After 448 days of silence, the bugles and timpani returned to Las Ventas, and the sound rumbled like a chill that gives you goosebumps. The plaza rose like a spring and broke into a thunderous applause that accompanied the bailiffs on their slow walk to the presidency. The palms returned when the gang door was opened, and they intensified after the interpretation of the national anthem at the end of the paseo. It was an afternoon of fond ovations and generous trophies, befitting a charity festival.
Overcome the initial shudder, a strange sensation of orphan flew over. They say there were 6,000 people on the lines, but it didn’t look like it. The optical appearance said that there were many more attendees than allowed by the health standard. With less public, with much less, not a few bullfights have been held in this square.
Why, then, a minor celebration for the reopening of the first place in the world? And what is worse, why has it been closed again sine die at the end of the show? With good reason, several banners appeared on the line 7 requesting “Bulls, now” and “Season Square”, but the party, you know, is orphaned, and this event confirms it.
The festival has not been more than a sad appetizer of what could have been and was not; a political gift from those who fill their mouths with support for bullfighting and do not tell the truth, with or without intention, for the sake of the complexes imposed by political correctness.
On the sand seven steers of correct presentation in general, little strength, and plenty of goodness, chosen with care from the most artistic herds to the delight of the figures. The first, a calf as noble as it is timid with which the rejoneador Diego Ventura showed that he has not been affected by the strike imposed by the pandemic.
With a renovated stable he starred in an outstanding performance in which the breaks in a span of land on horseback stood out. Fabulous, and the flags in the company of Bronze. He deservedly walked both ears and left the well-founded impression that he remains at the top of the ladder.
Ventura left and the harshest reality appeared. Juan Pedro Domecq’s steer was seriously disabled and returned to the corrals (the cabestrero Florito He also had his moment of glory among the applause of the audience), a brother of the previous one came out and his face was even more sickly. In the end, Ponce was seen with a flimsy hat of The Capea, and there he was willful in his proven effectiveness as a nurse.
At pleasure El Juli fought with a cape and crutch a noble Garcigrande, a sanctimonious bred for infinite obedience. The bullfighter, experienced in a thousand battles, slowly showed off the veronica, and drew crutches pregnant with depth with both hands. It was like a rehearsal in his groping square, but it was emotional.
From a very different family, with trapío, genius and uncertainty in his onslaught, it was the fourth of the afternoon, a bull (that was his workmanship) by Victoriano del Río, who put a combed Manzanares in difficulties, surprised at the unfriendly intentions of your opponent. The Alicante man was not daunted, he passed the pythons near the short suit, endured more than one uncomfortable stumble and came out proud of the difficult stake.
Professional and solvent, Perera was shown with a bull with mobility and casing from Fuente Ymbro. He toasted the stretchers, started on his knees, with a pass changed from the back in the center of the ring, but his hard work was as clean as it was bland.
A ceremonious and slow Paco Ureña left remnants of his classic and captivating concept of bullfighting before a noble bull without bellows. And the novillero Guillermo García closed the afternoon, all heart and youthful ardor; He greeted his opponent with two long knee swaps and pretty veronica, and drew good crutches between several cartwheels.
In the end, and fortunately, it was not a political act, as might be imagined, but neither was it a bullfight, as was desirable; It was, yes, a sad feeling of orphanhood.