I was accosted by a politically correct e-mail vigilante after this NPR commentary ran. She accused me of picking on a black athlete. I asked why she thought he was black. She said that “yo,” “bro,” and “gorilla” were racial stereotypes. I asked her what was wrong with him being a black athlete if the story was true. I asked if she was black. She said yes. I asked if she thought I was black. She said no, she didn’t think so. But she just assumed. I asked if she had assumed the cowboy was black. No, she just assumed he wasn’t because she didn’t know any black cowboys. I offered to introduce her to some. We parted amiably.

THE COWBOY AND THE ATHLETE

Robby eases by, tradin’ and trainin’ a few horses—doin’ day work and helpin’ out. He lives in a cow-college town with a pretty good rodeo team.

An Adopt-a-Horse carnival came through town, and Robby wound up being asked to “train” a mustang bought at auction by a local dentist. The purchase was a six-year-old stallion, fourteen hands, woolly as a grizzly and wild as the last Bramer steer to be gathered in the fall.

Robby castrated the stud and went to work. In six weeks, he could actually ride the snake around in the pen.

For his first public outing, Robby decided to saddle two horses and lead Root (as in “root canal”). It was a weekend, so he chose a path across the college campus to introduce Root to some new sights and sounds.

Bebopping across the grass came what appeared to be an athlete. Broad shoulders, bald head, sweatpants, and tennis shoes the size of bass boats.

“Yo, bro,” saluted the full-ride scholarship recipient, “I shore feel like a horseback ride!”

Robby looked him over. He was a finely tuned specimen of years of grooming, coaching, bodybuilding, brainwashing, and confidence building. He had YEA, THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, I WILL FEAR NO EVIL FOR I AM THE MEANEST GORILLA IN THE VALLEY! on his T-shirt.

“Sure,” said Robby. “Lemme help you up.”

Root was skittish but the “Meanest Gorilla” crawled up in the saddle. The stirrups were just right. He took the reins.

“Try to stay on the grass,” suggested Robby, “in case you fall.”

“Fall! Humph!” was the reply.

Well, to his credit, he didn’t fall. . . . Instead he flew, possibly even glided, soared . . . maybe catapulted would capture it best. Root made two good leaps, then drove his front feet in the ground and fired the Gorilla over his head like a navy jet being launched from a carrier, nose first directly into the sea.

He scraped a streak of dead grass off the hard lawn three yards long with his forehead when he skidded to a stop.

Robby caught Root and rode back to the scene of the accident.

“I believe you can ride him, bro,” said Robby. “Climb up and try again.”

The athlete pondered the possibility, fingering the two pieces of his eighty-five-dollar wraparound sunglasses.

“Maybe later,” he said. “I think I heard the bell.”

“OK,” said Robby. “Anytime.”

“Yo,” said the Gorilla.

“Yo,” said Robby, who hadn’t heard the bell. Mostly because it was Saturday.