La Miura & El Lagarito

El Lagarito stood alone in his dressing room. He removed his Traje de Luces from the bag hanging on the armoire. His suit of lights was very special this year. In honor of Queen Isabella of Spain, his montera (cap) and corbatín (tie) were handmade of a wool and silk blend and colored in royal purple. The chaquetilla (jacket) and taleguilla (trousers) were both jet black and adorned with bright gold thread and lace. The medias (socks) were also royal purple and his camisa (shirt) was a bright white. Of course, his zapatillas (shoes) were highly polished black and lastly, the muleta (cape), his muleta was a combination of gold, purple and crimson red. This was extraordinary for the Spanish Toreros who normally carried only a blood-red or muted purple one.

This was a special occasion for Don Rafael Molina Sanchez known as The Lizard because of the way he moved within the bullring. This would be his last fight before retirement.

Murciélago, the Miura El Toro, was also preparing for the bullfight. He was by and far the largest and fiercest of the Miura bulls and his reputation as a man-killer was enough to fill any arena with people interested in seeing blood and gore. At last count, Murciélago had gored to death the last 17 men he had fought. If it were possible to get inside a bull’s mind, I can only imagine, Murciélago saw today as no different than the last seventeen. His handlers were afraid to approach him. Rightfully so, Murciélago stood nearly 8’ tall and weighed almost a ton. The spread of his horns were slightly less than 5’.

The Lizard could hear the crowds cheering and could make out one word clearly. Murciélago…Murciélago…Murciélago, they shouted with glee. It would not be much longer. Soon the crowds would have what they wanted, blood and gore. The only question was would it be that of El Lagarito or of Murciélago.

I pulled my zapatillos on and adjusted the cinches for a snug fit before tucking the excess lace into the tongue. I stood straight up and placed my montero on my head. I couldn’t help but notice my hair was beginning to grey. How many years have I been facing El Toro in the ring now, 20, 30, 35 years I think. That’s a long time for any Toreros to have survived without serious injury. In my career, I had been gored a total of seven times, but nothing so serious as to prevent me from returning to the ring. Over the years, I gained experience and I learned how to dance with El Toro.

I knew how to entice him to charge me and how to wait until the very last second before I scrambled out of the way. These moves earned me the nickname El Lagarito, the Lizard. Some of the more experienced bulls were wise to my moves and on occasion, anticipated my move and gored me. Murciélago was such a bull. I would need to be careful today because of his history. This bull was dangerous and could not easily be distracted away from the Toreros, should I go down. In other words, if Murciélago were able to get a horn in me today, there was a high likelihood I would die.

I made the long, lonely walk to the side entrance to the iron ring, the place in the center of the pavilion where all bullfights took place. I listened intently as the announcer read off my list of prior accomplishments. None of this would matter today. He finally introduced me and I stepped from the side entrance and onto the iron ring. I noticed the sun was still high in the sky and the heat was still insufferable. This was a good thing for me. Murciélago would tire easily and early. I strode deliberately and with pride to stand directly in front of where the royals were seated at the center halfway point of the ring. I removed my montero from my head and bowed deeply to Her Majesty, the Queen and then I tossed my montero so that it would land at her feet. The crowds roared with their approval. She nodded her head to acknowledge my gift and the crowds stood on their feet and cheered. In all of my life, I had never felt such exhilaration.

I turned swiftly and made my way to the center of the ring, with my muleta still draped over my shoulder. Soon, very soon, Murciélago would be released into the ring and the fight would begin. I must say I was not prepared for what happened next. Normally, when a bullfight begins, the bulls are released from a side entrance in the center of the ring by sliding open a wooden gate. Apparently, the handlers were afraid this was not a secure way of releasing Murciélago. Instead, two large metal doors opened at the far end of the ring where I saw a large cattle trailer backed against the opening. I scanned the ring again and this was the first time I also noticed uniformed sharpshooters armed with rifles posted all around the iron ring. I am sure these men were there to protect the citizens and the Queen in case the bull escaped. I later learned they were there for my protection.

The rear gate of the trailer dropped down and the largest blackest bull I’ve ever seen in my life stepped out and onto the iron ring. He stood there pawing at the ground and snorting loudly, never once looking away from me. I told myself Murciélago knew how to make a grand entrance. The gate to the trailer was raised and the gates to the iron ring closed. Now it was just me, El Lagarito and Murciélago standing in the ring. The crowds had grown very silent as we faced and sized each other. Murciélago started walking toward me in a deliberate manner, his head held low, with a menacing glare. Every so often he would snort and bellow. This continued until he was less than fifty feet from me.

