Bullfight

The stadium smelled of salty peanuts and old man cigars. There were three flags flying high above the seats with Spain’s in the center position. We walked up steep, narrow steps and sat on hard concrete rows; our seats were in the lower deck near the doors through which they release the bulls. The crowd was excited and anxious for the action to start, with few people up and walking around.

The horns wailed, the doors flew open and a bull came charging out. Immediately the crowd erupted in cheers and applause as the bull tore around the ring, slamming his horns into the wall, kicking up dirt, looking for something to demolish. Three banderilleros appeared with magenta capes and matching socks pulled high up over their tight, white pants. They teased and taunted the bull, stomping their feet and jerking their capes. Freshly stabbed and angry, the bull raged at them with unstoppable energy and deadly, brute strength. His tail flicked back and forth eagerly as he flew through waving capes, head low to the ground, horns white and sharp.

The picador entered carrying a giant lance, riding a blindfolded horse with heavy padding draped over its body. He waited with his lance held high as the banderilleros provoked the bull, causing him to charge the horse. Screams of delight sounded throughout the stadium as the bull thrust his horn into the padded belly of the horse and the picador stuck his lance deep into the bull’s shoulder. Using their capes, the banderilleros diverted the bull away from the horse and continued to run him around the ring as blood ran down his back.

This was only the beginning of the bull’s slow, merciless death. Two of the banderilleros threw aside their capes and picked up sharp, harpoon-like banderillas, while the third banderillero enticed the bull into position. He charged forward angrily and the banderillero stabbed his neck with the banderillas; they stayed stuck in him like thumbtacks on a corkboard, handles swinging on his back, bouncing up and down. Blood poured out his wounds and covered his sides in thick maroon velvet. His tail stopped wagging and he was noticeably slower in his attempts to chase the pink capes.

Finally, it came time for the matador to showcase his talents. A mere twenty-two years old with the body of a ballerina, the matador moved with a confident grace and faced the bull fearlessly. He pranced around the ring with his chest puffed out and threw down his hat, ready for action. The bull was tired, but not defeated. His enormous gut heaved and his head bucked wildly as he twisted in pain. The banderillas beat against his side and two of them came lose and fell to the ground.

The matador called to the bull, stomped his feet, and shook his red cape. Infuriated, the bull charged at the cape and sailed under it as the matador swiveled his hips to the side and let the bull pass. They continued this dance back and forth across the ring with the matador occasionally turning his back and walking away cockily as the bull searched for red satin. The crowd screamed, “¡Ole!” with each charge and exclaimed loudly at every close encounter between the bull and the matador.

The bull grew slower. He had lost a lot of blood. The matador retrieved a long, thin lance from the sidelines and prepared himself for the kill. He held the cape off to the side and raised the lance straight out in front of him, parallel with the bull’s spine. This was the most dangerous part of the bullfight because it required going head-on with the bull, risking being gored.

The bull charged and just as they were about to collide the matador plunged his lance deep into the bull’s neck and let go. The banderilleros rushed into the ring, capes flying wildly, dizzying the dying bull until he collapsed on the ground, blood rushing from his nose and mouth. His body heaved and he died.

Wild cheers erupted from the audience and everyone stood to honor the matador, waving white handkerchiefs high above their heads in victory. The matador strutted around the ring with his banderilleros at his side, holding his hat out in front of him like a medal. In the background, a team of men and horses tied up the dead bull and dragged him out of the ring by his neck. Areneros appeared and raked up the blood that covered the sand where the bull took his last breath.

Ten minutes later, it started all over again with a new bull. And again and again and again until eight bulls were killed and the people’s bloody-thirsty appetites sated. Each time, the bull raced out into the ring with fierce determination, as if he would be the one that finally makes it. The one that finally outsmarts the whirling red capes and swift matador moves. But the bull never wins. They always die in the exact same way, every time, give or take a few liters of blood. They collapse under their own weight and look like fallen tables when they land on their side with their legs stuck straight out. It’s always the matador who gets to have the victory walk and feel the adoration of the crowd and see the white hankies waving. But tradition is tradition for a reason and bullfights are part of Spanish history, so I’m not going to muss that up with fairness and morals. I feel lucky that I was able to experience such a cherished Spanish pastime, especially on Easter afternoon, one of their most cherished holidays. It’s just too bad for the bull. I doubt anybody wished him a Happy Easter before sentencing him to die.