William Cleveland: The Man of the Hour
There he stood in the center of the arena. On Friday Sept. 11, the Polson Fairgrounds hosted a benefit in his honor to raise money for his family. He looked around, smiling, and took it all in. The grandstand overflowed with people. Boys and girls sat along the fences, hoping to get a good look at Officer Cleveland. The crowd stood on its feet for the national anthem as a cowgirl rode a galloping horse around the dirt—the American flag firm in her hands. The people arrived Friday evening for one reason. To show support a friend, a police officer, a father, and a husband: William Cleveland was the man of the hour.
He was not alone. His wife Terri stood next to him with tears in her eyes. Every so often, he’d whisper something in her ear and she’d laugh.
The Bull-A-Rama—officially the William Cleveland Benefit—was organized to help Cleveland’s family deal with medical costs. It was also a time for the people of Polson to show their support for a police officer and a member of the community loved by many. Hands over hearts, the song began over the loudspeakers.
The anthem arrived at its closing moments; the familiar refrain wound down to the “Land of the free, and the home of the brave,” ending -- the crowd was looking at one of the brave in the center of the arena.
A long line of people stood on either side of him: members of the Polson police department, the Lake County sheriff’s department, his family, and over a dozen bull riders.
The last notes sounded. The bull riders and law enforcement officials walked to shake Cleveland’s hand, say a few words, offer a hug. Each one handed his wife a yellow rose. By the time all the people shook his hand and greeted him, Terri had her hands full with roses. She wiped tears with her free hand.
The announcers told the crowd that the night belonged to Officer Cleveland. The crowd clapped and cheered. Cleveland, humbled by the response -- his head lowered -- waved his hand once and smiled. He was the absolute center of attention.
Cleveland and his wife Terri got into an ATV vehicle and rode out of the arena. Law enforcement officials escorted them out.
The bull riders returned to the pins; they would be riding full-sized and mini-bulls that night, hoping to score some points and possibly the money purse prize, but really, they were there for Cleveland.
The riders came from all over Montana—Great Falls, Columbia. The announcers called the attention of the crowd to have some fun and focus on the holding pins where men prepared to ride bulls and adjusted their handgrips, ready for the moment when the gate swung open. If they were lucky, they’d hold on tight and gain a few moments of glory.
It was time to start the event. Cleveland stood outside the gate as police officers greeted him—shaking hands, hugging, laughing—and posed in pictures.
“This is very special,” Terri Cleveland said. “Very humbling.”
Terri was surprised at the turnout; she couldn’t believe the event came together so quickly. “It’s quite a sight,” she said. “If nothing else, it’s a good time.”
Officer Cleveland spoke with well wishers; the people kept coming up to him, asking for pictures, asking to shake his hand, and to say a few words. He stood off to the side of the arena, graciously talking with everyone who approached.
In between encounters, there were unmistakable moments of stillness and quiet. The bull riding began; the clanging gates opened. Music thumped to every rider’s preparation. The announcers cracked jokes and kept the crowd in anticipation.
“This is amazing,” William Cleveland said. “You couldn’t ask for a better community.”
He apologized at one point; the chemotherapy has left him with a ringing in his ears. The spark in his eyes revealed a humble man, trying to make the best of it.
As a member of the Polson police department, he has served eight years. Some of those years he received “Life-saving awards,” he said.
“I’ve loved serving this community,” he said.
The cancer came with no warning. He went for a routine checkup with a doctor, but something wasn’t right. Tests were done.
“That’s when I found out I had esophageal cancer,” he said. “It has spread to my liver and my brain. It’s Stage four.”
As the saying goes, there is no Stage five. He’s going to fight it all the more, though. “I’m shooting for remission,” he said. He goes down to Missoula for chemotherapy treatments.
“I’m going to keep a positive attitude just as much as I can,” he said.
On Friday night he was humbled and appreciative of the people of Polson and Lake County. He stood for a moment, quiet. His eyes darted around and if he was scared, if he were afraid of what might lay before he and his family, he showed no signs—just smiles and gratitude.
Inside the arena, the bull riders spun and held on for dear life. The mood turned festive. The crowd cheered once again, and dust clouds kicked up into the last rays of the setting sun.