Graceless Under Pressure

I am opposed to bullfighting. I think it's cruel, barbaric, and a lot of other bad things. There is no place for bullfighting in today's world. That being said, the world was different 50 years ago.

In the summer of 1972, I was eight years old. My dad’s sister, Carmen, lived in Mexico, so we visited her family in Juarez. I’m not going to bore you with the details of the trip because I really only remember one part of it.

My uncle, Tio Juan, decided it would be great family fun for all of us to go see a bullfight. Again, this was 50 years ago in another country, so I can’t be too judgmental. And, when he mentioned it, I was kind of intrigued.

Tio Juan then told us how my cousin, Juanito, had fought a bull on his 12th birthday. “Well, not a bull,” Tio Juan said. “It was a calf, but still pretty big. He didn’t have to kill the animal. He just did a few passes when the calf charged.” He showed us a framed picture of Juanito with a cape, looking very professional as he dodged the calf. I was fascinated by the picture. It may have been a calf, but it looked dangerous to me. My cousin didn’t look afraid either. He was dressed all in black and wearing one of those weird Mickey Mouse looking toreador hats. If Hemingway had been there that day, he would have written about my cousin.

Then Tio Juan said to my father, “Maybe Miguel will want to try his hand at bullfighting.” It took a minute to register. My name is Michael. Everyone called me Mike or Mikey. Who was this Miguel? Oh yeah, that was my name in Spanish. My uncle was asking my father if I wanted to fight a bull like my cousin! Luckily, I knew my father wouldn’t agree.

“That’s a great idea,” my father said. I couldn’t believe it! What was my father thinking? I wasn't athletic at all. When kids picked teams, I was one of the last to go. When I played baseball, they stuck me in right field. When I played touch football, I was never the quarterback. I was the chubby kid who had to block for the quarterback. I wasn’t even good at bowling. But for some reason, my dad thought I would want to fight a bull. I didn’t want to come out and say that I definitely did not want to step into a bull ring. I hoped that my father would come to his senses or my mother would talk him out of it. Unfortunately, when my parents discussed it, my mother’s response was, “It’ll be good for him.”

I assumed my father wanted to toughen me up, so I didn’t refuse. I just hoped that before bullfight day something would happen. Either he would change his mind, or the bullfights would get rained out, or maybe the bulls would all run away. I was still clinging to these hopes as we drove to the bullring that day.

Everyone was caught up in the spectacle of the event. There was music and brightly colored banners and men in shiny suits on horseback. The first toreador came out and he was incredibly flashy in his sparkly ensemble. The people seemed to know the fighters the way Americans know baseball players. There seemed to be some mixed feelings about the first guy. I thought he was fine. He did the “Ole! Ole!” thing with the cape and eventually killed the bull. People seemed to like that. I was only half paying attention. I kept trying to figure out what my dad and uncle were talking about. So far, no one had even mentioned me having to fight a bull.

By the third bullfight of the day, I began to relax. I assumed that maybe they weren’t going to do any kid bullfights that day. I actually paid attention to the fourth fight and I kind of enjoyed it. Again, I know now bullfighting is bad, but at the same time, at least these bulls got some cheers in a bullring. I doubt most hamburgers get such adulation before they are processed. Anyway, my hopes that I would avoid my fate were about to be dashed. As soon as the fourth fight was over, my uncle said, “Let’s go.”

My uncle, dad and I got up from our seats. My mom wished me luck. I couldn’t believe what was happening! We made our way down to the ground level where the bulls were kept. There was a lot of activity down there. I had no idea what all the people were doing and I really didn’t care. I was too worried about what was going to happen to me.

My uncle and dad were talking to someone who seemed to be in charge. I heard him ask something about “Cuantos años” meaning how old, and then I heard my father say “diez” which I knew meant ten. Except I wasn’t “diez”. I wasn’t even “nueve.” My dad was lying so they’d let me fight the bull! Then they guided us over where two other boys were waiting with their fathers. The boys seemed much older than I was. They were also wearing long sleeve shirts and long pants. The chubby American kid was wearing ProKeds, black socks, tan Bermuda shorts, and a striped shirt. Even in America I wouldn’t have looked cool.

