Dust wafted into the air and hung in a low cloud. It swirled and rose in small cyclones and puffs as the cowboys pushed their horses through the arena. More men dressed in jeans and boots and dark Stetson hats milled behind the metal chutes… gated boxes that would soon be the only things that stood between a wild horse and perceived freedom. The men that sat on the gates and walked between them were laughing and spitting brown streams of chewing tobacco at the ground. The air smelled like…horses. Horses and sweat and salted popcorn.

In Tulsa, there was some type of rodeo every weekend. Usually, they were small events. Nothing more than competitions between local ranches…an excuse for ranch hands to show off their skills and blow off some steam.

But every now and then would be one of the big ones. Riders from all over would come and compete for real money then. Bigger money. There'd be barrel racing and team roping and steer wrestling. Not to mention Soda's favorite event, saddle bronc riding.

Soda's eyes flitted to the first rider of the night. A young, sandy-haired cowboy in a cream-white hat slowly lowered himself onto the saddle. The buckskin beneath him started, nearly jumping right out of the box and over the bars. Collectively, the crowd drew a breath, then cheered. The boy leaned back, raising his boots so high he was almost laying flat, boots nearly touching the horse's shoulders. One box closer and Soda could have reached out and touched the dusty horsehair.

He blinked.

That had been him once.

The only time Sodapop Curtis had ever been still was when he had been sitting right there in the saddle…in that moment right before the gateman pulled the rope. Soda would be real still until he nodded to them, just a tilt of chin that told the cowboys he was ready. So still that even the seconds ticking on the big clock and the cheering crowd seemed to quiet and hold their breath. It was like the world paused, right before he gave the signal, and the gate was swung open. Then the muscular gelding would go buck-wild and leap out of that bucking chute and into the dirt arena, tossing up his hind feet and twisting left and right, trying to throw off the rider that clung to his back.

And Sodapop had been good. Real good. He had the name for it. Had the looks for the cameras and the crowds. He had the determination. Had the wild spirit just like the broncs he rode. And he had the silver-plated buckles to show for it… buckles that said he had been Tulsa's Junior Saddle Bronc Rider of the Year for two years running.

He could have been somebody. That was, he could have been somebody if his Daddy hadn't made him quit when he'd come down wrong a few years back and torn the ligament in his knee.

He sighed and leaned his chin against the rough wooden gate. Watching yet another rider get bucked off before they made eight seconds.

"Needs to get his heels up higher 'fore he leaves the gate. He ain't even marking him out all the way." His eyes didn't leave the dirt arena and he was mumbling under his breath, almost to himself, close to being too low to even hear him. Especially over the cheers and claps and whistles that floated from the stands behind them.

"You miss it, Soda?" Ponyboy was the only one that spoke up, quietly, knowing the answer before he even asked.

"Yeah, Pone." Soda's eyes trailed over the spectators, the movement from the crowd and bright lights giving the illusion that his eyes were lively and dancing instead of looking far back to a better time.

When he closed his eyes, he could still smell it. Feel it. Taste it even. Hear it. Here especially, in the arena he'd once rode and won in. It was like when Darry got a night off and went along with them to a Friday night football game. He'd seen his brother stop and fill his lungs when they'd walked through the gates under the lights. Seen him look at the white lights that shone over the football field. Watch the crowd. Breathe in deep and take in the smell of the grass. Something like a living memory.

Sodapop leaned heavily against the railing, arms and chin still resting against the wood with one boot raised and sitting on the bottom rail of the gate. The other sank into the soft dirt, smashing bits of dropped popcorn and spit-out sunflower seeds beneath its sole. Yeah, he still missed it. Missed feeling the warm horseflesh beneath him. Missed the rise and fall of the skin beneath his legs when the horse would breathe deep and blow. Missed the way he could feel his heartbeat sync with that of the gelding under him. Missed when it jerked in the chute, eyes rolling and huffing and ready to break free, kicking up dust so thick that that it'd cover every inch of his skin. It'd cover every inch of his skin and clothes and work its way into his mouth and down his throat. Some days, he could still feel the grittiness between his teeth.

But mostly he missed the way his dad had always been there. Always been the last one to tighten the cinch—too worried his boy would end up hurt real bad if someone didn't get it tight enough- and he'd always been the one to yell the loudest when Soda had been hanging on to that rope for dear life, feeling like he was riding the wind itself. He missed the way that his mama had always covered her eyes when he rode, he'd get a glance of her now and again, and sometimes she'd still be hiding her eyes when he finished the ride…he'd look up into the stands to find her and she'd be peeking through her fingers but smiling. And when he turned around, walked back to the gate that led behind the chutes, they'd all be waiting for him…Pony, Darry, Two-Bit, Steve…Johnny. Dally. Hollerin' and whooping and patting him on the back after the announcer said his score.

They were all there…Mom and Dad…each and every one of the gang. Mickey Mouse wasn't just a distant memory. He didn't worry about putting food on the table or his little brother getting taken away or…or…anything that was important really.

The only thing he ever worried about was those eight seconds. Eight seconds of worrying about nothing but gluing yourself to the back of that horse. Eight seconds of pure, wild freedom. Eight seconds, then his Dad would grab him in a bear hug and pat him on the back. He'd smile and say he was proud of him.

Until the night he'd gotten hurt. Hurt enough that they'd had to carry him out of the arena. Everyone had looked real sick then, been real worried. His parents had never let him compete again, but he never blamed them for it. It was just proof that they'd cared so much…loved him so deeply they couldn't bear to see him take a fall like that again.

The saddle bronc event was long over, the team ropers racing after a calf, when Sodapop finally turned from the arena. He nodded again at Ponyboy, swallowing hard.

"Yeah, Pony, I miss it. I miss every damn bit of it."