S
SuperflySnuka
Guest
Your thoughts encouraged...
On the outside, Leon Coffee is smiling.
The white paint hitting the red, it surrounds his mouth and conforms into a smile, each side coming together at the same angle.
The smile is permanent for hours, until the end of the night, when he retreats, alone, to his dressing room. It will rinse off like it has thousands of times, the paint running down his face, the smile running with it.
On the outside, Leon Coffee is smiling.
But on the inside...
"Larry Mahan, the great all-timer, said it best, 'I wouldn't take a million dollars for what I've done,'" Coffee said. "'But I wouldn't give a dollar to do it all again."
His hair graying around the edges ever so slightly, his eyes revealing just a hint of Crow's feet, Coffee's years on the road have taken their toll. He talks about his life slowly, measured, in grand terms. About his biggest successes, being able to put smiles on the faces of thousands of people. About his biggest failures, not being able to be the kind of husband and father he wanted to be.
One after another, he recounts his highs and lows.
From high.
"Kansas City, Missouri, I fought a one-eyed lion. That animal was the baddest bull you've ever seen in your life. He was some kind of bad. I fought him till his tongue fell out. Boy, these people gave me a standing ovation. First standing ovation of my entire life, didn't know what it felt like. Boy, I'm talking about the greatest thing ever. I thought I was God's gift to the bull-fighting community. I was it. You couldn't imagine the thrill. The joys of having 17,000 people looking at you."
To low.
"Man, I go into that dressing room, I clean up, I walk back out there and ... there ain't a soul in the stands. Empty. I said you know, it ain't far from the penthouse to the outhouse. All them people that were cheering me on, they're all gone. And now I'm standing here alone. 'Where are they now?' 'Why didn't anybody wait on me?'
"'I'm here. I'm still here.'"
He ebbs and flows with the story. About the standing ovation, he stands, pumping his hands. About the empty arena, he looks to the floor, sad.
And that's his life.
Adored by thousands in a packed arena, ignored by the ghosts of thousands in an empty arena.
"That's when you take you out of the equation," Coffee said. "If you leave you in the equation, you're gonna be heartbroken a lot. It's not about me, it's about what I do."
He adds an extra, "what I do," partly to confirm to the writer that he loves his lot in life, partly to confirm to himself.
"It's not about me, it's about what I do. What I do," he said.
Like Tiger Woods talking about golf or Wayne Gretzky talking about hockey, Leon Coffee talks about making people laugh. He's put on the makeup since 1969, though he wouldn't reveal his age. He prides himself on performing across five decades, two centuries, two millenniums.
"Not everybody that you know can go out and put a smile on somebody's face," Coffee said. "Make them forget their troubles. Make them laugh. Make them entertained. And I'll tell you, if I walk out there in that arena, I better have the guts to do my job. I don't care if my mother just died, if I make a point to walk into that arena, them people don't care if my mother just died. They paid their hard-earned money to get entertained, and when I put on my makeup, I'm going to go do the job. If I can't do that job, I'm not gonna walk out there."
Not that he hasn't been tempted to stay in the trailer. In 1995, right after the Oklahoma City bombing, Coffee had to do a show in Guthrie, OK. At the time, explosions were part of his act. Sensibly, he kept them packed and had to go out cold, ad-libbing the entire show. It was hardest, he said, looking out at the devastation, at the heartbreak that so much of the audience felt.
But from the concrete came a rose.
"This is the greatest compliment I've ever gotten, at this woman's worst time in her life," Coffee said. "Lemme tell you what she said. She said, 'I've lost loved ones in that bombing, and the doctors told me to get away from it all. I didn't think it could be done. But Leon Coffee, he put a smile on my face.'"
Soon, though, those smiles will be painted on by another clown.
In his mystery age, his heart staying put but his knees giving out, Coffee will soon retire his green hat, polka-dot shirt and worn jeans, which look almost as old as he is, whatever the number.
Once a bull rider, then a bull fighter and now a clown, his days in the rodeo are numbered. Giving up the riding was hard, giving up the fighting was harder, giving up clowning is something he can't imagine. Oh, he has his future lined up -- a stake in the soon-to-start National Rodeo League, of which he serves as chief operating officer -- but he still misses his time as a bull fighter.
With the next phase of his life, from the bull room to the boardroom, he takes pride in what he hopes will become the NFL of rodeo. Citing the lack of money cowboys make on the road, Coffee imagines the NRL providing a stable income for riders and ropers, and, as he said, "Now, cowboys have to pay to come to rodeo. Soon, the rodeos will have to pay the cowboys."
"I, we, wanted to make it to where cowboys could make a living," Coffee said. "Make things a little better for them. I tell them, 'I'm not gonna make you rich, but I'll give you a living.' It's taken 11 years to put this together, and it's been a blast. A long, hard road. But to know these cowboys can make a living, it's worth it."
He knows something about being on the road, himself, having spent 12 days out of 365 away from home in 1984. Now, out of a year, he's on the road for 200. But that number will shrink in half in the next few years, maybe sooner.
"Them knees ain't got nothin' left," Coffee said. "I may come back net year, I may not. I can't put my name in the record books no more."
And with that, he breaks into a smile.
