A disservice has been done to Damián Castaño by those who have told him that he can fight beautifully. Or those who sang the naturals of September as the naturals of the season. Damián, who is an honest guy, a seasoned bullfighter, hardened in a thousand hard battles, and therefore deserves all the respect, came in to replace this line-up of artists, perhaps also infected with the fact that his work should follow that path. And he wanted to compose the figure throughout his first task, forgetting about bullfighting. I mean that the El Pilar bull, with a good hook and little push to get out, a bit sticky due to the kind humiliation of him, needed to be hooked from the front. And Damián passed out the crutches. As if he bullfighted beautifully.
Juan Ortega, who came with the aura of today is going to be, He had drawn on the DC bull a move with loose and lazy arms, two veronicas of exact cadence through the left piton. And an average of expensive flight. It remained as a letter of introduction for what later could not be with a bull without zeal, little humiliation and, in general, little of everything. So washed out on the outside. Ortega left that seal of art that in Madrid is the trench. And a change of hand. Without the possibility of spinning anything else with that careless onslaught.
Before the midpoint of the afternoon, Pablo Aguado won the trench scoreboard with two and a signature pass that closed a nice prologue. The well-dosed task prologues on social networks, in slow motion, give you an entire task. Aguado did not need the slow motion Well that’s its speed. As was that of a well-built bull, cinqueño like JO’s, but more trained in his trapío. And also more humiliating. Nobility cracked by lack of bravery, Pablo does not hook the attacks more than Castaño. Although it accompanies better. Nothing happened and the notes, also with the cape, blurred.
The only black bull of the sextet jumped out as fourth, which, in turn, increased, with and from him, its seriousness. He didn’t have much power, but things were beating deep inside his clay, he was able to handle it well, I don’t know. Damián Castaño broke out of the artist mold with a long change of knees, and returned with a veronica with splinted arms that Madrid chanted. I remembered Daniel Luque at that moment and during the task that the man from Salamanca carried out by leaping from the bush (and with his hat on). In bullfighting there may be certain injustices, but in general nothing is just because. Neither above nor below. Castaño, who has already been in the alternative for 11 years, killed it extraordinarily well. His way and his place, which he has, are others. His batch wasn’t bad. He had earned this position through his own merits, and that is fine even if he did not fit the meaning of the poster.
As the fifth, a tall, ungainly, unruly and distracted bull jumped out. With an open face and a race on the run. A bluff. For Juan Ortega it was the most denied lot, although Ortegaism did not avoid the snack of the enthusiastic previous columns. Mine, Peláez’s and so on. The season had been nice in smaller settings -Valdemorillo, Santander, Valladolid- and it was about encouraging the endorsement, once absent in San Isidro, in the great showcase of Madrid. At this point in the bullfight, I’m afraid, Juan’s spirit had shriveled in despair. A bit for Veronica to remember, another for chicuelinas. Neither bread for today, nor for the soul,