Kevin Tosca
Tradition
Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas
Bajo 7, No. 48, Fila 10a
Twenty-four minutes before seven o’clock

Bags checked, but I could’ve smuggled anything in. Food, snacks, drinks, guns. Seat cushions are one euro. People bring towels to sit on, lots of sunscreen. The stadium’s halls are filled with bars, standing only, where you can buy beer, liquor, coffee. And, like at a baseball game, a man is walking around with a cooler strapped to his body shouting “Cerveza,” “Coca-Cola.” Men and women, in police caps, show you to your seat. Worrying about getting one was foolish.

I watch the brown pit get sprayed and raked like an infield diamond. A blue and white circular mat with a line through the middle covers the center. Then chalked lines, also circular, tracks within tracks, are laid down. There is a six-foot red fence encircling the pit with many closed gates. It has a gray and white border with some kind of step, some kind of… escape?

The packed section is lower, in the shade. My section isn’t bad, and it’s filling up as well. The expensive cushioned seats are directly in front of the fence. Our seats are continuous concrete benches.

The mat is removed. People yell. People laugh at what is yelled. Some respond. The first bull, a magnificent-looking animal, comes in. Seven or eight men distract it, run it around the ring, hide behind the barriers. Horns blow and the picadors—riding protected, blindfolded horses—enter with out-of-shape men on foot next to them. The bull, with a barbed lance, gets stabbed twice. With each stab it tries to flip the horse. Does once.

Blood is pouring out now. The chest heaves. Tongue lolls. Now the banderilleros. Their darts. Two at a time, six total, like party favors, hanging from the bull’s sides. He only tries to shake the first two.

The matador struts in, a human peacock, pink, purple, and gold. He’s wearing ballet-like slipper shoes, holds a red cape, sword. He dances. Shouts. Gets upset if the bull doesn’t want to play. Buries steel in bull’s flesh.

Three men, waving pink, dash in to confuse the bull even more, to get it to lie down, submit. If it doesn’t, another sword comes out. If the bull does lie down, a man jabs and jerks a small knife into the bull’s head.

The bull falls.

Cries.

The man with the knife removes the sword and scrambles the bull’s brains. Its horns are tied to the horses and cart that have emerged to music. It’s dragged out, leaves a trail of blood.

The sweepers come in and work the bulk of the blood into a clot and haul it off. The music keeps playing. People keep dancing and standing and stretching and waiting. The next bull is announced in the center of the ring like at a boxing match.

Silence.

Then the ritual repeats itself five more times. Two hours and twenty minutes of this. This stadium was built in 1929.