Blood and Sand
Paul Delgado
When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a Matador.
I must have read I’ll Dress You in Mourning by Dominique La Pierre a dozen times.
I was fascinated by the drama and spectacle of “La Corrida”…the bullfight.
Manuel Benitez, “El Cordobes”, was my hero. He was a young kid from a poor
neighborhood in Andalusia and became the greatest matador in history.
I remember when my grandparents told me about Manolete, a famous Torero in
the forties, and about the great Conchita Citron, a fearless woman who fought on
horseback in the fifties. The images were captivating, and I knew I was destined
for glory in the bullring.
I had posters of the great matadors in my bedroom and even built a small carreta,
a contraption with horns mounted atop a frame with a bicycle wheel to imitate a
bull. I would have my little brother charge at me in the driveway for hours.
My wonderful Aunties, Tere and Lucy, even bought me a matador’s cape from
Mexico. Day in and Day out that summer I practiced.
One day, for my birthday, my Uncle Benny and Aunt Alice took me to my first
official bullfight in the Plaza de Toros de Tijuana. Despite Tijuana’s image as a
reckless border town, it attracted big talent from Mexico City and even Espana.
My Uncle Benny indulged my dream and called me “El Californiano”.
“Someday you will be like El Cordobes and fight in Mexico City and Madrid!”
The “Cartel de Toreros” that Sunday was stellar. Joselito Huerta and the great
Jaime Bravo were featured. I was over the moon.
My Uncle and Aunt picked me up from our house in La Mirada about 10 AM and
we drove to Tijuana. Crossing the border was easy compared to the present day and
we went to one of my Uncle’s favorite restaurants where we had lunch.
We then drove to the new bullring by the sea on the outskirts of the city. To me, it
was spectacular. As we made our way through the crowds and past the many
food vendors, my uncle bought us delicious churros to snack on as we found our
seats.
All of a sudden, the sound of trumpets announced the entrance of the Matadors.
Dressed in their “suit of lights”, they strode into the arena with capes draped over
their shoulders. I was enthralled.
The trumpets sounded again and “el toro” burst in from the tunnel.
A magnificent animal…proud and strong…he charged around the ring…snorting
and daring anyone to challenge him.
Then from behind a wooden barricade in the arena, Joselito Huerta stepped out
onto the sand. It was a surrealistic moment. Everything I dreamed of was coming
true.
Chants of Ole! Ole! resounded from the stands as Joselito performed magic with
his cape.
I saw myself just like him…performing dazzling displays of bravery and grace.
“I Will be El Californiano!” I told my Uncle. He smiled and said “yes, you will”
The trumpets sounded again and this time the matadors strode out with their
bandilleras…Brightly decorated short lances with pointed steel tips.
As the bull charged, they struck the bandilleras into the bull’s neck and the
streaming blood brushed against their suit of lights as they agilely spun away. The
crowd cheered.
I began to feel a little sorry for the bull, but this was “la corrida” and so far, it was
everything I dreamed of.
The trumpets sound again and the “Picadores” entered the arena with long
lances. Riding atop horses covered in padding, they charged the bull and rammed
their spears into the bull’s neck…Man oh man…gruesome is an
understatement…The idea is to weaken the bull’s neck muscles and lower his
neck for the matador to stab it for the kill.
The bull that day was strong and although bleeding profusely, he ferociously
charged the picador and gored the horse. The picador went down and the horse
was kicking and screaming on the ground. The other matadors ran out onto the
sand and distracted the bull so the picador could be carried off.
Then somebody from behind the parapet came out and shot the horse and a guy
with a team of dray horses from the tunnel appeared and dragged the dead horse
out.
Oh man.
The trumpets began to play again and it was time for “La Muleta” the dance of
death.. Joselito Huerta was daring with his red cape and sword.
Ole!…Ole!…the stands reverberated.
But as he spun…the bull hooked him and tossed him like a rag doll in the air and
as he writhed on the ground the bull tried to gore him again.
Blood was everywhere.
The other matadors ran out to distract the bull and draw it away while the medics
carried him off on a stretcher.
Oh man!
Then the trumpets sounded again and Jaime Bravo, the next matador…steps onto
the bloodied sand in the arena.
The crowd erupts with a roaring cheer and applause.
The bull charges.… Pass after pass …the bull is captive to the magic of his cape.
And in the last phase of the dance of death…He strikes his sword into the bull’s
neck.
But it was not a clean kill…the sword is only in halfway…
The bull is coughing blood and struggling…An image from a bad slaughterhouse
kill.
The crowd starts to boo.
The bull staggers and falls but still is trying to stand.
Then all of a sudden, from the tunnel, a couple of guys walk into the arena and
shoot the bull in the head. Then a team of horses unceremoniously drags it out of
the arena.
The matadors then stride around the arena to a mix of cheers and boos.
Walking out of the bullring among the crowds, the sun was beginning to set on
the ocean, and I was lost in thought.
Man oh man
What an afternoon.
On the drive back to La Mirada I was quiet in the car.
My Uncle asked me what I thought of the day.
“Still want to be a matador?”
I looked out the window of the car as we passed San Juan Capistrano and replied,
I’m not so sure anymore Tio.
I think my bullfighting days are over.
LOL!
