by Erik Olsen
	Few things rankle a die-hard Spaniard more than telling him that bullfighting is nothing more than cold-hearted butchery. Perhaps they don't have a sense of humor. Carlos recognized that I knew little or nothing about bullfighting. He explained that one of the reasons it gets such a bad rap is because it is horribly misunderstood. People seem to think that its just a simple question of guy-meets-bull, guy-kills-bull or, on those rare and unfortunate occasions, bull-kills-guy. No, Carlos said, bullfighting is terrifically complex. To help me better understand the sport, he offered to take me to see a bullfight. I quickly accepted. Throughout most of Spain and parts of Latin America, bullfights are held in the late afternoon on Sunday, around six o'clock. They take place in large open-air stadiums, called plazas de toros, and attract people from all over the country. In Madrid, the most devoted bullfighting fans are known as the afficion, and are said to be the most critical and devoted of all. Kind of like Mets fans. And of course, quite a few tourists go to the bullfight as well, since it is one of the "things to do" while in Spain. The fight we saw took place at Las Ventas, Spain's premier bullfighting facility, which is located on the north-east side of town. Tickets are purchased at a series of windows located in front of the bullfighting stadium, and prices range from about $8 for nosebleed section seats under the sun, called andanadas del sol, to about $150 for seats closer to the blood and gore and in the shade, or somba. The somba seats are considered the best seats of all because the blazing Spanish sun can take a lot out of you, especially in the summer. Our seats were located about three levels up from the circular aisle that lies behind the painted red walls of the ring. This aisle area is called the callejon and is the place where all of the people who are engaged in the fight, but not currently in the ring, hang out. Our seats, though not the best, afforded us a clear view of the entire bull ring. On this particular Sunday, only about half the stadium was packed with spectators. Some people were dressed in their Sunday finest, appearing so elegant and sophisticated you would have guessed they were dining at a five star restaurant. The whole spectacle begins with a high-pitched flourish of horns, and then two men on horseback, dressed in frilly black outfits enter the arena. They are known as the commissars, and they sort of preside over the entire event. The matadors follow are all dressed like the ones from cartoons: black tights, bright pink socks, a broad black hat that extends sideways from the head (like the one Napoleon wore) called a montera, and velvety black slip-on shoes. Then come the five picadors, majestic-looking fellows who sit astride beautiful chestnut horses, ad dressed in glowing white pants and white cowboy hats. Each horse has been blinded by a red kerchief and is encased up to the neck in a thick, bamboo basket that hangs down to its ankles. Meanwhile, the judges, sitting gloomily in the shadows of the stadium, look like a gaggle of inquisitors who've just been told that the Middle Ages were over. Six bulls will be killed on this day, two by each matador. The bulls are bred by ranchers from all over Spain. A man comes out holding a sign that reads: 11/90 - 585 Ganaderia Marquez de Bassarada "The bull was born in November 1990," Carlos says, "and weighs 585 kilos. Big bull. It looks as though he was raised at the Rancho Marquez de Bassarada. I think that's a pretty well-respected breeder in Spain." The sign is then posted on the far side of the arena where everyone can see it. It's time for the bullfight to get underway. The dozen members of the cuadrilla climb into the ring and, like rodeo clowns, take refuge behind six flat wooden barriers that are spaced evenly around the ring. The barreras look like upended picnic tables and ar e obviously for the protection of the cuadrilla, or matador's helpers, who must stand there in wait should the occasion arise to distract the bull from creaming the matador. Meanwhile, the matador approaches the judges and asks their permission to fight the bull. This is an important part of Spanish tradition, dating back to the days when the judges were very important individuals in Spanish society. The matador is young, probably no more than 24, with cropped, sandy-brown hair, and sharp, handsome features. He has a powerful jaw and arrogant eyes. He takes a position on the outside fringe of the ring, which is now empty save for the cuadrilla cowering behind the barreras. "What's up?" I ask Carlos "Look, here comes the bull." He points to a gate, called the toril, that opens on the far right side of the ring, and I discern a huge figure moving at high speed through the darkness. Suddenly, a swift black animal bursts into the daylight. It is a monstrous hulk of thick muscle, hide and sharp horns, and it is as mad as hell. One by one, the cuadrilla come out from behind the barreras, acting as bait for the raging bull. The bull reacts to movement, so the idea is to parade it around the ring so all the spectators can see what a feral beast it is, how brave, how mean, and how well bred it is for trying to destroy matadors. This bull seems