The man gave the three of us a basic lesson on what we were supposed to do. He took a cape and asked one of the other boys to act like a bull and charge at him. The man deftly dodged as he swung the cape out of the way in one motion. My father was translating for me, but I couldn’t pay attention to what he was saying. I was just watching to see if I could learn anything that might save my life.

They let each of us try the cape. It seemed easier for the other boys because they were taller, but I tried to move it as best I could. Everyone smiled at me so I assumed I did ok. Then my dad told me that the man would walk us out into the bullring and announce us when it was our turn. I would go last. I thought that was good because the bull might get tired by the time it was my turn.

The man started walking out toward the middle of the ring. The other two boys and I followed. He made an announcement that I didn’t understand, but everyone cheered. The boys waved, so I did too. Then the man handed the cape to one of the boys and directed the remaining boy and me to follow him to the side.

There was a fanfare of horns and a gate opened on the wall of the bullring. Everyone cheered as a calf came trotting out. The boy waved his cape as he had been shown. The calf trotted towards it and the boy easily dodged as the crowd yelled, “Ole!” The calf did two more passes and then someone came out and guided it back to the gate. I was actually thinking I might be able to do this. Everyone cheered for the kid as he tipped his cap to the crowd. Then they announced the next boy and the little calf trotted out even slower. By the time he was done, I was feeling a little bit confident.

As I waited to go out there, I was thinking about how I was a disappointment to my dad as an athlete. It’s funny that even at the age of eight, kids can know these things. I thought maybe I could redeem myself if I made a good showing with the bull. So far I hadn’t let on how scared I was. I resolved that I would stand up to the trotting calf, so I might look good in his eyes.

The fanfare blew and I walked out with the guy who would announce me. The crowd cheered politely, not knowing what to make of me. I may have had Mexican blood, but I looked like a slice of American white bread. I didn’t care, though. I was going to make my dad and my country proud. I heard the announcer say something about “niño Americano” and the crowd seemed to collectively go, “oh, that explains it.” Then he said my name, “Miguel Arronte” and I knew my moment of greatness was at hand. I adjusted the toreador hat on my head, held out the cape, and waited for the calf to trot out.

Over the years there has been some disagreement about what happened next. Everyone in my family says the same calf came out of the gate, but I know for certain it was a different animal. He was bigger, angrier, and much faster than the one used in the first bullfights. Even so, I stood my ground. I stared the beast right in the eye and had my cape ready. This was going to be my “grace under pressure” moment. My dad, my whole family would be so proud!

The little bull was charging. I gritted my teeth. I could see the breath from his nostrils. I held my cape out to draw him in. This was it. Of course, I screamed like a five year old girl and ran as fast as my chubby little legs would carry me. I headed back toward the safety of the entrance, but somehow the bull got in my way. I started running around the ring screaming “Help!” Even in my panicked state, I could hear the crowd laughing. Somehow I thought they were laughing because they didn't understand, so I screamed “Ayudame!” but that made people laugh more.

The bull was pushing me from behind and I tried to swat it with the cape. That just made it more aggressive. I dropped the cape on the bull which slowed it down a little.but it was back on me in a second. My adrenaline rush was waning. I figured the bull would kill me any moment. And then the bull shoved me really hard in the butt. The crowd gasped as my feet left the ground.

Out of nowhere the matador for the final match grabbed me before I could fall. A couple of other guys led the bull away. He put me down and put his body between me and the bull. He brushed some dirt off of me and said something like, “No te preocupes, amigo.” I managed to say “gracias” to this magnificent man in the shiny suit. The crowd went crazy as he walked me to the center of the ring. He motioned for me to take off my hat. We took off our hats together and saluted the crowd. Everyone in the arena was on their feet cheering for us as we walked back.

My dad gave me a hug and checked me for injuries. I only had a bruised backside. I found out the matador was Joselito Huerta. He was a huge bullfighting star and that day was one of the last times he would step in the ring. He gave my dad an autograph and he gave me one of his hats, which I still have. “To face a bull takes courage,” he said in English, and I gave him a hug. Because of him, everyone in my family was proud of me. The next day the newspaper ran two pictures. One was me running from the calf. The other picture was of Joselito Huerta and me in the center of the ring. My dad kept a framed copy of that picture.

I never learned to like bullfighting, but for the rest of my life, a matador was my hero.