Bullfight in Granada

Spain is internationally recognized for its soccer.  With two of the outright best players in the world playing for Spanish clubs, a World Cup win in 2010 and an absolute fanaticism throughout the country, it is almost second-nature to correlate the region situated between Africa and the rest of Europe with the most popular sport in the world.  It may come as a surprise, then, to learn that bullfights are actually the official “Fiesta Nacional”, or national pastime, of Spain.  I knew about Las Fiestas de San Fermín, a ridiculous gathering of mostly men who run through the streets dodging a handful of monstrous creatures, but that is about as far as my knowledge went regarding the centuries-old celebrations.  It made sense, then, to buy second row tickets for the first bull fight of the season last week when a few of the most renowned bullfighters in the country put their skinny bodies in front of the thousand-pound horned creatures.

Not knowing what to expect, I elbowed my way through the crowd of white handkerchief wielding Spaniards and found a hot piece of cement painted with a blurry number “19”.  With friends on my left and a die-hard 45-year old fan on my right, I took a seat and started asking questions.  Fortunately, my new friend explained the bullfight and gave me the play-by-plays as the daring bullfighters narrowly escaped death in the background.  The matadors craftily maneuvered the bulls for a short time before finishing the last and final stage with an efficient kill.  The three stages of each round lasted less than twenty minutes, but the adrenaline-pumping moments leading up to the final stage were exhilarating.  It got tense a handful of times when a bullfighter made a small mistake and got nicked by the razor sharp horns, but the courage of the fighters astounded me.  Not much bigger than a horse jockey, these interestingly dressed men relied on a shiny cape to teeter them between life and death.  For someone that has grown up living for the rush of making a tackle on the football field or carrying the ball into a pack of huge forwards in rugby, I was on the edge of my seat as though I were the matador tip-toeing around the huge mass of meat and muscle. 

Half an hour before the crowd hectically filed for the exits, a matador-in-training was given a shot in the limelight to prove that he could hang with the professionals.  In an attempt to make a great impression, he knelt ten yards in front of the gate that opened to free the raging bull.  Unfortunately for him, a deadly mix of amateurism and distracted bull resulted in the matador being bucked and trampled on the dirt plaza floor.  Somehow, he managed to animatedly jump to his feet once the bull became distracted, and the show went on.  Whether it was his lack of experience or simply being shaken up from the initial injury, the last matador was clearly inferior to the rest, but it showed that the matadors’ suave and nuanced movements just inches away from the bulls were extremely dangerous and skilled.  The whole spectacular lasted a few hours, and I was happy to experience a fundamental aspect of Spanish culture as well as feel my heart race as though I was sprinting down the football field for one last touchdown.