to please the crowd, because as it p asses by, people hoot and clap loudly. What an animal. The bull has broad shoulders and bulging muscles that swell beneath its hide making his upper body look like a large black sack filled with bowling balls. There is a lump of muscle at the base of the bull's neck that stands high and swollen. Carlos points out the muscle's importance in the bullfight. It is, in fact, a key a spect of the whole event: "That muscle is called the morillo and guards the area between the bull's shoulder blades, and raises like that when the bull gets angry, similar to the way a cat's back arches when it is threatened. When the muscle is raised, there is no way to put the sword into the bull to kill it. So what follows from here, the rest of the fight, is largely the effort to tire that muscle, to soften it, so that the matador can put the sword into the bull with one thrust and kill it." The matador stands there as vain as any human I've seen, comically so, with his chest puffed out, his head held slightly off-kilter, and his pink cape draped over his arm. His butt kind of sticks out, too. It's a terrific display of arrogance and showmanship, because I would bet that under his confident exterior, the guy is shaking like a leaf. He takes his time to unfurl his cape, called the muleta, and to extend a wooden stick underneath that functions like a curtain rod, allowing him to spread it out widely. The cape is pink rather than red because this is the bull's first stage, also called the levando. He will exchange it for another, the better known piece of scarlet serge, later in the fight. In the center of the ring, the matador straightens the cape, and barks at the bull, "Toro!" The animal responds, glaring menacingly at the matador, and then charges. I try to put myself in the position of the matador at this moment, wondering what it is like to be standing alone in a ring before a crowd of thousands while a 1500-pound beefsteak with sharp horns barrels down at me at 20 mph, intent on turning me into a shish-ke-bob. If I'm good, the expression I hold on my face remains as stony and serious as the marble busts of dead Spanish kings that adorn the Prado museum just 2 miles away. If it were me, though, I think I'd be running the opposite direction. The matador, however, seems to dig it. He's holding the cape from his left hip, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. The bull is moving at him rapidly, head down, horns pointed straight ahead, almost gleefully eager to gore this annoying little man. And then, as the bull passes through the cape, making no contact with flesh or bone as expected, it stops suddenly, startled that it simply passed through the thing it thought it was going to kill. With a fluidity of a Flamenco dancer, the matador spins to face the bull, this time dropping to his knee, and holding the cape to his right side. The bull turns and charges, once again passing through the pink cape into nothing but air. A cheer erupts from the crowd, and the matador stands and waves to us with a broad sweep of his arm through the air as he turns to face the bull again. "The moves are called veronicas" Carlos tells me. "After St. Veronica who wiped Jesus' face with a cloth." Each veronica is followed by cheers from the audience, sometimes the familiar chant of Olé. "A really good matador brings the bull in as close as possible to his body. Sometimes the horns will even slice off the gold rosettes on his jacket." The matador appears to be in complete control of the animal, guiding it in whichever direction it wants by placing the cape on one side or the other and leading the animal around in circles when it charges. Another round of horns blasts, the first fifteen minutes has passed, and I notice that the gates have opened from the cuadrilla near where we are sitting. A picador enters the ring, perched atop his shielded horse. I understand at this moment why the horse has been blinded with a kerchief. No doubt, if it knew that it was being led into a relatively small open area with a very angry bull, it would buck the guy off his back in a heartbeat and jump the fence. But the horse has no idea what's up and when the matador sidles to the side of the ring and slips behind one of the shields, the bull turns, lowers his head and bolts straight for the horse. The impact of the bull's head against the horse sounds very similar to the clash of helmets at an American football game. The horse's shield, called a peto, is made of flexible wood and protects it from the bull's horns. In the olden days, the horse wore no protective layer, and so almost inevitably died from the bull's goring. This practice was the source of a lot of popular outrage over the bullfight, not to mention sickening many a foreign tourist, and led the Spanish government to passed a law banning unprotected horses in the ring. The horse we are watching hardly seems to notice the bull's assault. The bull is trying to work his head and horns beneath the horse, trying to lift it off the ground, but can't quite seem to get the right angle beneath the horse's girth. The picador is jabbing his spear, or pic, into the animal's back at the base of the bull's thick neck. So as not to kill the bull, the pic has a metal tip that is only