The past Madison County Fair Queen, Sarah Al-Mazroa, was about to instruct me and three other judges on the 2014 Madison County Bottle Calf Show. For those of you that don’t know what a bottle calf show is, it’s really quite simple. The calves are generally 3-4 months old and were raised on a bottle. They are supposed to be halter broke. Most of them are twins whose mothers either abandoned them or couldn’t carry two calves. Some are orphans.

The kids displaying them are too young to show the calves’ fuller sized and year older counterparts. They generally range in age from 5 to 10. Prior to the show they submit answers to a variety of questions meant to demonstrate their knowledge about their calf and how they care for it.

“How did I wind up here anyway?” I asked Sarah.

“We made a list of those who would be best for it, none of them could make it, and eventually we got down to you.” This was as I expected.

“I’ve never really judged anything before,” I told her, “I wasn’t even on a judging team in college.”

“Well, you aren’t judging the calf; you’re judging the kid.”

Judging the kid, I thought. I could think of several ways to do that: spelling, their understanding of advanced mathematical concepts, their comprehension of comedic irony, but eventually I settled on the most obvious one: likeability.

“So we pick the kid we like the most then?” I asked. Sarah looked befuddled.

“No. You place them by how they do answering the questions.”

“What if I don’t like the kid?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I sensed she was getting frustrated.

We were to place the kids off of their aptitude. The concept felt outdated. Our education system had abandoned the idea some time ago.

“So for each class we pick first and last place then?”

“Ok, seriously? No.  We don’t pick the kid that comes in last. Who would do that? You place first, second, and third.”

Personally, I thought picking the last place kid was an excellent idea. Sure, first place is something to strive for, but let’s face it, most of us aren’t going to get there. Sooner or later we find the satisfaction of at least not being at the bottom. I would hate to deny any kid that, even if they are 5.

There were 50 calves to go through that afternoon, and soon the first class had assembled. The 4 of us judges were split into teams of 2. Our initial questioning was to be conducted outside the show ring. There we were to pick a couple questions each kid did particularly well on, parade them into the arena, stick a microphone in their face, and hope for the best. While our class was in the ring, the other team would be interviewing the next.

Just before we paraded ours out, I did a head count. We had 4 5 year olds. I grabbed the class sheet. Nearly all of them were in groups of 4. This wouldn’t do.

While it’s debatable how much of my math classes I remember, I do seem to recall three ribbons for 4 5 year olds equals a crying kid and 2 pissed off parents chewing my ass. I objected. As judges we reconvened. They all agreed avoiding a crying kid and an ass chewing were good ideas and decided we would only be awarding first and second.

The questions concerned the calf’s name and how it got it, its sex, how they got the calf, who helps them take care of it, if they had a funny story, if it has ever been sick, and what they learned during the project. We had the sheets they had submitted and were to make sure the kid had taken part in the answers.

3 of the 50 calves had a slight case of pneumonia at one time or another. I couldn’t spell pneumonia if you spotted me all the vowels and a couple of minutes. Their spelling was remarkable. One kid was moving right out with the handwriting you would expect from a 7 year old, but it suddenly broke off when he got to the pneumonia part. In its place, over the top of several remnants of partially erased letters, was printed neatly ‘pneumonia,’ and then the shaky writing of the 7 year old took up again.  I suspected his mother done it.  Either her or the Spelling Fairy.

One of his contemporaries, intent on doing things his own way, had obviously refused help from anyone.  When we got to question about the calf’s health, he simply remarked that his calf had been afflicted with “runny poop, but he got better.” He will make a fine veterinarian someday.

A 6 year old girl made a particular impression by recalling nearly word for word each answer on my sheet. That was until I looked down and saw her reading each answer word for word off my sheet. I was no longer impressed with her recollection. I did become impressed with her resourcefulness.

What every judge is looking for, however, is that one answer that will produce the viral video on YouTube. I thought I had such an answer from Connor, about his calf, Sam.

“Tell me, Connor, how did you get Sam?”

“He kicked the kid that had him before me in the nuts.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“The kid that had Sam before me got kicked in the nuts by him. After that he didn’t want Sam anymore.”

Lights flashed, bells rang, and I thought to myself, winner, winner, chicken dinner. Victory was mine. Connor was about to become my golden ticket to the Today Show. I moseyed over to my partner partly to tell her the scenario, partly to gloat, and partly to ask that she have her phone ready.

“Do you think I can have him say that?” I asked. A rather disapproving look crossed her face.

“I think you can say he kicked the kid, but I don’t think I would have him say where he got kicked at.”

She was 17 years younger than me and in college. Someday I will have her maturity. Having not got it yet, however, I was disappointed. I told the kid we could mention the kick, but needn’t be so anatomically specific about where it landed. He was disappointed too. Our 15 minutes of fame ended before it ever got started. I have no doubt his mother was pleased.

I was left to quietly abide in the hope that a calf might still go berserk and drag its pint sized handler around the ring a couple of times. That is always good for a laugh or two, but this failed to materialize as well. The 2014 Madison County Bottle Calf Show turned out to be a mundane affair. Still there is always the hope for more fireworks next year. Fireworks, now there is an idea.

With any luck the kids learned someone could stick a microphone in their face and have them talk about what they do, and they would survive it. Some were shy, and it was hard for them. I was shy once too, but got over it. While none of them learned they could be knocked down, drug through the dirt, and survive, I’m not worried. That’s what the Des Moines Register is for.

As for me, I judged the kids quite enjoyable, and it seems my judging stint is not over. Adam Hill with Warren County Farm Bureau has invited me to their fair to judge their cook-off. I’m hoping for barbecue, but wouldn’t rule out a spiciest chili contest. At any rate, with two events under my belt, I won’t be a man without prospects. I have some hope of judging beets at the State Fair next year and eventually working my way up to pies. And perhaps, someday, I too will be able to spell ‘pneumonia.’