I went to a bullfight in Madrid. It was pure Roman Empire-style pageantry: the crowd had style, the cigar smoke wafted, the matadors pranced like bantam roosters, and the bulls died. I’m glad I went, but I’ll never go again.
I am neither the first, the most famous, nor the last outsider to watch, and then comment on, Spanish bullfighting. The first is lost to time, and the most famous is surely Ernest Hemingway. The last? Could be sooner than you think, but then again pundits have been declaring the death of this blood sport for decades.
My brother Fred and I decided to go to the bullfight when we realized that this was supposed to be the climactic weekend of the season, featuring the best matadors and the fiercest bulls. The event was sold out, but we managed tickets fairly easily through our hotel; apparently this is a thing in Spain.
Bullfighting in its current form dates from about 1725, but, in one form or another, bullfighting is a very old tradition in Spain. By some accounts it’s believed to have begun about 1000 years before, in the 700s. Yet bullfighting really does owe its birth to the Colosseum and the gladiators. If you’ve seen the movie “Gladiator,” this bullfight felt like that. A lot.
Only unlike men vs. men, the bull has almost no chance.
Fred and I immediately recognized how unfair the fight was. Something like nine dudes on one bull, including the picador, who rides a horse and carries a big spear to stab the bull at the base of the neck when it invariably charges the heavily padded horse (why do bulls hate horses so much?). This wound apparently prevents the bull from lifting its head too much, making it harder for him to gore the matador.
Everything is choreographed, timed even. If one stage in a fight goes too long, the band plays a chord and the bullfighters get on with it.
If you haven’t seen one, it basically goes like this:
The banderilleros come out with magenta capes, then surround and irk the bull. This helps the matador see how said bull might react when it’s one-on-one later.
Then the picadores emerge to music. There are always two, but for some reason that night, five of the six bulls chose the picador on the right side of the ring. Poor guy on the left got only one bit of action… like a right fielder in baseball.
At some point the bull sees the horse and charges it. Why I have no idea. This gets the animal close to the picador, who spears it — hard — in the neck. One bull hit so hard it knocked the horse over. We all thought the horse broke its leg, but it did get up and walk away. Not sure if it will live though, as it was hobbly.
The dudes with the magenta capes wave them at the bull to get him off the horse, and the horse and picador make their exit. Now it’s time for three of the cape-wavers to become banderilleros.
They hold a frilly, prancy dart in each hand, and must rush the bull and stab it in the back with these darts. Since none of the men involved in this fight are particularly large, they often lack the strength or skill to jam the dart through the bull’s hide. The dart falls, and the crowd sighs their disapproval.
From what I can gather, the darts help prevent the bull from hooking the matador later in the fight. Not sure about this though.
After this, the matador faces the now wounded and tired bull. His helpers are still hovering around, but this is his turn. He starts with a wooden sword and the famous red cape — apparently the red is only to hide blood, it doesn’t make a bull extra mad — and gets the bull to charge him in ever-tighter circles. If this is done artfully, the crowd yells “Ole!” As you might imagine, a dangerous, behind-the-back move gets the most applause.
Finally, when he deems it time, the matador turns his back on the panting bull, walks to the side of the ring, drinks some wine or water (not sure which), and switches out his wooden sword for the real thing. (Why the bulls don’t rush the guy when his back is turned is beyond me. Fred and I were both like, “Get him!” when the matador turned his back.)
The coup de grace, done well, is impressive. The matador, cape in one hand, sword in the other, gets the bull to charge one last time, up close, and he sidesteps the bull at the last minute and drives his sword straight down into the bull’s heart. Done right, the bull drops instantly.
Alas, in six fights that night, this ideal death happened only once. In the other cases, the fatal stab was far from fatal, and then everyone had to rush in and do the dirty work. In one case, there was an awful lot of blood.
A fight has six bulls and three matadors, each guy fighting twice. The rock star that night was a Peruvian named Andres Roca Rey, an absolutely fearless fighter who is, basically, the matador from Central Casting. Slight of build, ultra prancy, floppy hair, dramatic, the man has skills.
If his name rings a bull, er, bell, it’s because he’s so fearless (or unlucky) he once took a bull horn to the ass, then, sometime later, got gored in the groin. Even Fred and I could see this kid was something special (he’s only 26). He got closer to the bulls, did more dangerous moves, and was far more theatric than anyone else.
And it cost him. In the final fight of the night, he was dancing with a 1200-pound bull so closely that it finally hooked him! Roca Rey got tossed clear into the air, and from our vantage, Fred and I were hoping he got gored — yes, we were rooting for the bulls the whole time. But Roca Rey got up, dusted himself off, and killed the bull.
That was the only fight that was even remotely exciting.
Yes, I know. Bullfighting isn’t a competition, it’s theater. An art form. And yes, the bulls get butchered and eaten afterwards. And yes, once in a blue moon a bull gets to live. Blah, blah, blah.
Bottom line is 20,000 people are packing a stadium to see dudes in tight pants whack a bull, often poorly. Someone dies in these fights. And the odds are overwhelmingly against the bull. I actually don’t know if I’d be more comfortable with a bullfight if it were just maybe three guys against the bull, or one-on-one. It’s still a blood sport.
Well, don’t you hunt, Hank? Yep, I do. To feed myself. To me, while there is sometimes adventure in my hunts, they aren’t sport. To me, in a sport, no one dies — at least not regularly. Hunting is heavier than sport. Much heavier.
And if you want to throw the old, “well, they eat the meat” line at me, sure, yes, you get some points for that, Spain. But as someone who knows something about meat science, holy shit is the quality of meat bad in a bullfight bull! Adrenaline is the enemy of good meat, and I can’t think of a situation that would build up more adrenaline in an animal than a protracted bullfight. And yes, I’ve eaten bull in Spain now, and it was … OK. Heavily braised it was edible.
Want to see a better test between man and bull? Watch PBR, the professional bullriding league. THAT is some crazy shit, exciting as hell, evenly matched — and the bulls get to live.
Wow, what an interesting read! I really enjoyed this piece. Thanks for writing it.
I always thought that the meat must taste like shit after what a bull goes through in one of those fights. I enjoyed your take on the differences between hunting, sport, and theatrics as well.