Five Years Ago Today the World Shut Down While Cowboys of PBR Kept Riding

Bull Riding was the last professional sporting event in action in North America as mass gatherings were banned. The cowboys then forged a plan leading everyone back to competition.

Bull Stock Media

Dener Barbosa took seven stitches in his free hand and then rode Bullseye for 91 points to take the event buckle in Duluth, Georgia.

That part of the bull riding on Sunday, March 16, 2020, was standard. A cowboy rode through injury and downplayed slicing up the hand that doesn’t go in the bull rope. Barbosa made the 8 on all three of his bulls over the weekend, showing he can win at the top of the sport. His toughness was a nice story line but of the “dog-bites-man” variety in PBR.

In that respect, it was a routine weekend.

Everything else on Sunday March 16, 2020, felt like an episode of “The Twilight Zone.”

There were no cheers when Barbosa released his rope and leaped off Bullseye, sticking a perfect landing. The drafty arena was silent when the wiry 25-year-old Brazilian realizing his potential accepted his second elite series buckle for the win.

This was a PBR event like no other – played in an empty arena. And it was the prelude to one the strangest and most difficult stretches of not only Barbosa’s up-and-down career but just about everyone in the sport.

Across North America that Sunday, every major sporting event except a televised bowling tournament had been canceled.

Sean Gleason, PBR’s top executive, watching his crew break down a half mile of steel panels and scoop away 750 tons of dirt brought in three days earlier, planned for his sport to continue to soldier on.

But from the time Gleason left the Infinite Energy Center for his flight at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta to when he landed in Denver a few hours later, new, even tighter restrictions for being in public were announced.

The world had changed…for him and everyone in the “mass gathering business.”

Days earlier, while PBR had been planning that weekend’s bull-riding, a mysterious, dangerous virus from abroad was beginning to infect people in communities across the U.S.

Urgent health guidance was issued, prohibiting public gatherings of 250 or more people. The world’s most prolific consumers went into panic mode to act as they usually do when large-scale disaster is forecast, making a run on toilet paper…along with anything to be poured or sprayed on household surfaces to kill germs.

With the PBR season’s tenth premier series date on tap in Georgia, Gleason did the math. Factoring in the competitors, stock contractors, judges, sports medicine, and operations and production, PBR could conduct the event with 150 people in a closed building.

The event team contacted ticket holders. Due to unforeseen and unprecedented circumstances, this would be a TV-only event, they said. Fans could get refunds and watch the 2020 Gwinnett Invitational at home on CBS Sports. No one outside of essential participants would be permitted in the arena.

The vibe was eerie: the usual fan roar replaced by clanging metal gates and grunting riders echoing across the cavernous arena. It was raw and unfiltered, must-see in an odd, intimate way, like being a fly on the wall in the world’s rankest practice pen.

While Rod Serling calling out the rider scores wouldn’t have felt out of place, when Barbosa’s name flashed atop the leader board late Sunday afternoon, it almost felt normal. PBR had pulled off a closed event. 

Gleason is no epidemiologist, but he couldn’t imagine the virus going away instantly. “PBR Unplugged” looked to be the way forward for a while. The term hadn’t entered the popular lexicon yet, but this would be the sport’s “new normal.”

It was a short-lived plan.

Sean Gleason / Bull Stock Media

As the league’s Commissioner, a formidable presence at 6’ 5” with a long gait in his alligator-skin cowboy boots, deplaned in Denver, guidance for public gatherings had tightened to a maximum of 100 people. Monday morning, as Gleason steered his Ford F150 to the office parking lot next to Pueblo’s Riverwalk, permissible gatherings were reduced to groups of 10. 

Everything had really changed. All sports were now shut down.

Gleason grew up in a small town in eastern Washington state, the son of a Washington state patrolman. He had been a heavy-metal fanatic in high school, even “playing” in an air band. But from when he was ten through college, he also spent more time on a horse than in a car. Working for ranchers and farmers, he pulled calves during breeding season and inoculated and branded animals driven to pasture.