twenty-nine millimeters long, a little over an inch. There is a horizontal bar up from the tip that prevents the spear from sinking any deeper into the bull. The pic is drawing blood from the bull, and I ask Carlos if this is the picador's purpose. "Not really. The picador and the horse are used to tire the bull. The point of jabbing the bull with the pic is to sap some of its energy; but it has to be very carefully done. The pic can do a lot of damage, and can even kill a bull if it is placed directly into the spine. You will hear the crowd get very angry at a picador that overdoes it on the bull." The tactic seems to work; the bull rears back slightly and then powers in again at the picador's horse, this time lunging in lower, with the force of a school bus. We feel the shockwave from the impact of the bull's head against the horse all the way up in our seats, and watch in amazement as the bull lifts the horse off the ground, spilling it onto its side. The crows goes wild, and I am sure that at any moment we will see the horse's entrails spilling into the sunlight, glistening red and twisted grotesquely around the bull's horns. The horse's legs kick a little, but otherwise it just lies there stiffly as the bull keeps plunging its horns into the its belly trying to tear its way through. I begin to wonder if they have drugged the thing. But then I see that the horse's belly is thickly-padded, so that the bull's efforts appear to be in vain. I look around and observe a sea of faces, mouths agape, eyes wide, people screaming with glee. Nothing pleases a crowd of Spanish bullfighting fans as much as a good bull. The cuadrilla are frantic, and they come running out from behind the barreras screaming and waving, trying to catch the bull's attention and stop it from tearing through the padding. Judging by the enthusiasm of some of the faces around me, I have to believe that this is exactly what some of these people are hoping for. Soon, the bull soon grows weary of the horse - or sick of the commotion behind him - and he spins around to face a small platoon of surprised cuadrilla. Like cockroaches on the kitchen floor when the light goes on, the colorful little men immediately bolt to their respective barreras and scamper behind them. The matador is not at all undone by this series of events. In fact, he walks into the ring like he's enjoying himself, as if this is something he does each morning before a cup of coffee and a croissant. He calls at the bull, "Toro!" and assumes a taunting posture that draws cheers from the crowd. "Toro! Toro! Yaaaa!" When the bull turns to look at him, its eyes bulge with rage so deep and passionate, so overflowing with hatred, that I'll never think of a hamburger the same way again. The bull bows its head, digs a small trench in the dirt with one of its hooves, and emits a series of loud snorting noises that seem to rise from deep within its soul. The animal stands in the sunlight, and I notice a stain of blood on its back the size of a large pizza where the pic has done its damage. The bull then charges straight for the matador, who stands poised with his cape, ready to take on the advancing animal. Once again the bull is left with nothing but air to gore. The matador toys with it, guiding the animal around in circles, making it all seem easy. I am wondering if maybe being a Taurus, which I am, is some kind of horoscopical insult. But then the bull's head sinks below the matador's knee, and it sweeps a horn beneath the matador's knee, catching him and lifting him into the air. The matador lands on his back, the crowd goes "Ooooh", but before the bull can do any more damage, the matador springs to his feet (albeit in pain), and readies the cape again. A horn sounds. Carlos tells me that there is a new entrant into the contest: The banderilleros. The matador leaves the ring a second time and Carlos says: "Those are the banderilleros. Very brave. They will confront the bull directly, and place the banderillas into the bull's back. They must do so in exactly the right spot, and make sure that both stick in, or the crowd will boo. The crowd can spot a good banderillero right away." "But I thought the matadors were the elegant ones. Why are these guys suddenly the stars of the show?" "The matadors are undoubtedly the main attraction," he explained. "But the banderilleros play a very important role, and their skills are carefully honed and very well-respected. It is a totally different career path to follow to be a banderillero." He points at a man walking into the ring with a skewer in each hand. "Now, watch how close he gets to the bull's horns." Sure enough. One of the banderilleros alerts the bull with a yell, and then runs straight for the animal. The guy's a goner, I'm thinking, and soon, he will be caught on the horns of a dilemma, as it were. The bull's head is down and just before it seems as though the banderillero is going to be skewered, he leaps up, drifting slightly to the left, and in the process stabs down the two banderillas into the bull's back, placing them perfectly, that is, close together, and directly between the bull's shoulder blades at the base of the neck. "Remember what I said about the hump of muscle, the morillo?" Carlos says. "The banderillero is using the