Carrie invited me on a Sunday outing. Her friends, Maria and Juan, had invited Carrie, Ella, and me to join them, their children’s families, and six cattlemen from Nebraska for a bullfight. We first stopped by the hacienda, built in 1540, to meet Maria and get the tickets. 

The hacienda, located in a small Zapopan town near Guadalajara, was positioned directly across from the village church—the proximity a sign of the hacienda’s prominence in the life of the town. 

Bougainvillea softened the archways leading to terrace after terrace of formal gardens and grassy outdoor plazas. The main dining room sat twenty, and the topiaries outside, festooned with tiny white lights, cast a glow on the room within. Later in the evening, a feast for sixty people would be served on the outdoor covered terrace. The matadors would be in attendance, but, because they’re of a lower social class, they’d stand together on the grassy lawn, never coming to sit at the table.

We got to the bullring just as the band was warming up. Juan and his extended family of 25 people motioned for us to sit with them in the most prized seats directly in the middle of the bleachers. Carrie whispered that since Juan owned the bullring, he was treating us to the best view. The cattle ranchers from Nebraska passed the tequila. Festivities began promptly at 4:00, a time when the sun is in the bull’s eyes to keep him from seeing too clearly the matador who will taunt him.

The bull that will die this afternoon must have thought he’d survived the worst that could happen. He’d lived on a ranch for three years with no human contact. Yesterday, when he was forced into a truck, the men using metal prods remained hidden. Being shoved into a truck after a life on the open range is frightening. Bulls resist. 

Today, the bull will see people for the first time. The first boy he meets will stick him at least once before he enters the ring to be taunted and stabbed. The bull will be fighting for his life, but the outcome is inevitable.

The bull that’s been stuck with a knife and is bleeding from his shoulder is released from the gate and invited into the ring to prove his mettle. If he doesn’t charge and pursue the matadors, he will be sent back to the paddock.  He must exhibit power and strength in order to test the virility of the matador. That’s what all this is supposed to be about. 

Two matadors claim each of the three wooden barriers and take turns darting from behind the walls to entice the bull to charge. He runs from one side of the ring to the other, snorting and bleeding, sometimes battering his horns against the wood while the matadors surely quake behind it.  Capes wave in the breeze.  The matadors, dressed in skintight pants and embroidered jackets, perform a ballet, of sorts, while this beast of the field fights for his freedom.

The picador, dressed in an elaborate vest and armored leggings, must insert two banderillas, three-foot long sticks decorated with red ribbon on one end and sharp points on the other, in the bull’s back. Because his horse is terrified of cattle and rears if it sees a bull, it has had its ears stuffed with wet newspaper, its eyes blindfolded, its vocal cords cut so the crowd won’t hear its cries when the bull slams into it, and its sides and legs covered with batting. 

When the picador has successfully placed the banderillas, which will dangle from the bull until the end, the rest of the matadors retreat and the battle becomes one of a single man against an angry, injured, and exhausted bull.