This was the first time I could truly appreciate the size of this beast. It has been previously stated he stood 8’ tall and weighed almost 2,000 pounds. That was possibly an understatement. It was also stated the spread of his horns was about 5’ wide. What was neglected in that initial appraisal was there appeared to be zero fat on this beast. Everywhere I looked, I saw nothing but brawn and muscle. Even his teeth were as large as my hands. I am not a large man. I stand 5’6” in my stockings and weigh a respectful 140 pounds for comparison. If I were to defeat this monster today, it would be due to my abilities to outthink and outmaneuver it. Anything less and I would die today and give Murciélago his 18th death win.

We stood facing each other for what seemed like an eternity. While I studied him, I could sense he was studying me too. I could only imagine the thoughts a beast such as this might have. This wasn’t his first time in the ring. He had seen how other Toreros had moved and fought. Surely those experiences would have taught him lessons on how best to capture and kill me today too. Then the attack came without any warning. How is it possible for a beast of that size to move so quickly from a dead standstill? I never saw it prepare to launch its attack. One second it was standing perfectly still some fifty feet away from and in the next second, it was on top of me.

Murciélago had coiled himself into a spring and launched himself through the air and in one leap had closed the gap from fifty feet to less than five feet. In the same motion, he shook his head left and right. Had I not ducked first, his horns would have caught my midsection and sent me sprawling across the ring. I’ve been hit by a bull’s shaking horns before and they hurt. They are powerful enough to send someone my size rolling twenty or thirty feet. Murciélago was twice the size of most bulls. I could not let him hurt me with such a rookie move. As I said, I ducked and I rolled toward his left side, so close that when I stood I actually leaned against him for just a second. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone touching him and this touch spooked him.

Murciélago leaped forward two short steps and turned to face me. The crowds went wild again. This dance continued for several minutes before I got my first Veronica. For those that don’t know, the Veronica is a move where I stand completely still, and the bull charges past me and through my muleta. It is one of the most famous of the bullfighting moves because it is the most flamboyant and what is usually shown in photographs. It is also a signal to my assistants to deliver to me my estoques or my killing swords. It seemed like forever before I noticed one lone assistant run into the ring with several swords and drop them in a pile some fifty feet from where I was standing.

Great I thought to myself. I will have to maneuver the bull and the fight towards the swords. This did not go unnoticed by the crowds and they soon booed the assistant. Little good that did me. The fight continued for another hour. Murciélago appeared to recognize the swords for what they were and refused to let me anywhere near them. Again, the crowds noticed this too and began cheering for him as well. I was growing tired and unlike other sports where you can call a timeout or take a break, those luxuries don’t exist in bullfighting. I noticed something else too. The longer we went, the stronger and more emboldened Murciélago became.

As uncharacteristic and non-glamorous as it sounds, I made a mad dash for the pile of swords and grabbed three before Murciélago gained ground over me. The sun was now low in the sky and there I stood holding two swords and my muleta in my left hand and a sword in my right hand. I held my right hand over my head so that I could slam the sword into Murciélago's neck or back given the chance. On the other side of this scene, stood Murciélago. He was standing atop the remaining swords daring me to come for the rest of them. I decided to change my strategy. I slowly lowered my right arm and knelt down on my left knee as if I were defeated.

The crowds believed I was surrendering. That would be horrible because Toreros do not surrender, ever. They may be carried from the iron ring mortally wounded or dead, but they never surrender. Murciélago must have thought the same thing because he immediately charged me. The crowds took to their feet. Everyone feared what would happen next. I would be trampled and gored to death. Instead, Murciélago stopped right in front of me. He was still snorting heavily and pawing at the ground of the ring. Then, to everyone’s amazement, including my own, Murciélago knelt too. He knelt on his front legs and bowed his head. The crowd went crazy. Even the Queen stood and gasped. Then something else amazing happened. Murciélago stood and walked away. The fight, my last fight, was finally over.

El Lagarito and Murciélago were real. They actually fought for the first and last time on October 5th, 1879 and El Lagarito spared Murciélago's life after Murciélago survived 90 sword strikes. Most bulls die after being struck only 3-4 times. Murciélago was spared and lived another 18 years. He sired over 70 new bulls and added his strength and cunning to the bulls of the Miura lineage.

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