Kreative X-Pressions Publications

Chapter 1

Marcos's Hero: “El Campeón”

Marcos's heart pounded with excitement as he looked around him at the hundreds of people gathered in la plaza de toros. He hated himself for being so short as he strained to see over the heads of the two men sitting in front of him. Wiping the perspiration from his forehead he turned to his uncle. "It's hot, Uncle Pablo. Why do we have to sit in the hot sun while those people across the ring sit in the shade?"

"Because I cannot afford the price for tickets in la sombra, Marcos."

Marcos wiped his brow again and tried to get his mind off the heat as the sun beat down mercilessly on the sunny section of the huge arena. His fingers tapped in rhythm to the stirring music of la pasa doblé as the band began it's march around the sand-covered plaza del toros. Leading the parade of bullfighters were two alguacils, or mounted constables, dressed formally in hot, tight-fitting, sixteenth-century costumes from the time of Philip II. It was their duty to act as representatives of El Presidente, the official in charge of the afternoon's events. Following the band were the cuadrillas of toreros, or bullfighters, consisting of banderilleros, picadores, and puntilleros, all under the orders of the six matadors who would fight in today's corridas.

This was the first bullfight nine year old Marcos Pablo Delgado-Chavez had ever attended and he sat spellbound on the edge of his seat taking in every detail. Occasionally he would turn to his Uncle Pablo and ask him a question, insisting that every answer be spelled out in detail. After the paseo around the bullring ended and the arena was once again empty, Marcos's uncle turned to him and smiled. "Pretty soon the fights will begin, Marcos. There may be some moments when you will not want to look."

"Si, Uncle Pablo. This is the tenth time you have told me. But with El Campeón fighting, I don't want to miss a single thing."

As they spoke, a big door opened on the opposite side of the arena and a large, black bull came charging across the sand straight towards them.

"Ah! Magnifico!" shouted Marcos's uncle.

Marcos's heart skipped a beat as he sat there, awestruck at the size, strength and beauty of the ton of muscle and horn racing around the ring in maddened fury. "Fantastico!" Marcos whispered, almost to himself. Then, as he watched, two men came running out from behind the burladero waving capes to attract the bull.

"Are they the ones who will fight the bull, Uncle Pablo?"

"No, Marcos. They are the matador's banderilleros. It is their job to work the bull so as to show the matador which horn the bull favors and how he will behave during the corrida. When the matador is satisfied, they will go back behind the wooden fence until they are needed again."

Marcos sat breathless with excitement. In a few moments the picador appeared, dressed in a colorful costume. Carrying a long barbed lance and sitting astride a heavily armored, specially trained horse, he came riding out to confront the bull. When the bull charged him, he drove the end of his pic into its shoulder muscles. Marcos winced as the harpoon-shaped lance dug deeply into the bull's flesh. "Doesn't that hurt the bull, Uncle Pablo?"

"I am sure it does, Marcos, but it is necessary in order to help weaken the bull's shoulder and neck muscles."

"But why do they have to do that? The matador's going to kill him anyway, is he not?"

Smiling in amusement, his uncle pointed to the bull. "Do you see that big hump behind the bull's horns?"

"Si, Uncle Pablo."

"That is el toro's morillo, a very powerful shoulder and neck muscle. If the morillo were not weakened first, the matador would not stand a chance against the bull. Weakening that muscle takes strength from it so that the bull has difficulty lifting his powerful horns. It makes him hold his head down lower to make the matador's job easier. Weakening that muscle is the job for the picador and the banderilleros."

"But that doesn't seem fair, Uncle Pablo. How can the bull expect to use his horns without his muscle?"

"Oh, don't worry, Marcos. The bull still has lots of strength left anyhow."

After each attack on the picador, the bull would return to the same spot from which it attacked.

"Why does he always go back to that same spot, Uncle Pablo?"

Uncle Pablo leaned over and explained the strategy to Marcos. "That is the bull's quarencia, or territory. Soon after the fight begins, he will establish that spot as his own. He thinks of it as a haven of safety."

When the picador had finished and rode from the ring, two banderilleros, also dressed in bright, colorful uniforms, came running out, each of them holding two barbed darts called banderillas.

"Are they the banderilleros, Uncle Pablo?"

