Ron Kantowski finds himself surrounded by cowboy hats and meets some friendly folks in town for National Finals Rodeo

Thursday, Dec. 7, 2006 | 7:12 a.m.

The first thing a city slicker should do when he finds himself in a bar surrounded by guys wearing cowboy hats is find one who is smiling and try to be his friend. You know, just in case the rhythm and blues band passing itself off as a country act doesn't know the theme from "Rawhide" and there's trouble.

That's how I met Bill Tomich and his wife, Mary, a retired couple who tonight will see their first National Finals Rodeo performance at the Thomas & Mack Center. On Tuesday night they were watching a live feed at Sam's Town, along with about 125 others who had crammed into Roxy's Saloon, where admission is free and the worst smell in the air is that of stale cigarettes.

Maybe, I thought, that's why ol' Bill was sporting a smile as wide as the Canadian plains.

Turns out he is from the Canadian plains, once again proving my theory that it's very difficult to meet a Canadian who isn't smiling like he just had canary for dinner.

Bill and Mary live in Hinton, Alberta, just a stone's throw from Jasper National Park, where the Web site says you can thrill to the thunder of Sunwapta Falls, enjoy the serene beauty of Mount Edith Cavell, connect with nature along 1,000-plus kilometres of trails - that's kilometers if you're logged on south of the border - experience Athabasca Glacier up close or resign yourself to a relaxing soak in the Miette Hotsprings.

And if the rabbit ears are turned just right, you can also catch NFR highlights on CTV.

Bill and Mary would prove another theory of mine, that professional rodeo is just a synonym for "one, big, happy family," and that if you find yourself in a bar surrounded by guys wearing cowboy hats that one invariably will know somebody who rides or ropes livestock for a living.

"Denny and Roddy Hay are friends of ours," Mary says of the saddle bronc riders from Alberta. "They're practically neighbors."

Up at the bar, a sturdy man with a chest like a wine keg had just tipped a bleached-blond waitress wearing a red satin western jacket, short denim shorts, faux cowboy boots and a tad too much eye shadow for leaving another Crown and Coke.

His name was - probably still is - Roy Sherrard. His second wife, Tami, was sitting alongside, dressed like a barrel racer. The Sherrards are native Montanans who now reside in Presskit, Ariz., which is spelled P-R-E-S-C-O-T-T, but pronounced Presskit. At least if you live there.

The Sherrards might have been the friendliest people in the bar, and that's saying something. Extend your hand to Roy Sherrard, and he pumps it like a well that has run dry. Then he slaps you on the back and asks whadd'ya drinkin'?

Roy Sherrard used to ride on the Canadian circuit; now he's a furrier and shods horses. His clients back in Montana included Ted Turner, Jane Fonda and Steven Seagal. He said David Letterman's weekend getaway ranch was just down the road. Yet, all he wants to talk about is Clint Rasmussen, the NFR bullfighter, who is his friend.

There's that extended family thing again.

The Sherrards have been married seven years now. You can tell by the way they constantly touch each other - not in that way, but in the way that says they still enjoy being in each other's company - that they are in it for the long haul.

They watched the Saturday, Sunday and Monday NFR go-rounds live at the Mack. The highlight of the trip, they said, was enticing their youngest son, Nicholas, to drive over from Camp Pendleton when they managed to find another ticket.

Nicholas, Tami said, will soon return for a second tour of duty in Iraq. All three of her sons were Marines who have defended their country in the Middle East. Chris, her adopted son, was a crew chief on a Blackhawk helicopter and is now a recruiter back in Montana. Jason, her middle boy, also was in Special Ops.

But he never made it home.

Now I understand why the Sherrards touch each other the way they do.

I was still checking my notes, making sure I had spelled "Nicholas" the German way, when a cowboy with his denim jacket pulled up around his neck, like he was about to jump on his horse to keep some doggies movin', approached me on the railing that separates Roxy's from the rest of Sam's Town.

"If you're takin' orders, bring me a couple of Bud Lights," said Larry McFarlin of Bonham, Texas, before lightly punching me in the arm to let me know he was only joking.

McFarlin reminded me of the Marlboro Man, only he seemed to smile a lot more and he wasn't pulling a drag on one. Still, he looked pretty cool and rugged, and I thought if I had stayed in New Mexico after college, this is how I would dress.

I told him who I was and what I was doing and that everybody I had talked to in the bar had a story to tell, so what was his?

He said he didn't really have one, that he was a high school football coach who had gotten into breeding bulls and that he had just rolled into town with two hitched to his wagon, or whatever he calls his pickup truck with the extended cab and the big mudflaps.

McFarlin said if those bulls buck like the dickens at today's auction, they could fetch upwards of $40,000. If they don't buck, he doesn't eat - at least not until he gets those bulls back home to Texas.

He said if I really wanted to hear a story, come meet his partner.

That would be Sandy Kirby, the former bull rider. The first story Kirby told was finishing fourth in a go-round when the finals were held in Oklahoma City in 1968 and receiving a check for $78. Trouble is, it cost a cowboy $100 to enter back then, so he was still $22 in the hole. And that was before the beer tab was added up.

Kirby was sipping on a Bud Light and pumping quarters into a slot machine and didn't seem all that interested in what was happening on the plasma screens in the bar around the corner. Maybe it's because he's been there, done that.

He speaks with a Texas drawl, which does a fine job disguising that he grew up in New Jersey, albeit in a place called Cowtown (I swear I'm not making this up), where he was a trick horse and pony rider.

That was my cue to drop the name of Bobby DelVecchio, the popular Bronx-born bull rider. I said something about DelVecchio, who used to toss roses to the women in the crowd, being the most famous cowboy from Back East when Kirby raised his hand in mock protest. At least I think it was mock.

"Second-most famous," he corrected me.

We all had a laugh. Then I wished them Happy Trails, knowing full well that we would probably never meet again.

But wishing, somehow, that we would.

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