[quote]Bulls Break Bones: A Personal History According to The Ohio State University, six million Americans break a bone each year. (OSU) In my lifetime, I’ve broken four bones. Two of those bones were just a fracture, caused by a childhood accident in my backyard. The other two breaks were not so mundane. It was Saturday, January 9, 2016. My family and I had spent a week-long vacation in Costa Rica. We decided to spend our last night doing something spectacular; therefore, my father, my brother, and I attended a local rodeo. I have only seen snippets of rodeos on television. I did not know what to expect other than watch a man riding on a bull. We arrived in the small Costa Rican town just after nightfall and were immediately accosted by a local man. His English was about as good as my Spanish. I do not speak Spanish. After attempting to communicate with the man for several minutes, it was determined that he was selling protection for our car for five dollars. Being the obliging types, we handed him five dollars and went our way. As we walked up to the field used for the rodeo, a soccer pitch with a wood fence built around the perimeter, we were accosted again by yet another local. This time a middle-aged woman standing on one side of a rope. She spoke English better than we spoke Spanish, and we were told that entry to the event was another five dollars. Before the rodeo began there were several announcements regarding the event and its sponsors including but not limited to Pepsi, and Imperial Beer, the local favorite. A loud tone was heard, and eight cowboys shuffled into the arena which resembled soldiers returning victoriously from war and prisoners awaiting execution. Oddly enough, at all times there were about fifty people inside the ring including adults, children, and macho teenagers. The announcer made a brief introduction of the cowboys in machine gun like Spanish. Then the cowboys took their bows and headed out of the ring. There was a heavy tension over the field as we waited for the first bull and rider to appear. Seated atop the fence, I had an ideal perch to observe the spectacle and the viewers. All around me were Costa Rican families enjoying the evening. The kids were not distracted by their phones. For all the benefits of western technology, there are problems as well, according to The New York Times, teenagers spend more than nine hours a day on their cellphones (Tsukayama). While some portion of that is used for school work and music, the staggering amount of time teenagers spend on their phones is a problem in and of itself. When I was in Costa Rica, I didn’t notice this problem at all, children all around me spent their time playing soccer and talking to their peers. A short blast of an air horn pulled me out of my introspection and focused me back on the field. A bull came rampaging into the ring bucking its rider with all of its strength. The cowboy on top of the bull rode with a serene grace matched only by eagles gliding in the eye of hurricanes. The tempest of activity only lasted for 15 seconds. At the end of the count, the rider leaped off the bull with the grace of a ballerina. We sat and watched this ritual repeated six times. After the sixth and seemingly final performance, my dad leaned over and said, “pretty neat, HoTh?” “Yeah.” I replied. “Why don’t you jump down there, and I’ll take your picture.” He said, and I complied. Just as my dad lined up the shot, a bull was released, and all the Costa Ricans cleared the field. As I stood there illuminated by bright white lights, contrasting with the red clay under my feet, the bull made after me. I only noticed it as it stood dead still ten feet away. The bull paused his charge, dropped his head and started a dead run after me. Instinct took over, and I braced for impact. The human body in all of its wonders contains a form of autopilot designed for intense times of stress and danger. This autopilot saved my life. The bull made contact with my side sending me careening through the air in a slow rotation over its head. My body impacted the ground on its side and picked itself up. My dad yelled to ask if I was ok, only to watch in horror as the bull turned around and bucked me again. Had I tried to run I would have been trampled or gored by the bull. Instead, I was left with a broken forearm, both bones were broken clean through at the wrist, and one of the best stories to accompany it. [/quote]