Under the wild green that embraces the city of Pontevedra and joins his sky, resists the bullfighting pearl of Galicia. The last square in the land of the witches was flooded again this Sunday with the incomparable atmosphere of its clubs and a hobby that irreducibly survives in the territory of tides and ferocious animalism. The “no tickets” sign hung at the ticket offices as irrefutable proof of iron health.
That sky would have flown over hours before Morante’s private plane. From El Puerto de Santa María to San Roque. The 860 kilometer journey In less than 24 hours, he ended up in the cobbled tunnel of the crew yard at 6:40 p.m. Fifteen minutes later, Julián López “El Juli” arrived at his last appointment with the Peregrina fair.
As a parting gift he entered his little ball of fortune, Cazador. A torrent of preclear caste from the cape greeting. The removal by lopecinas, explosive, shot the decibels up to the open dome of the Galician fiefdom. And he no longer stopped the honeycomb buzz. After the toast to the public, the man from Madrid opened the task by changing passes stuck in the hydrant. In his privileged right, they even improved the stride and the frankness of the good bull of Santiago Domecq. That he traveled very long and fully subdued by both hands. Halfway through the task, two knee turns and a superb chest pass still without recovering the vertical were a flashback to the beardless boy that Mexico surrendered two decades ago. Or the umpteenth boast of someone who says goodbye after 25 years being the owner and lord of this. Then he wrapped the bull around the waist in a right hand so long that there were two. The finish by luquecinas (with the bull already fully subdued) and the blow with a knockout effect shot the scarf up to both ears. EJ walked them under songs that, excited, asked him not to leave: «Juli, stay! Juli, stay-give-you!».
The fifth, measured by strength and qualities, asked for the other version of Julián. The leisurely mastery. Ljust intelligence to squeeze any type of bull From that vantage point, she pulled him up to the middle in the genuflecting opening. And there he made an unseen path for her in the tunnel of his fairness. Taking him subdued and long at half height by both pitons, the firm crutches brought the intensity of the work to his ear. And to the chants of “Juli, stay!” Julián picked up on that thunderous tribute in the media. Pontevedra’s gratitude to a lifetime at the top. And one last apotheosis.
In the antipodes of the fate of El Juli, lived Morante de la Puebla. That he breasted (for a change) with the worst batch of the good run by Santiago Domecq. The alton first did not break in the cloak of MdlP, that gracefully flew to veronica and left a flavored stocking. A third of varas loosened and in charge of the picador who made the door, his delivery on the crutch did not improve. Where he passed, without a buoyant tour or finish surrendering. Morante imposed his stillness in very firm series and pearls of naturalness. Right-handed almost all of them, because nothing wanted the opener for the left. The final by right hands to feet together was of a superior beauty. His ear fell with the weight of the law. With the fourth, fasting of forces in their renewed attacks and on the defensive, there was no more history than brevity.