stakes to soften the muscle further and to adjust the bull for the matador." "Adjust the bull? What do you mean?" "The bull will favor one side or the other when he charges and lunges at the matador," Carlos explains. "By placing the banderilleras well, the banderillero corrects the bulls' tendency to favor one side and thus keeps his charge straighter and more predictable." A wild roar goes up, and the banderillero salutes the crowd self-contentedly before scampering behind a barrera. Then the other banderillero tries to match the success of his amigo. He seems less experienced than the first, and there is an evident nervousness about him, like a pledge about to face the paddle gauntlet on bid night. To the crowd's dismay, he screws up and only sticks one of the banderillas into the bull. The other falls into the dust. From where we are sitting, even I can tell that he places it wrong. The point sticks into a lower part of the bull's back, near the upper ribs, and clings there feebly. The first banderillero goes again, placing the spears perfectly into the bull's. Another rapturous cheer from the audience. Then the other one tries again, and even though his shot is much better this time, both banderilleras sticking neatly into the morillo, the crowd doesn't seem to care. They boo again. I ask Carlos why they are giving him such a hard time. "The bullfighting crowd is very sophisticated," Carlos explained. "They follow the sport closely and know who is good and who is not. This guy must be new, and so far he hasn't proven himself yet. If he learns the technique, over time people will like him." "But why do people care so much about these bit players like the picadors or the banderillero? I thought the only person anyone really cared about was the matador." I said, still hung up on all the people I now have to keep track of. "No, no. Remember, the entire fight is like a single unit in peoples eyes, so it's important that everyone performs his part well. The picadors, the cuadrilla, the banderillero, the matador - each has his role to play in the bullfight; each has to uphold his part of the tradition. They are a team. If someone screws up, everyone gets penal ized, and it affects the overall score." "They're keeping score?" I ask, realizing that I seemed to be missing a key aspect of the entire bullfight. Carlos explained that the judges job is to deliberate on a series of routine moves that the matador and the others must complete, like in gymnastics. They can add their own flourishes to the moves - for example, the way the this mata dor occasionally drops to one knee as the bull passes, putting his exposed body that much closer to the dangerously sharp horns. He is judged not only on how well he pulls off the move, and how close he brings himself to the bull, but also how well the audience likes it. "The audience plays a very important role at the bullfight, and can make or break the score that a matador receives." Carlos remarked, gesturing to all the people around us. "The judges base some of their decisions on how the audience perceives a particular move. There is a really powerful interplay between the judges and the audience that goes on another level. It is one of the more interesting subtleties of the bullfight." I have to admit that all of it had gone right over my head. At the end of this portion of the fight, the banderilleros have done their job with medium success. There are five colorful banderilleras sticking out of the nape of its neck. The bull seems desperate to shake out the menacing little spears, but they are barbed, and merely flap around, probably causing a great deal of pain. The bull is still in a frenzy, but it is confused and growing weary. It is obvious that the last twenty minutes of fruitlessly trying to kill these oddly dressed men is beginning to take its toll on the bull's psyche and resolve. The matador enters the ring again, this time carrying a dark red cape, as scarlet as the blood flowing down the bull's back. Under the cape, I see the brief shimmer of a sword. The crowd rejoices, but the judges are silent and unmoving. They sit in their box like stones. The matador walks towards the bull, stops, and drops to his knees, barking at the animal again, "Toro!" Filled with loathing and burning pain, the bull spies the matador, perhaps recognizing him as the source of so much of his agony, scrapes his front hooves in the dirt, and charges. The matador's body remains perfectly still, but with his well-trained fingers, he brings the slightest movement to the cape. As the bull passes through, the matador stands up swiftly, twisting his body, and allowing the cape to follow the bull. The bull raises its head abruptly, arching its back towards the matador, who must adjust quickly since the horns slice upwards towards him like stilettos. I consider this very impressive, but the crowd hoots and boos. I don't understand why. "The bull is not considered a good bull when it raises its head like that." Carlos says. "It makes it more difficult for the matador to guide the bull, and this makes him look less in control. This bull is obviously very tired, and the audience now thinks that it is time to finish him off." A minute ago, after it knocked the picador's horse of its feet, the audience