Ole! Toro!(Radrook) Ole Toro!

I am confused. Men in the glittering suits are waving capes in front of my eyes. Is this a game? Once back at the ganaderia, when I was a calf I remember such a game. I recall the childish laughter and the playful embraces after I tilted my hornless head at the cape and missed. How I was carried to the the barn where I could suckle milk from my mothers udder. Slowly I grew to know humans as friends.

But this? This is different. Now instead of playful laughter, there is the sound of an "Ole!" as these men in glittering suits dodge and then thrust small spears, banderillas, into my back, forcing me to lower my head to avoid the searing pain. No, this is not a game. Another and yet another do the same, until now there are six dangling painfully from my lacerated bleeding flesh as the crowd cheers in approval.

The pain is unbearable. If these men are trying to kill me, why don't they do so quickly? They are leaving now. But it is not over. A man carrying a long, pointed pole and who is mounted on a padded horse has entered the arena. Back at the ganaderia, horses were not my enemies and we shared the grass's together in peace. But this one looks different. It neighs in an aggressive way with eyes wide, staring in my direction, as if I am its mortal enemy. He prances back and forth briefly, then the rider spurs him into a charge while he tilts the long pole at me. I try to move aside, but the horse is too quick, and the pole wounds my shank. I topple to the sand, but get up quickly.

Now I am fighting back, forcing the horse and rider against the arena's wall. The steed is neighing in fear, and struggling furiously not to lose its footing, and the rider winces and shouts in pain as his leg is pinned between the wall and his mount. Then, I lift the horse and it topples to the ground on its back exposing its belly. The spear-wielding rider is scurrying to safety, but the horse cannot.

In my pain and anguish, I lunge repeatedly, until the padding gives way, and the horse's belly is severed, and its intestines spill out. He is removed from the arena while other men with capes keep me at bay. Now the crowd's "Ole's!" that had accompanied my being attacked by the picadors have quieted down to hushed gasps of horror.

I wonder if it is over and I will be returned to my meadow. But there is to be more. I brace myself as this male human dressed in glittering attire, appears to the resounding cheers of the frenzied crowd. Loud music blares as he smilingly waves his cap at the female humans in the front seats.

The crowd roars as he slowly approaches me and begins forcing me to attack his cape, until I stand exhausted. Then he calmly turns his back walking away and gesturing proudly amidst thunderous applause.

I see images of pleasant times in the meadows with others of my bovine kind. When I had roamed free and was cared for by these small weak two-legged creatures called humans. I am recalling the sweetness of the tall, tender, green, meadow grass on my parched tongue and how its juices had trickled down my gullet. Remembering how humans had peacefully watched me from behind the surrounding fences.

That had been but hours before, in the day's early morning. But now, now in the heat of this accursed noonday sun, in this place that they had designed specially for my agonizing death, it seemed like eons in some dream-world that had only existed in my imagination.

Now suddenly, my human caretakers had become my mortal enemies. They had chased, roped and forced me into the enclosure of their vehicle, rumbled down a narrow road, bringing me to this madhouse where I am now being forced to fight for my life. Now, suddenly, humans are attempting to kill me for no reason that I can understand.

Now the man in lights is approaching me with his arm raised menacingly above a small cape with the tip of a long sword aimed directly my way. I try to charge as I had done before in order to keep him at bay, but each step causes the small spears they had thrust into my back to imbed themselves even deeper into my bleeding flesh and impede me.

I try to bellow for mercy, just as I had when I had been a calf at the ranch and humans had responded by fetching me a bowl of my mother's milk, or had cradled me in their arms and taken me to her to suckle. But now I can only spit blood, and can only expect to be brutally silenced. I hear the multitude shouting "Ole! Ole Ole!" I behold the man of lights slowly raising himself on his toes and lunging.

I move aside, and the man trips, falling face-first directly into my left horn. In one desperate lunging twist of my massive head in the man's direction, I finally make contact with my tormentor. I feel my horn plunge under his chin, emerge into his mouth, and finally imbed itself in his palate. I shake him back and forth and finally send him flying. He is now lying face-first on the ground no longer the proud dangerous figure he had just been moments ago.

Other men in suits of lights of different colors are rushing in his direction from all sides and protecting him from further harm. They lift the fallen matador, and hurrying him away barely conscious, with streams of blood rushing from his mouth amidst the gasps moans and groans and screams of the horrified crowd.

Is it finally over now? Will they now set me free? Then, after a long while, when the crowd had finally settled down, and I am weakened further by loss of blood, when I am almost sure that they will finally take me back to my peaceful ganaderia with is endless green meadows, amidst the murmuring of the subdued and shocked crowd, another man dressed in lights appears in the far corner of the arena.

He is younger, taller, and more muscular than the one I just wounded, and I know that this one would not miss his target. This one is fresh from the cooling shade. Fanatically ambitious. I can see the feral determination in his dark, brown eyes, the cruel twisted pursing of his thin, pale, lips, and the fearless determination of his stride as he approaches me.

I watch helplessly as he takes several short, running steps towards me, then quickly tilts his torso away from the deadly thrust of my left horn, while lunging horizontally with his sword, and feel it sink swiftly and deeply into my wounded, bloodied shoulder, and finally plunge into my broken heart.

My heart flutters quickly, and then feebly, and then stops. For a brief moment, the arena and the surrounding stadium tilt, and then, then I see only the pale yellow sand and glittering legs and a fading sky. Gradually, the deafening roaring of the frenzied crowed grows dimmer, the garrulous light of the bright indifferent day begins to fade, until finally, there is nothing at all but the deep silence and dense darkness of a merciful death.



Bullfighting Terms

Albero – Bullring’s yellow organic sand.

Banderilla – Literally, little flag. A dowel-stemmed dart, metal-tipped with a single barb. The wooden stem is decorated with colored paper strips.

Banderillero – Placer of the banderillas (also known as peon).

Cuadrilla – The matador’s team (two picadores and three banderilleros).

Montera – Matador’s hat.

Morrillo – Head-tossing muscle in the bull’s head.

Mozo de espada – Sword boy.

Muleta – Small red cape, stiffened with a rod, used by the matador during the suerte de muerte. Only he can use it

Picador – Mounted torero armed with a lance (called vara) and charged with piercing the bull during the tercio de varas

Peto – Heavy padding protecting the flanks and belly of the picador’s horse.

Picador – Mounted torero armed with a lance (called vara) and charged with piercing the bull during the tercio de varas.

Plaza de toros – Bullring.

Querencia – A spot in the bullring the bull always returns to. It’s a sign of weakness because it shows that the bull runs away from a confrontation with the torero.

Quite – Drawing-away of the bull by either the matador or a peón.

Sentido – Bull’s awareness that the matador is his enemy and not the cape.

Suerte de varas – First act of the corrida in which the picador confronts the bull with his vara (also known as tercio de varas).

Suerte de matar – Third and final act of the corrida in which the matador fights the bull alone and kills it (also known as tercio de muerte or faena).

Suerte de banderillas – Second act of the corrida in which banderillas are driven into the bull’s back by banderilleros (also known as tercio de banderillas).

Tienta – Test of immature bulls carried out at the ganadería.

Toreo – The art of fighting a bull.

Toro bravo – Literally, brave bull. Breed developed exclusive for bullfighting (also known as toro de lidia).

Traje de luces – Literally, suit of lights. Traditional garb of the torero (also known as vestido).

Trapío – The bull’s physical conformation.

Vara – Picador’s long wooden pole, tipped with a spike (puya).

Verónica – A pass involving holding the cape up in front of the body with both hands.

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