Monday, February 1st, 2010
What made us leave the Plaza Monumental bullring in Tijuana, Mexico was the bull who wouldn’t die. He was a strong bull, the fourth of the day, and nothing the seven men in the arena did could knock him down.
He fought death like I hope I would fight death—with every fiber he had standing him back up, squaring his shoulders, and telling him, “Your life can’t end like this.”
But of course it can—and it did.
With seven men jabbing at him and dancing around him, he panicked as his knees buckled, and he died terrified, confused, and humiliated. The worst death of all.
When his big spirit finally gave out, they cut off his ear, raised it to the crowd and then dragged his body out of the arena behind a team of horses. The crowd was happy about this and when he was gone there was another bull to take his place.
There was nothing romantic or sporting or even manly in what I saw. It wasn’t a Hemingway story and it wasn’t beautiful or fun. What it was was an unfair fight, which is a fight I will never stand behind.
That’s what I saw at the bullfight on Sunday.