loved this bull; now they want the matador to finish it off. The matador gets the bull to make a few more passes and is still very elegant, but the bull is getting sloppy, and seems to be entirely befuddled. He doesn't charge automatically at the matador anymore. Instead, the matador must jiggle the cape in front of the bull to get it to move at all. After one more pass, the bull is standing with its rear to the matador, utterly out of its mind. The matador casually walks over to the side of the ring and exchanges the sword he is holding for another. This is the killing sword. "This last part, the killing of the bull, is very important for the matador's score. The bull must be facing him properly, with both front legs firmly planted the dirt. Then the matador must insert the sword in exactly the right spot between the shoulders, through the morillo, so as to pierce the bull's heart, killing him quickly." The matador slips the new sword under the cape, using it to spread the cape open before the eyes of the bull. He moves towards the bull, taking careful but intensely deliberate steps. He needs to show courage, but also be ready to bolt quickly away if the bull does something unpredictable. As he draws near to the bull, the crowd is silent. The bull watches him approach, but does not move. Clutching the cape with his left hand, the matador slowly withdraws the sword with his right, and raises it above his head, pointing it downward and towards the bull. With a quick jerk of his cape, the matador gets the bull to charge one last time, but instead of standing to the side as before, he is standing directly behind the cape. As the bull plows into the cape, the matador leaps towards him, but enough to the left that the bull's horns do not catch him. He plunges the sword into the soft, bleeding flesh at the base of the bull's neck, just a few inches above the spot where the banderillas are stuck. The sword sinks all the way to the hilt, and the crowd lets loose a savage, fanatical cheer. A perfect shot. He knows that he has made a direct hit, that his job is over. He moves quickly away from the bull and raises his hand to the audience in salute. The bull's moments are now numbered, and a half dozen of the cuadrilla scurry from behind the barreras, shaking their capes, and surrounding the bull. The dying animal seems to know that it has been defeated, that the final charge was its last full measure of devotion. It gazes feebly at the men with capes, taking a few ponderous steps towards one of them. The man jumps back, and the others close in, wiggling their capes in the bull's face. I see the life draining from the bull, which has been reduced from a horrifying, seething, massive creature of destruction to a wobbly hunk of meat that can hardly move. A few moments later, the bull collapses. There is cheering and clapping and shouts of appreciation are showered on the matador. He savors all of it and spins before the crowd, giving us a slow and thankful wave, then he blows us a kiss. A dark-skinned, wiry man dressed in black hurries into the ring from a small, white gate. He is holding a miniature, shiny knife in his hand, called a puntilla. He stands over the bull, reaches down, and with a flick of his wrist, cuts the bull's spinal cord. One last quiver from the bull's body, very subtle, and it is dead. A team of horses enters the ring, ropes and a wooden carriage dragging behind them in the dirt. A couple of men attach the ropes to the bull's horns and they pull it away, leaving behind a dark spot where the bull's blood has seeped into the earth. People get up from their seats and walk towards the snack stands as the bull's stiff, lifeless body disappears into the darkness from which it entered. There are five more fights that day, all of them similar to the one I describe here. Each fight is slightly different, and although the level of intensity in each varies considerably - two of the fights were less exciting than the first because the bulls were dull and lacked the desire to charge - they were never boring. Watching the fights and listening to Carlos gave me a great appreciation for the bullfight, and I began to question whether I could write about it accurately. I wondered whether, given the complexity of the fight and the deep cultural background of it, maybe it would be easier to describe the inner workings of a cyclotron than tell what happens in the sandy ring on those hot Sunday afternoons in Spain. In the end, though, I decide that neither Carlos nor I were correct about the bullfight. It is not a sport, but nor is it some mere activity. It is a spectacle. An ancient ritual pitting man against beast in a simple forum where man must use his wits, skills and experience to bring a tragic end to the life of an animal whose raw strength and courage is truly admirable. He does this with very little at his disposal: no shoulder pads, no helmet or mask, just a red piece of cloth and a sword. The bull is as stupid as cottage cheese, but there's no doubt that these men are taking their chances with their lives. They are highly skilled, perhaps more so, in their own way, than baseball players or football players. They risk their lives for the glory and tradition of this sport, and I have to admit that I respect them.