When the bullfight was sunk in the blackness of a deep precipice, the light with the exquisite bullfighting of Juan Ortega to the third arose and illuminated the anther square. And when it seemed that it had only been a bright flash, the brave fifth bull came out and allowed the undeniable triumph of a powerful El Juli. And there was still another flash: Juan Ortega, before the sixth, with which he again slowed down the bullfighting and spread feelings through the laying.
This is bullfighting, an irregular curve of bottomless chasms and lightning bolts that justify despair in the face of crippled bulls with flabby meat, like some of those who have gone out into the ring with Garcigrande’s iron.
After the first two crippled bulls, who roamed like banshees in the arena, the third came out, another from the same brotherhood, without blood in his veins, distracted and with a sickly face.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, bullfighting emerged in the final third. There was Juan Ortega, that Sevillian bullfighter who has the gait of having been in the belly of a brave cow, pure elegance, like someone who is wearing a suit on a catwalk, and he drew, that is the verb, a work of art pregnant with softness, sensitivity … He took advantage of the infinite goodness of the bull, as silly as he was generous, to draw two batches with his right hand that sounded like that, a sublime aesthetic, the one that is enjoyed and lacks earthly explanation; and, later, the left-hander, two endless naturals and a front right hand, a trench and a shot from below that give you goosebumps. But when he went to sign, he tapped twice and the artwork was smudged.
And when nobody expected it, a brave bull came out, Tabernero in name, who pushed the horse with dedication, came and chased on flags and demonstrated exceptional class on both sides on the crutch.
Juli received him with meritorious veronicas, toasted the audience, and spun a powerful bullfighting task, advantageous and superficial at times, and deep and long at others. He started low, with one knee on the ground, with depth and grace. In the first two rounds with the right hand, the class and mobility of the bull stood out more before a crutch in a straight line that, more than fighting, accompanied the onslaught. There was a large batch of naturals, and two more with the right, the bull always more, in which he highlighted the sufficiency, technique and depth, also, of a veteran and contrasted bullfighter. Even though the sword fell back, it wandered both ears.
And the icing was left. Another bull, the sixth, with a bad face, sneaks inside and goes to the picador with his face in the clouds.
And again the transfiguration of Juan Ortega, a bullfighter artist. The initials helped by bass sounded like a pure delight, and in the third round, crutch on the left, four extraordinary natives sprouted, fastened with another one with a spectacular chest. And then three more of the same tenor, and four auctions, two on each side, and a pinwheel reminiscent of yesteryear before DJing again. (Let Ortega not forget that the title of matador obliges what the name itself indicates).
Morante had no luck with a crippled first, with whom he really excelled in two sensational veronicas and a half, and a difficult quarter that conveyed complete mistrust.
The first one from El Juli was also a birria, but fortunately, the light was turned on, and it will continue to shine for a long time, which is the good thing about bullfighting when it is real.