The extraordinary atmosphere that enveloped the Maestranza at the opening of the San Miguel fair with a surprising “no tickets” was not accompanied, in truth, by the brilliance of the bullfight, which collapsed like the bulls of Matilla. But, in the past, a cape like that of Morante de la Puebla, a cluster of categorical veronicas like the ones he signed, and a beginning of work – beyond the ear of encouragement – with the seal of Pablo Aguado’s subtlety were enough to put together a positive chronicle. A notable bull could even be brought in to sustain the prestige of the rancher with the burden of condemning José María Manzanares to a greater demand. The thing is that the afternoon fell too far in its second half. A black hole difficult to overcome. There is no need to give up in the effort…
Morante’s regularity, his dazzling ability, in the art of veronica is worth highlighting. As much as an irreducible jinx in the draws. He reappeared after a break that seemed eternal and warmed up his injured right wrist in the team yard with turns that greased his bearings. When he drew Veronica with uncontained beauty, so slowly, Morante confirmed that both of her wrists were broken. Only with them fractured can one conceive that astonishing speed, the stopped flight, the unmatched embroque, the great difference with the other aesthetes of the cape. In that greeting split in two, the bull having fled from the first part of it, MdlP strapped on his sneakers, sank his chin and unfolded the packaging, in four sets like four sculptures that led to two beautiful Veronica stockings. If the reader could notice, everything was pure doll.
Hermanos García Jiménez’s bull (Matilla) had done nothing good, without humiliating, passing more than using himself, as lacking in substance as it was in class. He barely served for a few of the Veronica-style tuxedos, baroque in his style. The mounted features of the animal predicted all its shortcomings, overturned almost suddenly at the beginning of the task, specifically in a beautiful bass-assisted shot, when he stayed in his sneakers, turning off the few lights that were blinking. The teacher from La Puebla, also bothered by a mischievous wind, shortened after three rounds counted with the careless attack. He repeated the shoal in his punishment with a quarter, red and round, with which Morante confirmed again his unfathomable capacity with the cape, a telluric, concise greeting, the sleeping Veronica, the consolation of morantism. He inhabited the void within the renegade beast. Without giving up bullfighting, MdlP continued with the sad faith of his hopeless gesture.
José María Manzanares got a fine bull, well made, very lively and good. From the beginning he was distracted until Manzanares focused him on the task prologue with magnetizing doubloons. Regarding the unsustained humiliation of this Principal, the name of the funo, the way he opened himself stood out, those tame fringes that did not detract one bit from his notable repetition. On the contrary. Manzanares found himself more comfortable with his right hand, embroidering chest passes that elevated the fast and linked rounds, sometimes without releasing. The accelerated speed seemed excessive when the time came to present the left: the only series of naturals was electric. Of cramping lashes. With or without a puncture, a bullfighting figure with a bull like this is obliged to do much more. She greeted a cheer. A fifth of serious presence, which rose in a bullfight that maintained an equality as a whole, with no two bulls being similar or equal, pointed out good things but did not develop them. He lacked drive and employment, life and joy, in that way of taking off, so focused. Manzanares completed the procedure.
God brought Pablo Aguado down to see a bull that charged at the speed of its cadence, at the height of its concept, with its little humiliation, a product of its small neck. Aguado is the owner of that gift and he enjoyed the exquisite tact that seems to exempt him from the meeting. The verónicas were chanted, a departure from winged chicuelinas and a huge, extraordinary start to the job, in fact the best part of it. The trench remained as a monument. The bull began a gentle downhill slope towards a cracked goodness while the Sevillian held the pulse of naturalness, contact with his essence, the medium height, the touch, the bullfighting that inhabits his slowness, feet together or knee on the ground. He hunted him with the sword and his ear was, as I say, encouraging. There was no case with a sixth that was too brittle, also damaged by a tenacious flutter. And the night fell on a disappointing afternoon, brief but not entirely empty. Viewed positively like this chronicle. As well as comfort.