When it comes to Southern sayings, there are two that hit the tape at the same time for me: “If you’re waiting on me, you’re backing up” and “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

As for the first one, I have multiple family members who simply don’t understand what that is supposed to mean, but that’s on them. To me it’s fairly obvious, but then again, not everybody spent four years in Lincoln Parish like I did.

Which brings us to the second one. Though I am about as cityboy as they come – I don’t hunt, have never milked a cow – when it comes to things I might never have seen before, it is truly not my first rodeo.

Yes, I have been to a rodeo.

And, I might add, loved every manure-smelling minute of it.

The best part of the story is that this wasn’t some large-scale production with national competitors flying in to have a shot at a sizable purse money.

It was much — MUCH – more low key than that.

Upon arriving at Louisiana Tech in the late 1970s, I quickly discovered what a great melting pot of culture I found myself in. My fraternity had guys so country they used words that I had (1) never heard of or (2) couldn’t understand due to their accents.

For some reason I still can’t explain, the fraternity sponsored an annual rodeo. It was either in Pea Ridge or on Pea Ridge Road – does it really matter? – which seemed like a perfect setting.

One of the great truths that has stood the test of time is that a college student without anything to do on a Saturday night will do just about anything. Going to a rodeo in rural Lincoln Parish certainly qualified.

I didn’t really know what was going on and really didn’t care. It was an atmosphere that I had never seen before and this great mixture of man with/against animal was fascinating. I remember sitting on the fence at the end of the arena and enjoying the spectacle that was playing out before me.

At least I didn’t fake it. My head was not made for a cowboy hat. I’ve only worn boots in weather-related circumstances. A flannel shirt and jeans (no, not Wranglers) was about as much as I could Cowboy Up and still maintain some degree of self-dignity.

I hope you are not counting on some great punchline to this story. There isn’t one. I didn’t get picked to be a guest barrel racer. I wasn’t gorged by a bull with some kind of ferocious name.

Of all the people there that night, I’m probably the only one who remembers it. This was about nothing more than experiencing a slice of life that I would have otherwise never done.

I’m not sure how many nights I spent in Ruston in four years, so why is this one so memorable? Maybe it’s because it was outside of the rinse/repeat lifestyle that we all tend to lead as we find our way along life’s path.

Quite often when I’m driving around in this area in search of a Friday night football game or a golf course, I’ll see one of these small, backroad rodeo arenas. Warped wooden bleachers. Creosote light poles. An elevated perch for the PA announcer.

It will take me back to a time when I completely stepped outside of myself to see that there’s more to competition than just box scores and 3-on-2 fast breaks.

At some point in our lives, retracing our steps seems to take on a special significance. Maybe it’s a place where you took a vacation as a kid or taking a tour of your old school. It’s never a bad idea to re-live a time when the world was just as you wanted it to be, if only for a March night in north Lincoln Parish.

Given the opportunity, one day I hope to bring back that decades-old scene that I have played out in my mind countless times.

And when I do, I’ll also look forward to telling everyone who asks that it is literally not my first rodeo.

Contact JJ at johnjamesmarshall@yahoo.com