And it's not painted on.
On the outside, Leon Coffee is smiling.
The white paint hitting the red, it surrounds his mouth and conforms into a smile, each side coming together at the same angle.
The smile is permanent for hours, until the end of the night, when he retreats, alone, to his dressing room. It will rinse off like it has thousands of times, the paint running down his face, the smile running with it.
On the outside, Leon Coffee is smiling.
But on the inside...
"Larry Mahan, the great all-timer, said it best, 'I wouldn't take a million dollars for what I've done,'" Coffee said. "'But I wouldn't give a dollar to do it all again."
His hair graying around the edges ever so slightly, his eyes revealing just a hint of Crow's feet, Coffee's years on the road have taken their toll. He talks about his life slowly, measured, in grand terms. About his biggest successes, being able to put smiles on the faces of thousands of people. About his biggest failures, not being able to be the kind of husband and father he wanted to be.
One after another, he recounts his highs and lows.
From high.
"Kansas City, Missouri, I fought a one-eyed lion. That animal was the baddest bull you've ever seen in your life. He was some kind of bad. I fought him till his tongue fell out. Boy, these people gave me a standing ovation. First standing ovation of my entire life, didn't know what it felt like. Boy, I'm talking about the greatest thing ever. I thought I was God's gift to the bull-fighting community. I was it. You couldn't imagine the thrill. The joys of having 17,000 people looking at you."
To low.
"Man, I go into that dressing room, I clean up, I walk back out there and ... there ain't a soul in the stands. Empty. I said you know, it ain't far from the penthouse to the outhouse. All them people that were cheering me on, they're all gone. And now I'm standing here alone. 'Where are they now?' 'Why didn't anybody wait on me?'
"'I'm here. I'm still here.'"
He ebbs and flows with the story. About the standing ovation, he stands, pumping his hands. About the empty arena, he looks to the floor, sad.
And that's his life.
Adored by thousands in a packed arena, ignored by the ghosts of thousands in an empty arena.
"That's when you take you out of the equation," Coffee said. "If you leave you in the equation, you're gonna be heartbroken a lot. It's not about me, it's about what I do."
He adds an extra, "what I do," partly to confirm to the writer that he loves his lot in life, partly to confirm to himself.
"It's not about me, it's about what I do. What I do," he said.
Like Tiger Woods talking about golf or Wayne Gretzky talking about hockey, Leon Coffee talks about making people laugh. He's put on the makeup since 1969, though he wouldn't reveal his age. He prides himself on performing across five decades, two centuries, two millenniums.
"Not everybody that you know can go out and put a smile on somebody's face," Coffee said. "Make them forget their troubles. Make them laugh. Make them entertained. And I'll tell you, if I walk out there in that arena, I better have the guts to do my job. I don't care if my mother just died, if I make a point to walk into that arena, them people don't care if my mother just died. They paid their hard-earned money to get entertained, and when I put on my makeup, I'm going to go do the job. If I can't do that job, I'm not gonna walk out there."
Not that he hasn't been tempted to stay in the trailer. In 1995, right after the Oklahoma City bombing, Coffee had to do a show in Guthrie, OK. At the time, explosions were part of his act. Sensibly, he kept them packed and had to go out cold, ad-libbing the entire show. It was hardest, he said, looking out at the devastation, at the heartbreak that so much of the audience felt.
But from the concrete came a rose.
"This is the greatest compliment I've ever gotten, at this woman's worst time in her life," Coffee said. "Lemme tell you what she said. She said, 'I've lost loved ones in that bombing, and the doctors told me to get away from it all. I didn't think it could be done. But Leon Coffee, he put a smile on my face.'"
Soon, though, those smiles will be painted on by another clown.
In his mystery age, his heart staying put but his knees giving out, Coffee will soon retire his green hat, polka-dot shirt and worn jeans, which look almost as old as he is, whatever the number.
Once a bull rider, then a bull fighter and now a clown, his days in the rodeo are numbered. Giving up the riding was hard, giving up the fighting was harder, giving up clowning is something he can't imagine. Oh, he has his future lined up -- a stake in the soon-to-start National Rodeo League, of which he serves as chief operating officer -- but he still misses his time as a bull fighter.
With the next phase of his life, from the bull room to the boardroom, he takes pride in what he hopes will become the NFL of rodeo. Citing the lack of money cowboys make on the road, Coffee imagines the NRL providing a stable income for riders and ropers, and, as he said, "Now, cowboys have to pay to come to rodeo. Soon, the rodeos will have to pay the cowboys."
"I, we, wanted to make it to where cowboys could make a living," Coffee said. "Make things a little better for them. I tell them, 'I'm not gonna make you rich, but I'll give you a living.' It's taken 11 years to put this together, and it's been a blast. A long, hard road. But to know these cowboys can make a living, it's worth it."
He knows something about being on the road, himself, having spent 12 days out of 365 away from home in 1984. Now, out of a year, he's on the road for 200. But that number will shrink in half in the next few years, maybe sooner.
"Them knees ain't got nothin' left," Coffee said. "I may come back net year, I may not. I can't put my name in the record books no more."
And with that, he breaks into a smile.
And it's not painted on.
