Toro, Toro

Men in tight pants is not a sports tradition distinct to American baseball. And man, am I glad about that.

Yesterday, I saw my first bull fight in the bullfighting capital of the country.

Originally, I had no pretense as to what these were and what exactly the angle they were to take.

They don't race. They're not up against criminals. They are dangerous as Hell. So they just wave a flowy cape around?

BASICALLY.

The whole idea is that a family in Spain raises the bull as its own. A pet, in a sense... and sends it to be slaughtered in the ring for honor.

In Italian-American tradition, or at least in my house, we would say "Saus-eege is own." Meaning, alright Spain, do your thing, but I will never sell my dog for honor.


For the past few days there had been one resounding question among the dorm: "What do we wear to the bullfight?" So naturally, we staked it out the arena for the congregation of spectators. They were all dresses as if they were going to church. That's when we realized this is not bullshit. (lol?)

So the day came upon us, we all got fancied in dresses and blazers and khakis and whatnot to appear to blend in as much as possible before we spoke.

I was surprised at the ease in which we waltzed in. We showed our ticket only at the gate we were to go through to get to our seat section and that was it.

When the show started, there was a relatively modest procession of the matadors followed by the caballeros yielding lances in the stadium. The matadors took respective post behind blockades around the outside of the ring and the bull was released.

GAME TIME.

The matadors would pop out from behind their little doors with a cape that was not red, but pink on side and yellow on the other. My brilliant drummer of a friend suggested that they may taunt them with the pink and then turn it to yellow to blend with the sand/confuse them.

Spot on.

The whole point of the round was to see if the bull would fight and kick and ram its horns. If it did not, as the second bull did not, the crowd clapped a continuous tri-beat applause. At this point, they released cows into the arena and the matadors backed off. The point of the other nonviolent heifers was to have the bull herd together with the rest and be ushered out of the arena.

Brilliant.

So after that bull was not up to par, and the family was most likely put to shame and sent to Puerto Rico, they brought out the one with the real fight in him. This bull was HUGE and had a lot of fight.

El toro quiso pelear!

After the crowd gets a little excited to see the matador(s) dance with the bull and their capes, out comes the caballero with his lance. No worries, the horse has armor on. The job of this horse rider is to spear the bull, kind of provoke him and simultaneously impair him.

After the bull is bleeding and finished taking its anger out on the poor caballo, the matador come out with fancy little colored spears.

Then it's all up to the matador to perform. We got lucky enough to see EL PRIMER MATADOR DEL MUNDO in his pink pants of glittering wonder. He had green and red spears; I am assuming he may or not be of Mexican decent. He is certainly not Italian... I've forced myself to have a mental block on all things Non-Hispanic.

So there he was, face to face with the bull, dancing with his spears in the air, awaiting the charge. The bull obliged, and most certainly regretted it shortly after.

Número uno con sus panalones rosadas.

The whole point of the spears, which by the end of the fight total in 6, two at a time, along the spine of the bull. And even after all of the six spears/hooks are strategically and artfully inserted into the bull, it is still kicking...literally. BEHOLD another bull-related expression!

At the point, the bull is exhausted. It has been impaled and hooked and still taunted into running around. Now, the matador takes out the red cape and you know it's about to get real. With the red cape comes a long sword.

Not a little hook or spear or lance; a sword. The bull knows it, but doesn't give up. The matador even grabs the bull by its horns to get it to keep fighting. And the bull, with its infinite stubbornness, does.

We watched this happen to six bulls. But this third bull (second if you don't count Mr. Docile) was one for the books. When that red cape comes out and you know it's a wrap, the bull is stabbed in the head with the sword until dead. This bull went down so dramatically that I regret not having enough camera memory to have videoed it.

His legs collapsed underneath him, he swung his head into the air, spewing blood from his nose, and laid down.

*Que Spanish music of defeat*

*Que ceremonious chariot*

The horses are again employed, much less dangerously this time. They hook the bull up and drag it from the arena as, in this specific fight, other ground keepers come out and shovel up the blood and rake the sand.

...and the next bull is released.

I have to admit, the first bull I saw stabbed and fall onto its little knees kind of struck a chord with me. Then I thought about hamburgers and got over it and was able to enjoy the rest of the show. It really gives you an idea as to what it was like to watch gladiator games, though we knew who would most likely win.

Also have to admit, there were points in which we were rooting for the bull to win.

Next stop: Running with the bulls!