JOHN MARTIN'S TALES

You’d think I’d been kicked in the head by a wild, bucking bull. I just can’t remember the exact year.

Late 1970s? Early 1980s? Somewhere in that hazy paddock of memory, I was bestowed with honorary membership of the Australian Rough Riders Association and invited to “participate” in the upcoming national rodeo championships at Warwick.

“Participate” is one of those words that sounds friendly until you stop and think about it.

Participate how, exactly? As in, wander about with a notebook? Or as in, climb aboard something with horns and a poor attitude and attempt to remain there for eight seconds?

I never took them up on their kind offer, so I’m none the wiser. But I still have the letter. Somewhere.

It’s addressed to John Brown, which obviously is not my name.

There is, however, an explanation.

At the time, I was a junior newspaper reporter, sent off to cover a spate of rodeos in Northern Tasmania.

It was the sort of assignment given to the most expendable member of staff, which in this case was me.

I arrived expecting dust, danger and the occasional broken bone, and found all of that — but also something better: characters.

I discovered a rich vein of stories tucked behind the action — the riders, the stock contractors, the families who travelled from town to town with more kilometres under their belts than most touring rock bands.

I wrote it all up, and somewhere along the line managed to raise the profile of rodeo in the district, or at least give it a decent nudge.

Which brings us to the Browns.

The Brown family loomed large in Tasmanian rodeo circles.

From memory, they provided livestock for the arena. At least a couple of sons were competitors. And presiding over it all was the father, a man whose hat deserved its own postcode.

So when the letter arrived addressed to John Brown, I wasn’t entirely shocked.

In rodeo terms, that was probably the highest compliment available. I had, it seemed, been absorbed into the tribe — albeit under an assumed identity.

What puzzles me still is the nature of the invitation.

Did they want me there as a journalist, pen in hand, observing the chaos and trying to make sense of it for readers safely removed from the risk?

Or had someone, somewhere along the line, decided I looked like the sort of bloke who might enjoy being launched into orbit by an irritated Brahman bull?

There’s a world of difference between those two roles.

One involves careful note-taking and the occasional pie from a food van.

The other involves regret, gravity and a very personal relationship with the ground.

I suspect, had I turned up, the matter might have been clarified fairly quickly.

“Here’s your accreditation, son.”

Or:

“Here’s your bull.”

Either way, I declined. Journalism has its hazards, but they tend not to weigh half a tonne and object to being sat on.

Still, I keep the letter. In a box of memories. Er, somewhere.

It’s a reminder of a time when a young reporter stumbled into a story and, perhaps briefly, became part of it.

Even if only as John Brown, honorary rough rider — retired undefeated, by default.