While Gleason wound up in an office desk chair instead of a saddle, he remained an ardent evangelist of the cowboy credo, and like many cowboys, he doesn’t relish being pushed around.

Once, he came within minutes of cancelling an elite series event in Charlotte just before rider introductions when the arena manager would not allow the U.S. Color guard into the premises because they were armed. Gleason argued these were federal law enforcement officers presenting the American flag. The arena manager said she wasn’t willing to risk a shootout in her workplace. Gleason drew a line in the sand. The Color Guard, performing their job as they do it across the country, would come in with their weapons, or PBR would pack up and go home. A minute before he planned to signal the crew to bug out, a compromise was forged: local Charlotte police would escort in the armed federal officers allowing them to participate in the opening ceremonies with their armaments.

Gleason’s tendency to circle the wagons, dig his boots in, and go to battle traces to his youth, unfairly targeted by the humorless establishment during his heavy-metal high school days.

It started harmless enough. Sean and a fellow rocker started a music concert review column in the school newspaper with no agenda but to share cool music. Promoting a passion stirred a hornet’s nest of trouble among parents and school officials and had him labelled a “devil worshipper.” Rather than put down the pen, his music reviews became more colorful. A school board meeting debated whether he should be expelled for peddling themes allegedly corrupting local youth. 

That youthful battle over free expression and the rush of refusing to back down to an agenda-driven mob made a permanent mark. Gleason’s fighting spirit would come into play when uncontrollable outside forces again came crashing down on his greatest passion – running a professional bull riding league that he believes represents a way of life. This time the battle began with a perplexing health crisis bringing all-or-nothing edicts in the name of public health.

The country was locking down, and Gleason was trying to summon can-do cowboy resilience when meeting with his leadership team in “Murray” – a cowboy-themed conference room at headquarters named after PBR Co-Founder Ty Murray, where he told them: “We have a choice in front of us: We can go hide in fear. Or we can learn how to live safely with danger and keep our business going.”

This bold decisiveness is what had helped make Gleason successful in leading a rough-and-tumble sport maintaining its rugged edges while courting corporate respectability and mainstream acceptance.

Years ago, it also made for rocky times when the founding cowboys began taking orders from a man so sure of his decisions despite never getting on a bull.

“I went from wanting to beat the shit out of him to saying he’s the best commissioner in sports,” said PBR Co-Founder Cody Lambert, who as director of livestock at the time picked the bulls competing in PBR and worked with Gleason for nearly 20 years. (Lambert is now coach of the Texas Rattlers, 2023 PBR Teams Champions.)

Lambert and the PBR executive team were a group believing the world owes you nothing. Opportunity is equal, and you make your own way. They didn’t have to debate the binary choice offered. The trait of self-reliance ran throughout the room.

Without hesitation, they chose the deal-with-danger option: Get up. Dust yourself off. Climb back on the horse. Use your smarts and intuition. Find a way to do the job you’ve always wanted, to sustain the people you love.

This response to the dire situation was born of necessity. Sidelined athletes in other big-time professional sports would begin to get busy searching for the latest Zoom workouts. They had guaranteed contracts in sports with lucrative TV deals providing a financial cushion. They could take a break.

PBR, however, is a live-event business dependent largely on ticket sales. The virus was an existential threat to independent cowboy athletes and bull haulers without the luxury of a steady paycheck. The crew who build, break down and operate the events – from “the dirt doctor” (an expert ensuring the best conditions to maximize the bulls’ performances) to the real physician, Dr. Tandy Freeman, who helps save riders’ lives – are also largely independent contractors.

Without ticket revenue, and well-attended events to deliver value to brand partners, these hard-working people would be in dire straits.

“This health situation was so new with so many unknowns,” Gleason said. “There was no playbook for what to do, and it was clear that nobody was going to give us one. We could have easily closed the tent and waited. We could have packed up to ride out the storm from the safety of our homes. But we were driven by the desire put on events, keep our industry working, and bring fans the sport they loved.”

