A Lesson From A Bullfight

 

A LESSON FROM A BULLFIGHT 

I grew up at a time when bullfighting was seen as the major and most “Macho" entertainment in Spain. OK, OK, we know better now, certainly I do, but I am now talking pre-1967 in Spain.
My father was a fan of football as well as keen aficionado of bullfighting. He would love to take me to football matches in the old Victoria Stadium, sitting in the bleachers among the chain-smoking fans, all well wrapped up against the chilling "poniente" wind that somehow managed to slice through my stifling tweed coat and "Andy-Cap" cap. There we would see great football, long before there was any artificial grass or any of today's fancy additions to the "beautiful game". It was a time when tackles were tough, when sliding on to the gravel pitch meant bloody scrapes and loss of skin, and when there were no theatrics if you were tackled to the ground!

I am not even sure whether the offside rule existed then?

I believe Dad was a member, or at least an avid supporter, of the “Prince of Wales Football Club” which was situated in Horse Barrack Lane. In those days few if any women attended football matches. I do not remember any women complaining about this either. In fact I believe it provided them with a welcome break from boyfriends and husbands.

Dad was, as I said above, very keen on “Tauromaquia”, bullfights. At the time he and his partner, Momi Benady, run a shop call The English Outfitters (from the initials of which many years later, TEO would emerge) which was also the exclusive stockist for the prestigious brand: Austin Reed of Regent Street - London.
It was a favourite shop of many of the bullfighters that would come to regional Plazas, as well as many of the "high class" and richest families of the area in Spain. This meant that the shop was better known as Austin Reed than as The English Outfitters, which is a bit of a mouthful to pronounce in Spanish. Though Mum attended some bull fights with Dad in their younger years, she was never very keen on that "sport". He would take me with him to see bullfights as far away as Sevilla, Cordoba, Cadiz and Malaga. This was quality time I spent with my Dad, driving a green Ford Zephyr, even though I was quite young,  around 8 or 9 at the time.

You can criticise much about bullfighting, and you can say a lot, especially about the inherent cruelty that provided the "ambiente" to satisfy a blood-lust ingrained in the culture of Spain. But the atmosphere in a Plaza is electrifying. The raw courage shown in the arena when faced with a 500-600 kilo Toro de Miura, to this day probably the most prestigious of the  "ganaderias", is still something to be admired.
These Bulls are bred purely as fighting animals, to fight, to be the victims of spectacle, and to die. The cruelty of this sport is inexcusable. It was cruel then, it is cruel today, but there is no arguing its appeal and its attraction even though that is at the basest of inhumanity. I remember seeing several of the great matadors of the time, Dominguin, Aparicio, Litri and others and even wanted to be a bullfighter myself! That may be another chapter… if I can get to it before I forget.

It was at one of these "corridas", in Jerez, when Dad and I were sitting in "tendido de sol" where we had to put up with most of the fiesta in the sunshine. The sound levels in a full bullring, together with the sellers of "almohadillas" (straw-filled cushions), "cerveza fria" and "bocadillos de jamon", plus the naturally high volume of speech generally in Spain (yes, yes, and we in Gib too) everywhere made for a cacophony that never fully disappears, it just increases or decreases according to how the fight is proceeding. Nor can I forget the Tin Pan Alley sound of the band that played in all corridas.  
It was just before the first of the six Bulls was let loose that a man in the row behind us tapped Dad on the shoulder.

"Que pasa?" Dad asked.

"Que le llaman del tendido Uno, señor!" ("Someone is calling you from the Number One  stalls")

The low-numbered stalls were the Shaded ones throughout the whole event, and where the Matadors  did theirs best "faena" (displays) since that was where the rich patrons would sit and if they liked the faena would make sure the Matador received a handsome tip.
Sure enough there was one man waving at us and calling out:

"Señor Agustin! Señor Agustin!"

Dad waved back and explained to me that this was one of the Domeq family, famous for its wines and sherries, and good client of .....Austin Reed ... hence Dad was known to that family as ... Agustin! We were invited to join them in their "tendido de sombre" instead of the sweltering heat where we were sitting.
The grown-ups talked among themselves while I enjoyed the bullfight.

I was hugely impressed when I saw the very famous, "El Litri". The matador's real name was Miguel Baez Espuny and "Litri" what's his nickname. I admired his courage then, today I’d probably have admired his reputed affair with Rita Hayworth … but in that at least I think I have matured! To this day there is a matador with that nickname, probably a grandson I imagine. I would prefer not  have to go into the full details of a Corrida. I am supposing that the reader will know what it is about. If you want more, read Ernest Hemingway’s book “Death in the Afternoon”
Back to that day in Jerez and Litri.

At one point Litri, with only the "muleta" (the smaller red cape) in hand walked to the diametrically furthest point in the round arena away from the bull. Hiding the muleta behind his back, he jumped straight as a ramrod, up and down and down and hailed the bull:

"Hey toro! .... toro!"

The bull turned to him, pawed the ground and started to charge straight at Litri.

Litri kept goading: "Toro ... Toro!" yet standing perfectly still, feet together, and with the muleta still hidden behind him.

At very last second, with the bull but a couple of meters away from his unprotected body, Litri snapped open the muleta on to the face of the bull and with it, veered the charge away from his own body!

Then, not even looking behind him, Litri walked, with a measured elegant pace, to the opposite end of the arena ……..and repeated the spectacular pass yet again!

The crowd stood up as one and so did we.

OLE! OLE! OLE! We shouted at him in praise.

Litri, ignored us all with disdain and continued with other passes, all with his customary elegance and sheer magic till he finally killed the bull with but one well aimed "estocada", plunging the sword straight into the Bulls heart.

Even as I write this today, I have qualms.
Because a corrida is indeed the cruellest of sports.
But I asked you, the readers, to read this as it was felt in the late 50s and early 60s when we were not as emancipated as we are today.
Today we know better.

Today I know better ……and to the point when I am strongly against bullfights. In fact, when the Instituto Cervantes which was in Gibraltar a very few years ago, wanted to bring over either a bullfighter or an empresario to give a talk on bullfighting, I was there at the full front of a demonstration which succeeded in stopping the talk from being held.

And there is something else I learned that day in Jerez, a lesson my father taught me.

"Tell me David, who do you think in the "cuadrilla" (the team of Matador, Picador, Banderileros & Peones) is the one that gains most, the one who makes the most money out of a Corrida?"

That was a simple question and I knew the answer:

"El matador, el Torero!"

"Right ....and who risks the most?"

Again, a simple answer. To any that have seen a corrida, you will agree that it has to be banderillero. He is the one that runs towards the charging bull with only two long darts (banderillas) one in each hand. No cape, no nothing, just his wits and his speed. He swerves at the last minute and plunges the barbd tips of the banderillas on the bull’s back. Then he runs like the clappers before the infuriated bull catches him.

"Dad, el banderillero!"

"Exactly, son. So in life you have to learn to be the bullfighter who defends himself with a cape and tricks the bull into attacking it instead of him ……  and not be a banderillero."