The gray afternoon was waking up with a nostalgia for Morante that comes from before and lasted until the end. Of his unfathomable absence and his impossible substitution. José María Garzón rightly retraced his steps with Miguel Ángel Perera, since José María knows what the Bible says about rectification (and about upright men). The first bullfight at the Santiago fair could have been his, but Tomás Rufo appeared, tireless in his search for victory, overturning the expensive potential that he projects at the last minute. They rowed against an important mansada.
Perera fell in disgrace -that must have gone in the Morantista pack- a bull that was becoming ugly -inside the beautiful packaging of the third and very tame bullfight of Domingo Hernández / Garcigrande (Concha Hernández this time)-. And to his ugliness he added how he wore his face, his genius expression and the same genius with which he moved. So sticky the bastard. MAP had to be fully used with his powerful crutch. He bugged the garcigrande especially on the left, if he got out of it, wriggling around the ankles. A scare happened, and more than one. The solidity and mastery of the bullfighter from Extremadura, the power of his right, prevailed in a meritorious and elaborate work, left over from a length of time. At last he gave away some manoletinas of oh! And he solved with a sword blow in the corner. He fell right on the ear. Before the notice had fallen. The public applauded the dragging of the bull. Houellebecq already wrote that in most cases the transmission of knowledge is impossible, the diversity of intelligences is extreme and nothing suppresses this fundamental inequality.
Barquero used to abound about what it costs for a bullfight to attack in Santander, and what affects the proximity of the sea, and marks fondness. A fifth with a lost look and light profile jumped out with an empty hold. Curro Javier put the square on its feet with two exceptional pairs. Added value due to the complexity of the bullfight to banderillae. Perera would make bobbin lace with absolute superiority without the slightest emotion creeping up.
The afternoon had opened a precious pendant, of illustrious humiliation, speed and quality, but also of insinuated affections and counted push. She gave herself with more zeal and traveled to the right, which was the hand. Juli, who felt the good and not so much in the cape, skilfully doubled with him in the tercio and removed temptations by taking it out to the media. Without demanding him in a couple of batches of temper and a straight line. The natural bull clung, more remiss, to his meek willows. There wasn’t much else and JL gave it to him by hand, squeezing him until the end of the trip in a task -for the sake of correctness- that he should not have returned to the left. A jab, a rear lunge, an ovation after a slight request. The fourth colorado was a head-picking bull, a manageable thing exempt from class that El Juli measured on the horse. In the background he was not left over either. It was worth his move to entangle him – once again the right was the hand – in a task of popular registers and cheerful repertoire of fast consumption. What would have become of that – at times so in tune – was taken away by the lack of conviction of the sword. Four punctures, a lunge, the warning at that moment. And another ovation.
Tomás Rufo looked for all the loopholes with novilleril ambition to a disengaged third party with profiles according to the performance. Or vice versa. The epilogue for luquecinas tied with the kneeling prologue. And meanwhile a series with the outline of his left, another right hand with the attack leaving alone on the outside. A couple of disarms, a puncture, a lunge and the lysergic enthusiasm of the luquecinas under the sunbathing lines ended in an ear. A kid’s invention.