job, which was five days a week, with a rotating shift ending either at 3.30 p.m. or 5.30 p.m. It provided the financial means for me to focus solely on my sport, allowing me to travel all over the country, driving and flying to bull rides from Cairns in north Queensland through to Sydney in New South Wales. Nearly every weekend consisted of another show somewhere around the country. My life revolved around the sport. I had no interest in anything outside the world of professional bull riding. It consumed my very existence and, unfortunately without me realising it, even Sarah came second. Every day before and after work would find me training, whether it was swimming, jogging, weight-lifting or riding. I took every opportunity to increase my fitness and strength, even in the hotel gym the night before a bull ride. I remember chatting with world champion bull rider Troy Dunn over a beer one night when he explained that with the right fitness and riding technique there should not be a bull in Australia that could jerk him down. A jerk down is when the bull gets the rider on the end of his arm and pulls him down over the front, resulting in a headbutt. The only time this ever happened to me was at a show in Mackay, Queensland. The bull I drew played up in the chute, making it tricky to get a good start and, while I made a good ride and reached the eight-second whistle, I hesitated with my dismount. The extra second gave the bull the chance to jerk me down and I headbutted his horn, splitting my cheek open. Remembering what Troy was hinting at, the incident motivated me to get back in the gym the very next day to ensure it never happened again.
Uncle Tim was the boss of the blast crew at the mine and he became a mentor for me as we regularly trained together. He led by example and inspired me to be in the best possible state of fitness. I was also on the same blast crew as two other great bull riders, Lee Hanrahan and Henry Odell. We often got together during the week to rope calves at the local rodeo grounds, sometimes well into the evening. To further increase my fitness I began limiting my drinking and even quit smoking, resorting to chewing tobacco instead. It was an
alternative introduced to me by Lee on his return from the United States. As socially unacceptable as chewing is, it didn’t affect my lungs or overall fitness. If I was to spit out a wad of chew five minutes before a ride, it made no difference to my performance on a bull, whereas if I put a smoke out just prior, I would generally find myself gasping for air halfway through an eight-second ride. A less obvious way of increasing my movement on the back of a bull was with a contraption Uncle Tim gave me, to improve flexibility. I was constantly straining my groin, so stretching it more thoroughly was a winning idea. Uncle Tim’s ‘groin stretcher’ consisted of a small jockey seat with steel plates on which to rest the inside of each foot. A handle and winch sat in between my legs. I would turn the handle to slowly stretch my legs apart and do the splits. So as I sat on the floor watching television, I could ratchet the machine to push my legs to the limit. It worked wonders.
While my life outside of work was always hectic, life at the Saraji Coal Mine was very slow. Nothing moves fast at a mine. It was like being in prison, doing your time, winding down the clock each day. I had become fully licensed as a shot firer, which allowed me to use explosives at the mine. Our job was to blast the earth away until the coal was reached underground. At the direction of engineers, we would place explosives down holes made by drilling rigs. The biggest job we did was for an over-burden shot covering an area 900 metres wide and 1.6 kilometres long, which was the largest of its kind at the time. We loaded the long line of holes, which were about sixty centimetres in diameter, with explosives connected with a lead-in line to a main trigger line. All the trigger lines were then wired to a main lead-in line, which ran one kilometre away from the blast site. Once the mine was cleared we set off the explosives, and each row of holes triggered a millisecond after each other. They were huge blasts and the earth shook furiously beneath us each time. We then had to inspect the site and declare it clear before general movement at the mine could resume. Other coal seam blasts were simpler, but still it wasn’t a job where errors could be made. Blowing stuff up during the week and riding bulls on the weekend fed my adrenaline habit. It was the ideal lifestyle.