"Si, Marcos. As the matador's assistants, their job is also to weaken the bull by driving their banderillas into his neck."

Once more, Marcos winced as the two banderilleros stabbed the bull, drawing even more blood from the powerful but confused beast. After doing their job they left the ring, leaving the bull loping around the arena in anger before returning to its established territory. Marcos's uncle noticed Marcos shielding his eyes and put his arm around Marcos. "Does this part bother you, Marcos? Would you rather I took you home?"

"Oh, no! It is only the sun in my eyes, Uncle Pablo," Marcos lied. "I want to see El Campeón, the famous matador, kill the bull."

"So." His uncle smiled and sat up on his bench. "Then perhaps you will become a real aficionado after all."

Marcos looked at his uncle, but didn't say anything. The band played the pasa doblé march again, stopping abruptly when the matador made his appearance.

"Is that El Campeón?" asked Marcos.

"Si, Marcos. Now comes the real excitement. The bull is in pain and he is furious. El Campeón faces real danger in spite of the bull's condition."

The bull, angrier than ever, continued to race around the ring, challenging everything in it's path. Moving quickly into the ring with his cape, El Campeón challenged the bull to charge him, then executed a series of graceful and skillful passes, each time bringing the bull closer to him. Then, with a twirl of his cape, El Campeón beckoned the bull to charge once again. The bull, flashing his anger at the moving cape before him, charged in maddened fury. Once more El Campeón nimbly stepped aside and the horns of the deadly bull passed within inches of his chest. The crowd went wild.

Then, taking a new position, El Campeón stamped his foot to taunt the bull into another charge. "Olé!" roared the crowd of aficionados as the razor-sharp horns of the big, black bull once again came within a hair's breadth of the skillful matador. Cries of "Bravo!" echoed from the crowd, now frenzied with excitement. Some stood on their seats to cheer and applaud.

"El Campeón is very skillful, Marcos, is he not?"

A broad grin appeared on Marcos's tanned young face. "Oh, si, Uncle Pablo. He is everything I heard...and more!"

As Marcos watched, El Campeón twirled his large, colorful cape right in the face of the bull, whose eyes were now glazed over from pain, fear and confusion. Then, to the utter amazement of the crowd, he walked up to the bull standing there quietly before him, knelt down before him and brazenly kissed him on the nose. The crowd went so crazy with applause and cheers that Marcos had to cover his ears with the palms of his hands. Then, standing up, El Campeón turned his back on the powerful but dazed bull, tossed his head proudly and walked away while the crowd, standing and wildly shouting cries of "Olé!" and "Bravo!", cheered in absolute frenzy.

"Did you see that?" asked Uncle Pablo, turning to Marcos. "That was fenomeno!"

Marcos smiled. He had never thought he would witness such a bold and daring act. "Si, Uncle Pablo. Fantastico!"

El Campeón then walked over and stood in front of the President's box. Taking off his cap he bowed deeply.

"What is he doing now, Uncle Pablo?"

"He is requesting permission to kill the bull, Marcos."

"But why does he need permission? Isn't that what he's here for?"

His uncle laughed. "Si. It is but a formality. At the same time he asks permission, he will also dedicate the bull to someone in the audience."

As Marcos watched, El Campeón threw his cap into the crowd of spectators. It was caught by a beautiful señorita sitting in the second row one section away from Marcos. Immediately after, a white handkerchief waved from the President's box.

"Why the pañuelo blanco?" Marcos asked.

"That is the President's signal to kill the bull."

Marcos sat on the edge of his seat in the barreras, almost breathless with excitement as he watched El Campeón walk over to the burladero and speak to someone standing there holding a selection of shiny swords. In the background the band once again began to play the famous pasa doblé music heard in bullfight arenas all over Spain.

"What is El Campeón doing now, Uncle?"

"He is choosing a killing sword from those offered him by his sword-handler or mozo de estoques, Marcos. After that he will use a new cape, or muleta for the rest of the fight."

"Why does El Campeón need a new cape, Uncle?"

"The big cape he used in the early part of the fight was merely for show, Marcos. For the killing phase, he must use that smaller, heart-shaped scarlet cape beneath which he conceals the sword with which he will kill el toro."

