With the sun rising in all its splendor, close to one-thirty in the afternoon — the celebration had begun at 11 in the morning — the respectful silence of the lines began to turn into slight whistles of boredom and disappointment. It was then that Francisco Montero, who was muleteering the fifth bull of his bullfighting feat in Céret, seemed to throw in the towel and, annoyed, went to the tables in search of the sword to kill. I couldn’t take it anymore.
And the public exploded. Some, already tired of acting as willful as it was lacking in lucidity, began to protest; while others, in solidarity with the boy for his undeniable effort, encouraged him with affectionate applause. Montero could not hold back his tears and, flustered, he kept trying until the end. But it could not be. After six steers and almost three hours of celebration, he left empty. His deed, excessive, had been a failure.
And, all, despite the interesting game of the steers of different herds considered tough or toristas. Without leaving any truly extraordinary, all maintained interest and gave the young bullfighter options to show off. And so, applauding them with greater or less intensity, the fans recognized it when they were dragged away.
The most complete, but also the most demanding, was perhaps the second, from Concha y Sierra. A bull with all his beard, despite not being four years old yet. How dirty and serious he was! A standing ovation received him on the way out and another dismissed him when he was already on his way to the slaughterhouse. Good on the horse —and very well chopped—, he came up to three times in length with joy, complying under the breastplate, despite not finishing pushing or inserting the kidneys.
In the last third he showed caste, with its corresponding difficulties, and a short journey. He went to the appointments of his killer with emotion, but this, also bothered by a very strong wind that blew throughout the morning, could only try.
History repeated itself, almost traced, in front of the rest. Very limited artistically, Montero put value and intention, but it was not enough. Only a few estimable throws in the capotero receipt of fourth and fifth, and a tempered and successful run on the right python against the noble fourth of Yonnet could be saved. The French currency, by the way, finally fought two horns because in the first place a hat came out to replace the invalid owner of Saltillo, in addition, the worst presented of the sextet reviewed.
Noble and bland was also the curdled and beautiful fifth, of Barcial, incomprehensibly awarded with the return to the ring. Although the horse was pulled from afar up to four times and pushed when meeting the picador, then it came loose, an unequivocal show of meekness.
The third, by Dolores Aguirre, with an encased bottom, but little strength and annoying calamocheo, also moved, and the last, by Los Maños, with great liveliness.
And so, defeated, Francisco Montero left the Céret bullring. Honorable, brave and enormous was his bet. As great as the regret with which he went home. Ordagos – like weapons – are carried by the devil.