On a cold and snowy April morning in northwest Ohio, Tom Wagner prods a 1,200-pound steer with a four-foot-long wooden pole in a muddy holding pen. C’mon, you can do this. The red-and-white Holstein blinks at each annoying jab in his sides and hindquarters, fighting for every inch of the 20 or so feet that separate him and the rusty blue trailer parked by the barn’s door. Why are you making this so hard?
The beast, after nearly a half hour, is just a step away from the trailer but refuses to budge. So Wagner takes a thick rope and secures a metal gate behind the steer, pinning him in place. Dressed in worn blue jeans, a bulky tan Carhartt jacket and leather cowboy boots, the 59-year-old farmer climbs the gate and jumps onto the steer’s back. He doesn’t sit but stands, shifting his weight back and forth like a surfer finding his balance on a wave. Pick it up! Pick up your foot!
Only after dismounting and jamming the gate into the steer’s backside, over and over, is the task finally completed. The other steer in the trailer, a black-and-white Holstein, entered with little fuss but is now bawling loud—prolonged, almost mournful moos, as if he knows their fate. These steers are headed for slaughter, destined to become footballs. And five months from now an NFL equipment manager will place them in his quarterback’s hands so he can answer one question: Are they good enough for Sundays?