"Ah, si, comprende," said Marcos.

"Watch carefully now, Marcos. El Campeón will select only the finest and sharpest sword for the faeña."

"Faeña?"

"Ah, yes...I keep forgetting...this is your first bullfight. The faeña is the final phase of the corrida, Marcos. It is where the matador executes a series of naturals and veronicas to show his control and mastery over the bull before killing him."

"Naturals? Veronicas?"

"Si, Marcos. Those are just names for the way he moves himself and twirls his cape. They are called 'passes'."

"Ah, si. I understand."

"And once the faeña begins, the matador then has ten minutes in which to kill el toro."

"Only ten minutes?"

"Si. Watch closely now, Marcos."

"I am, Uncle Pablo. I find it hard to take my eyes from the ring."

As Marcos continued watching, the matador made several close passes with the cape, each time bringing the bull closer and closer until finally the bull stopped and stood still, confused, exhausted and bleeding from the many wounds inflicted upon him from the picador's lance and the banderilleros' many barbed darts earlier in the event.

Something deep within Marcos stirred him to sympathy for this brave fighting bull who would unknowingly die very shortly by a swift thrust of El Campeón's estoque, or killing sword. And yet, Marcos could not separate himself from this daring matador, El Campeón, who had so bravely and skillfully challenged a dangerous and deadly killing machine. It was while he was lost in that moment of fancy that Marcos Pablo Delgado-Chavezmade up his mind that he, too, would someday become a famous matador.

"Because you are so little, Marcos, would you like to stand on your seat to watch this final phase?"

"Si, Uncle Pablo." As embarrassed as he was at his uncle's comment about his size, it was more important that he saw this part of the fight. His face reddened as he stood up on the bench seat he was on. Although his school-mates and friends had teased him about being so short for as long as he could remember, he still cringed whenever anyone mentioned it.

"I may as well be a midget!" he had complained to his friend, Maria, one day.

"Do not be so impatient, Marcos," she had assured him. "You will grow up to be a tall and handsome man one day, just wait and see."

Maybe Maria was right, but it sure wasn't happening very fast. Here he was almost nine and he hadn't grown a single inch from his last birthday.

Now able to see over the heads of the people in front of him, Marcos's eyes widened and his mouth gaped open as the weakening, but still dangerous, thousand-pound bull followed the matador's lead by charging at his muleta again and again. Marcos wished that Maria could be here watching this with him, but he knew that she had no heart for such things.

Suddenly, Marcos could hear nothing but the pounding of his own excited heart as a deadly hush fell over the bullring. El Campeón was preparing for the kill. The bull stood silently in front of him, saliva dripping from his mouth and weakened from loss of blood and his many futile exertions to gore the matador. Slowly, his eyes never straying from the bull, El Campeón drew his sword from behind the muleta. Holding it at eye level in a straight, horizontal plane, he aimed it at a small spot in the bull's neck, just behind his horns.

"What is he doing now, Uncle Pablo?"

"Sh-h, Marcos," his uncle whispered. "He is sighting down the sword blade, aiming for the most vulnerable spot in the bull's morillo."

"His neck muscle?"

"Si, Marcos. And if his thrust is accurate, he will put the blade directly into the aorta of the bull's heart so that el toro will die instantly and not suffer."

Finding his uncle's thinking hard to understand, Marcos replied, "But Uncle Pablo, after what the bull has already suffered, what difference does it make now?"

"Sh-h...this is the moment of truth," his uncle replied.

Marcos watched breathlessly as El Campeón advanced several steps closer to the bull with the sword held ready. Just as the bull was getting ready for another charge, El Campeón raised up on his toes and plunged the razor-sharp sword point downward into the soft spot on the bull's neck, a spot no bigger than a half dollar. The crowd roared with pleasure as the bull quickly collapsed and lay still. Applause and cries of "Olé!" went up from the stands.

"Ah, that was truly a professional kill, Marcos. Clean and quick and merciful!"

"Si, Uncle Pablo. Now will El Campeón be awarded the bull's ear like you told me sometimes happens?"

"Es posible, Marcos. For that matter, the Presidente may award him both ears because he fought such a skillful fight and killed the bull so cleanly. But come, let us beat the crowd out the door!"