PBR had always been “the little engine that could,” formed by 20 rodeo cowboys who broke away to create their own bull riding-only league, achieving admirable growth considering the sport’s relative infancy compared to others that began before television was invented. Confronted with the greatest threat in the sport’s 26-year history, Gleason formed a crisis committee that was dubbed “Red Dawn,” named for the 1984 film featuring a group of intrepid youth in Colorado fighting off a Soviet invasion. Meeting first thing every morning – including weekends – until Thanksgiving, the team was banding together to fend off an invasion to save their strained business.

The Red Dawn team didn’t set out to do anything to be first. They simply felt a responsibility to figure out a way to get back to business safely and responsibly.

“The goal was always to get our people back to work,” Gleason said.

The prevailing wisdom was to lock down and wait it out. People were dying. If bull riding were to return, it would be under intense public scrutiny. Any sport returning to play would face enormous risk.

Challenging optics and bad press notwithstanding, of course nobody wanted anyone to get sick. The Red Dawn team under Gleason spent hours learning about the transmission of viruses to write comprehensive protocols that would allow PBR to become the first major sport to resume competition in late April in closed events at the Lazy E in Oklahoma, a mere 41 days after mass gatherings larger than 10 people were banned.

New York Times headline heralding the return of live sports at the Lazy E Ranch in Oklahoma / PBR

During the first broadcasts with empty stands as the backdrop, the new stripped-down experience that debuted in Duluth continued. Nobody was there, outside the riders, stock contractors who raise and handle the bulls, and crew.

But since PBR is a collision sport, it wasn’t exactly like watching televised golf. Inside barren, empty arenas, clanging metal gates, grunting cowboys, and chants of “Hustle! Hustle! Hustle!” from cowboys in the bucking chute replaced the usual noise of raucous, often well-lubricated crowds.

Bull Stock Media

The first pro athletes seen on television wearing facial masks were professional bull riders. While their efficacy was always in question, the masks were as essential as the riders’ protective vests: requisite for continuing to compete. Sensitive to removing PPE from crucial front-line and health care workers draining a tenuous supply, PBR made its own respirators, an idea hatched by IT director Brandon Reeves using his 3-D printer.

To keep the sport rolling, PBR built a closed set at South Point Arena in Las Vegas for a new form of competition. The Monster Energy Team Challenge played at a custom-built set at South Point Arena throughout June. The exciting and successful teams format set the stage for the 2022 launch of the PBR Teams league – perhaps the best thing to come from the virus.

By July, eager to introduce a new concept called “pod seating” that physically separated fans in the arena, PBR was ready to call fans back indoors. Led by South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem riding Old Glory into the Denny Sanford PREMIER Center in Sioux Falls for the team championship in July, PBR became the first major sporting event to host fans inside.

Governor Noem carrying the American flag horseback. / Bull Stock Media

“That was America,” Gov. Noem said. “They prayed before the event.  They sang the national anthem. I was proud to be there. This was the perfect example of what makes this country great. These people were athletes, and they wanted to do what they were good at. And it reminded us all how special this country is and how important our liberties are.”

Following Sioux Falls, the cowboys had to go where governmental gathering regulations allowed, setting a new schedule for a 10-city second-half swing to complete the regular season. New events came to cities such as Ft. Worth, Texas; Bismarck, N.D; Lincoln, Neb.; and Des Moines, Iowa.

On the revised tour, 23-year-old phenom Jose Vitor Leme appeared to be Krazy Glued to his bulls, winning seven events and 15 rounds. Most people were probably getting out of bed each morning with a harder landing than Jose dismounting his bulls. The former Brazilian soccer star was riding at a sizzling 70 percent, including eight 90-point rides, punting his helmet after big rides, and sinking to his knees to thank God for making his dream come true.

