Morante lights the flame of peace with Bilbao between meek and meritorious ears

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The black van from Roca Rey announced, parked at the very door of the classic Carlton Hotel, that the new idol of Bilbao had returned and was resting in his room. Well, at that time, 3:45 p.m., the bullfighters rest watching over their weapons and, depending on their fears, distract time in one way or another. There were among the classics those who hid in bed with the blinds down, the cold on their feet and the darkness as a companion, and those who preferred the light of happiness, conversation and jokes from supporters until the moment they dismantled the chair and put on the armor. After 5:30 p.m., the black van of Roca Rey went up this Bilbao full of banners with his sphinx -and those of other figures from the fair- on the way to the stage that made him the hero of the 2022 General Bullfights.

At 6:11 p.m., the square, which looked magnificent – about 12,000 people – raised a standing ovation in memory of the epic. Inside the Roca Rey alley, she encouraged her companions to share it. Morante de la Puebla, “el gordo” in the throat of an idiot, told them yes, they were leaving. Manuel Escribano signed up first, waiting for RR. The teacher, finally, was looking for something in the lace of the shoes… In truth, the logical and bullfighting order that should have been followed was that of the appearance of the protagonist of the tribute, that is, the Peruvian star, and then invited to share the ovation to his companions. And then we would see.

I was doing the dense chronicle between time jumps when at 7:29 p.m. Morante de la Puebla stopped the clock with an anthological half veronica, as if all the light from Bilbao that was already dwindling with the gale settled on his flight. That stocking, a prodigy of antiquity, fastened a sheaf of silky veronicas, straight as his cloak, swaying to the beat of his wrists. A solitary and unusual beauty among so many bonnets, espaldines, courageous merits, intelligent approaches, others not so much and thick things. Through her, through beauty, I mean, MdlP was ingratiated with Bilbao, who understood the meaning of what is different. The bull, which had come out mounted, was going down and went down a quarter after completing the horse’s process. He came with that temperate stride that heralds meekness. Morante trapped him in his forge, and from Chicuelo’s mold he overturned a winged take that rotated at the speed of the earth’s core. He solved a hand with a long one that slowly wrapped the entire drawing. What the gentle onslaught lasted -very little-, he took advantage of to teach the cadence on this afternoon of iron: an extraordinary round series on his right hand, between the lines, full of packaging and embroque, left honey on his lips, because the bull in the next one had already deflated, a minute before completely cracking. Through the same burladero that Morante did not want to show up, he timidly greeted the ovation of peace.

He erased with so little, the minimum to ignite the flame, the brevity before the first, an impossible of very poor power that, beyond what he defended himself, staying below, brought out bad style. The thing about Morante in the draws is ridiculous, despite the fact that this Thursday it was difficult to find luck in the heart-wrenching and tame bullfight of the Port. But there was within an order.

At 18:30 Manuel Escribano nailed himself to the gayola porta. He fought the long change with that shell that appeared through the bullpen door, another already closed in the third and a chain of linked sets up to the same hydrant, where he finished off with a sock veronica looking at the line. On the proliferation of luck “looking at the line” in recent times and throughout this afternoon, we will talk another day. He herded Cubilón with his encased temperament on his back, sometimes bordering on genius. Escribano left it very whole -perhaps too much- on the horse, and fixed the unequal tercio of banderillas with that locomotive thanks to the tremendous broken pair on the violin. The principle of slaughtering for changed did not seem to suit the bull. That untamed point needed another mold. He was not easy to reduce by his best hand, which was the right hand. A lot of whipping between the contenders, and some scare with the edges of the natural attack. At the end of so much emotion, the bull threatened to crack. A sword blow and an ear. Inadmissible was the request of another. There were no reasons with the bland and dull fifth that collapsed before a repetitive Notary who had gone to portagayola again and electrified again with the sticks, especially with the par inside from the stirrup.

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