Gijón was a party. The last bullfight of the return of the bulls to El Bibio -a triumph in itself- became the apotheosis, almost an expense, a generous loot, a waste of joy and ears, not all the same or with the same weight and, therefore, Therefore, supported by different arguments that led to the final photograph on the shoulders of Sebastián Castella, Alejandro Talavante and Tomás Rufo. That they feasted with the spellbinding sextet of José Vázquez, with a good background, some bumps in power, class delights, some important bull and another that was on the way to being so.
A canned voice was heard at the dawn of the afternoon over the public address system in the square, thanking the fans for the good port in which the ship for the return of the bulls docked: “Cordiality and happiness have reigned among the attendees.” And he said goodbye with a certain grace: “If God wants it, that he will want it because he is a great fan, we will be here with all of you next year.”
The bullfight of José Vázquez, the only cinqueño of the entire Begoña fair, premiered. A black bull, short and voluminous, very tight, weighed down by kilos, who finished off his harmony with a buttoned face, a point down the horn, also tight. Like a croissant. The bet consisted of whether such a heavy body was going to have an engine to move it. When he fell so short at the start in Sebastián Castella’s cape, oh, doubts grew. But he had in favor that humiliation so fixed that even then he showed and a bullfighter who was simply perfect. The engine was, in the end, frontier, the precise one, but with the category of a good, serious and orderly bottom as the exact task of Castella. That he chose the land a little more outside the second line, parallel to it. Up to there he arrived with the plasticity of some doubloons that gave birth to an extraordinary change of hand. And on foot a pass of contempt before building exactly, as I say, three series on the right hand and one with the left. The temple, the wait, the meeting and the measure to administer it presided over them. He slew him righteously and fell an ear in justice.
Another one went to the gate of Alejandro Talavante for a task in the antipodes of the elegant Frenchman. That is to say, cheerful, improvised and, ultimately, messy. Very Talavante, that is. The bull, handsome, finer and more flexible, was pinned on. The good air about him lacked power. A rear spear knocked him down. AT, who had greeted him with lanterns and cloak aprons, soon introduced him to the left. And by that hand, which was also that of the bull, he drew unconnected pearls. A lantern over there. And, as on the right the half-trips didn’t quite raise the task, suddenly he took out some luquecinas from his sleeve. There in the middle of the scattered work, also, of land. And he went back to the classic before saying goodbye with bernadinas and an arrucina as a brooch. Half a stretched lunge, and the joyful prize. Like everything.
A bull’s heel was made the third, a painting that had been spilling class. Tomás Rufo curdled bullfighting to the veronica with a sensational cadence, to the beat of the set, a beautiful sheaf, of formidable embroque, the bullfighter sunk in it. The class came in a fragile container, so protested the absence of strength. There was a silly expense and for others in the breastplate. Of lack of attention. If power comes to accompany the bull, it was a revolution. Of course, even then I would not have had that class. TR’s touch and treatment, as well as his line, were perfect, and the natural ones were simply pluperfect, unbeatable from the beginning to the end of the afternoon. A single fall recalled the weakness of the attack, which found oblivion in the temper. He ended the raised question with a clean body rudeness. It was unforgivable to waste such an expensive pulse with the sword like this.