Soft-spoken Texan Cooper Davis came back from a broken neck at the season opener in New York to win in Lincoln, scoring 92.5 points on a bull named Hocus Pocus. The 2016 World Champion, who won that title after Lambert observed he was too fat, compelling Davis to lose 35 pounds and transform into a lean bull riding machine, was back in prime form as a championship threat.

In August, the next last American hero, Marlboro-smoking, Jägermeister-swilling, rebel throwback cowboy and two-time World Champion J.B. Mauney returned from his longest stint on the injury shelf, hanging on until his head hit the ground to win a few rounds, notch three straight top four finishes, and rocket 157 places in the standings to ride into his 15th consecutive World Finals.

And so, a twisting, turning, challenging season came to a climax while most of the country was still at home binging Netflix.

For the first time in 27 years, the championship would be decided outside Las Vegas, still dark due to the virus. Texas Governor Greg Abbott rolled out the welcome mat, and at AT&T Stadium in Arlington, home of the Dallas Cowboys, the cherished gold buckle was presented to Leme after he knocked down a massive 95.75-point ride on Woopaa to clinch the title (“the equivalent to a walk off grand slam!” shouted PBR on CBS voice Craig Hummer).

It was an audacious accomplishment that seemed unreachable when the lockdowns began in March. PBR delivered its full 2020 season to fans. And nobody got sick.

Jose Vitor Leme clinches the 2020 world title with a 95.75-point ride on Woopaa / Bull Stock Media

PBR’s pioneering return during the pandemic amid a fog of fear and paralyzing uncertainty is a story largely unknown and unheralded.

It makes sense a group of resolute cowboys were the ones to lead sports back to business and help open cities for live entertainment by trusting their intuition to drown out voices of doubt, negativity and skepticism. Cowboys, after all, are accustomed to adversity. They settled the West by battling through harsh conditions, constant danger, and tilted odds.

PBR’s goal wasn’t to be first. Just to get back to work. By virtue of forging ahead when others waited, an example was set.

It’s easy to forget that seven months prior to Leme’s coronation, as every bull rider was living in a socially distanced RV at the Lazy E, the ship was sailing into choppy, unchartered waters. Speeding ahead in its return, PBR was not welcomed in many cities – no surprise when the pervasive school of thought was to run for cover and stay closed.

The risk was enormous. But this was no reckless, half-baked venture. The team had done their science-based homework to develop common-sense protocols approved by the authorities. It was just a matter of responsibly executing the plan. In being brave yet disciplined, the sport demonstrated a path forward. Six weeks after the country shut down all live sports, PBR began bucking bulls.

The canary would make it out of the coal mine. During the height of the virus in 2020, PBR safely held 20 event weekends, 13 with fans in the stands.

When other pro sports played again, all the big leagues outside of PBR and the UFC (the second major sport returning to competition at the closed-to-fans UFC 249 on May 10, 2020, in Jacksonville, Florida) saw their television ratings plummet, some at record-setting drops. PBR’s TV audience would increase 8 percent.

None of this should be lost to sports fans, or the history books chronicling the global health crisis, or anyone who can remember a frustrating, frightening time when they simply wanted their old life back.

Five years later, our lives have changed, although the once-sharp memories of body bags carried out of hospitals, refrigerated trucks as portable morgues, the emergence of unknown variants, flip flopping heath guidance, and the uncertainty about returning to “normal” are fading.

Yet no one in the bull riding community will forget the brave and resolute response of their own.

Jose Vitor Leme / Bull Stock Media

After Leme triumphantly raised the 2020 championship cup, long after the bucking chutes and fences came down and the dirt was vacuumed up and hauled away, the significance of what his sport accomplished during the first year of the pandemic will endure.

For when confronted with the daunting, deadly challenge of a scary invisible threat and hearing the discouraging voices of angry skeptics barking, You can’t, a group of stalwart cowboys answered, Yes, we can. And we will.

They rose together, bold and brave, inspired by love and try, like early American pioneers slowly rolling west on a caravan of wagon trains, heading toward faint light in the distance.

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