There were nine steers in Cooper’s class. I’d been watching the other kids all week. A couple of them had steers that looked better than Moose on paper, bigger and deeper and fresher out of somebody’s sale barn.
The judge walked them around twice and then had them line up head to tail. He went down the line slow, putting his hand on every steer.
Over the loin. Down the rib. He stepped back and looked at each one from the side, then from behind.
Cooper set Moose up just like he’d done in the lane. Show stick on the belly. Back foot moved an inch.
Moose dropped his head a little and stood there square as a table, and he didn’t move a hoof.
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The judge walked back up to the front. He walked down the line a second time. Then he started pulling.
He pointed at a big black steer and waved him to the front of the line. Then he pointed at a smoky one. My heart sank to the bottom of those boots.
Then he stopped in front of Moose. He reached out and handled him one more time, over the top, down the side. He stood looking at him for a long moment while my fingernails left marks in my palms.
He turned and pointed at Cooper. Then he pointed at the front of the line, at the very top spot, and moved the black steer down one.
Cooper led Moose up the line past the other eight steers. His face didn’t move at all. But I saw his hand tighten on that show stick until the knuckles went white.
The judge stepped to the middle of the ring and the ringman handed him the microphone. In 4-H shows, the judge always gives his reasons. Most years nobody listens to anything but the placings.
That day, the whole ring was quiet.
“I’ll start at the top,” he said. “This red-and-white steer is the most complete steer in the class. He’s correct on his feet, he’s long and level down his top, and he’s got the most even finish of any steer in here.”
He paused and looked down at Moose, then over at Cooper.
“But I want to tell you what really puts him first. You can’t fake this kind of finish in July. This steer was fed right. Every single day, through the heat, nobody skipped a feeding. I can feel it when I put my hand on him. Whoever fed this steer did it right.”
He handed the mic back. The crowd clapped. Somebody whistled. Cooper stood there at the head of the line with his eyes shut, the way they were shut in that picture with his dad.
I didn’t look at Mike right away. I couldn’t. I looked at my son.
When I finally did turn my head, Mike had taken his seed cap off. He was holding it against his chest with both hands, and he was looking at the ground in front of his boots.
I didn’t go to him. I didn’t say a word. It wasn’t a moment for me to win. It was just a moment to let him hear it.
Moose didn’t win the grand drive. When the class champions came back into the ring for the champion pick, the judge slapped a big black crossbred steer from down by Paullina for grand and a smoky one for reserve.