A little boy with a dirt covered face stands leaning on the new shiny green gate wearing his new Double H boots. His boots still had the smell of freshly cut and died leather right off the shelf. He stands there leaning with one boot on the bottom rung of the gate staring out at the arena in amazement. Watching the horses make there runs. Staring in astonishment as each team makes their way down the seemingly perfect arena. Both parteners sitting tall and proud on their horses, loping perfectly in sync with them, and catching tthe steer flawlessly. Looking up at seven time national champion team roper Dean Oliver and mumbling to him self, "I wanna be just like him."  30 years down the road that same little dirt covered boy with his brand new boots and freshly shaped hat still stands there leaning on the now rusted green gate. Still leaning with one boot on that first rung like he did when he was a young boy and when the world seemed to stand still. His boots were no longer clean and new but now had caked on dirt and his hat wasn't perfectly shaped and doesnt glisten black in the warm sun but is wilted and has been trompled on now. He stands there with his long tan arms shoved in his dingy, wrinkled pockets. His shirt is stained from the sweat of his old faithful horse. He stands there still watching over the arena. Watching the teams lope down the arena and make there perfect runs. He sees his empty wasted life go by. Second go round, he didn't get a call back once again. It reminds him of his unfaithfullness and how undevoted he was to his family for the past 13 years. Team 102 is up. A teenage girl is the healer. He stares blankley at her and thinks of his daughter whos existance he barely acknowledges. He thinks of her and how he taught her to throw that very same loop. With every step the horse takes down the arena, the dirt flying from under his large, strong feet makes him think of the childhood of his two daughters, carelessly throwing dirt around in the sand box. The childhoods he missed out on while he painstakingly clung to the rodeo that he so desperately loved. He finally grabs the faded brown, cracked leather reins of his horse and puts one foot in the dirty white stirup. He grabs the horn and pulls himself onto the saddle. While sitting there he thinks of the first time his daughter got onto the saddle all by herself and the victory lap she took. He signs quietly, kicks his horse gently and trots off to his rusted trailer that he won in 1996. When he won the trailer it was shiny and painted white. He was sure that when he won the trailer it was the turning point in his life and that his luck was about to change. But now, the trailers paint is pealing and the hinges squeek every time he loads his horse. He unsaddles his horse and brushes his mane in the exact same way he showed his dauughter. He loads his horse, looks out at the arena and for one last second thinks about his daughter and the life he used to live. He gives one last sign, gets in his truck and turns the key saying to himself, "if i leave now i can still make chyanne." In a flash he was gone. He slowly makes his way down the bumpy dirt road and the thought of his daughter and what his life could have been were gone for good.