The figures in the 60s of the last century went to the bulls of Galache like bees to rich honey. The press of the time called them contemptuously guirlaches for their sweetness. There was a distinctive quality in them, also a certain fragility. The rise of the bull in the 1970s, after the approval of the figure in 1969, engulfed them like so many fine and tertiary type bloods in the face of the imposition of the big bull. The survival of Paco Galache and his “guirlaches” in the charro field is a story of romanticism. His return to the showcase of the festival came from the hand of Morante de la Puebla in Salamanca venues -with some notable bull in Salamanca itself- as a bet for the opening of encastes, in reality a return to the present of Galache with the defects multiplied over the virtues of the past: his brittle condition is almost sickly. Beneath, distant beats of the old quality are intuited. The child of the Sixth Sense saying “I see dead”. Pure rust.
Juan Ortega said when he replaced Morante that the Galache bulls allow you to fight slowly… There is more emotion in making yourself a living room bull in the rheumatology ward of Marañón. The Galaches appeared dying on the way out, so saddened with power that when they did not lose their support, they defended themselves or stayed below. They followed the tricks crawling, if they followed them. Which were the fewest times.
Between the Galaches dump, Daniel Luque appeared full of energy, a technical marvel with that shrunken and cowed bullfighter in his impotence and docility. To get what was not there, Luque stepped on suburban land with the hypnotic touch of his crutch on the left. One by one the approach to then try to give it rhythm on the right: “Don’t stop!”. He can’t do more with less, or get more into his territory, or put up with that happening. Because then there is the B side of what Ortega said, Juan, that they allow you to fight slowly -as a Buddhist exercise in adapting to a dying onslaught-, which is enduring it with your shoes bolted on. What DL came to do, that is. When he killed him with a half lunge above, he forcefully asked for his ear -I don’t know if with the majority of handkerchiefs but with voices under the sirimiri-. But the president unfairly ignored the request.
At the death of the fifth, he had no choice but to hand over his stubbornness and the trophy due because Daniel Luque was simply perfect. It was a symphony of well done, that the unforgettable Suárez-Guanes would say, making a basket with the few wickers, fighting at will when he strengthened and envy the galachito. A master class within anyone’s reach. Its spheroidal moment that has lasted for years should have been rewarded with a large scratched door. The blow released the forcefulness of his entire afternoon.
Diego Urdiales, who is to luck what I am to patience -we don’t know each other-, got the roundest and tightest meat of the tertiary bullfight who, in turn, was the one who hit the most headbutts, always on the hands and with the hands in front. His brindle look didn’t give her the air of an ox as much as his movements. The reddish and narrow room directly threw himself shortly after starting the job on his own rottenness. People already counted at this point with a solid anger. The most enthusiastic that was heard was a “kill him!”