Vanessa Miller of the Boulder Daily Camera reports:

Richard Wayde Hamar, of Yuma, was riding a bull in the Little Britches competition about 11 a.m. when the bull threw him off and trampled his chest and stomach, according to the Boulder County Sheriff's Office. Wayde was wearing a helmet and vest, said his mother, Angie Hamar, who was watching the event with her husband, Mitch Hamar, and their younger son, Zach.

I don't presume to tell anyone how to mourn, least of all a dead child's mother, but the immediate response was frankly bizarre. People were in an awful hurry to absolve themselves and the sport.

"It was nobody's fault," Angie Hamar said. "It could have happened on a horse as easily as it did riding his bull."

And:

"That's what that kid lived to do," his mother said.

Despite Sunday's tragic accident, Hamar said, she wouldn't have done anything different.

"You can't keep your kids locked up in a closet," she said. "There are some kids who take motocross racing, and we take our kids rodeo riding."

And:

"We just want to make sure nothing negative is said about the sport of rodeo or bull riding," Hamar said. "Accidents happen all the time."

Everyone, in fact, seemed preemptively defensive:

Joe LaFollette, manager of the Boulder County Fairgrounds, said Wayde was wearing a helmet and a vest that provided some protection from the full-grown, 2,000-pound bull that sheriff's officers said Wayde was riding. But, LaFollette said, some accidents are unavoidable.

"There was not a lot any vest could really do," he said.

LaFollette said his staff spent Monday reviewing the accident and making sure everyone followed protocol.

"Everyone did their job accordingly," he said. "I don't know what else a person could have done, really."

Paramedics were by Wayde's side in seconds, LaFollette said.

"You could have the National Guard standing by, and things like this still will happen," he said.

As the Denver Post notes, Hamar was at least the fourth young rodeo participant to die since 2005. I know we supposedly live in a savagely litigious society and all that, but doesn't it seem more than passing strange for everyone to start talking like depositions before the kid's body is even cold?

Mother of boy trampled by bull: 'It was nobody's fault' [Daily Camera]
12-Year-Old Bull Rider Dies After Being Thrown, Trampled [FanHouse]

Craig Childs explored the, ahem, ins and outs of Professional Bull Riding circuit for the High Country News, including this brief meditation on groupie nomenclature:

As I approach one group of riders, pen out and notebook open, the talk quickly turns to sex. A high-scoring Australian named Brendon Clark speaks loudly of "skanky bitches." Bull-riding groupies used to be dubbed "buckle bunnies," in keeping with the Western theme. Now, a shade of hip-hop culture has apparently filtered in, providing another layer for the marketing campaign.

Late one night, after a party, Childs finds himself in a hotel room, on the same floor as the bull riders.

Around midnight, the sex begins.

My bed feels like a plank as I lie on it, listening to intermittent copulation from various locations. This sport cannot be considered properly without the sex. It is one of the raw elements of bull riding, as if PBR were a straight shot to the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, a direct connection to vulgar desires.

At 3:00 a.m., I lay awake wondering how they manage to keep up with so little sleep. Maybe they have been cycling from room to room, pausing for rest in between. Maybe I'm the only one who feels like I've been tumbling around in a washing machine all night.

At 6 in the morning, it starts up again.

I come slowly awake facedown on a pillow, reminding myself why I asked for this room. I'd wanted to get as close to this sport as possible, to spend as much time with the bull riders as I could. I sure as hell was not going to actually get on a bull. But this morning I feel as if I've been in the arena all night.

I roll out of bed groggy and swipe a hotel writing pad off the nightstand. With pen in hand and my forehead against the wall, I listen through to the other side and start writing. It sounds like fish slapping on pavement.

He should give these fellows a break. The bedroom is really the one arena of their lives in which they do not require the services of a clown for a safe dismount.

The Rise of the Minotaur [High Country News]