So I took Bruno Mars’ advice and decided to be lazy this past weekend which gave me the time to finally type up another blog. Since I had started the Spain Chronicles a few weeks back (well over a month ago but who is counting) I will take this opportunity to write up part dos of our trip to Spain. Today’s blog is all about the bullfight Charlie, Sherri, Brent and I attended and the subsequent trying to get the vision of it out of our head.
Spain like most of Europe has only two sports, golf and soccer – well futbol in all places other than the US. There is Cricket which I know nothing about at all. A home run isn’t even called a home run – it’s called a “sixer” because you get six runs when one is hit. And a ground rule double is called a “four” or “boundary” because you get four runs for doing so. In the footnotes of this blog I will have to credit the all knowing Jeeves for my ever growing Cricket knowledge.
The only other sport in Spain is bullfighting, but is bullfighting a sport or an activity for entertainment? I often question this about bowling and golf. My definition of an activity is can I play it equally well while having a beer or 3 and in the case of golf and bowling I actually play it better with a buzz on. Which I am sad to say under that definition makes NASCAR a sport. I might have to reevaluate my definition of an activity.
The real reason that defines bullfighting as an activity is that you know who the winner will be. Which I guess that made going to Detroit Lions games a few years ago as going to an activity. Quick tangent here – the Lions made some great picks in the draft and if Matt Stafford can stay healthy they will be a team to be reckoned with in the ever increasingly competitive NFC North. That is if the owners and players figure out how to split $9 billion and play next season.
Here are some quick facts about bullfighting in Spain. The season lasts from March to September with the peak of the season in June and July. Bullfighting has been banned in much of Spain but not in Madrid and Sevilla. There are 3 matches, I guess they are called matches and the bull always loses much like the Cubs which lead to the following facebook status and comment - I put my status as going to a bullfight and I was rooting for the bull, which lead to a comment by my friend David that said “I can tell you are a Cub fan.”
The bullfight arena, El Plaza de Toros, is really cool looking from the outside. It is all brick with Spanish tiling with high towers and seats about 40,000 people. It is a very striking building when you first see it. The prices of the seats are broken into sun side and shade side with the sun side being half the price of the shade side and then broken out some more depending on how close you sit to the ring. Well we sat on the sun side, temps only in the low 60’s, and got seats in the first row. Little did we know what we were about to see from the first row.
The seats in the arena are all benches like the bleachers at Wrigley Field which made me feel right at home. One of the issues of being in the first row is that you have to climb down into your seats and you have a row of benches directly behind which meant once in the seats you aren’t leaving, even if you are heaving (more on that in a bit.) See teach, period inside of the parenthesis. Inside running joke there.
The best part of our bullfight experience was beer was only $3.00 a can. After that, it is all downhill.
Since the weather forecast called for chilly temps and a chance of rain the arena was maybe 25% full - all on our side in the sun section. The matches start with a parade of the matadors, matador assistants and some dudes on horses. Oh yeah, and the ring hands which next to bathroom attendants don’t exactly have the greatest of jobs. There also was a 5 member band of merry men playing some very ominous music. Then some dude comes out with a sign that has info on the first bull, height and weight and birth date. What I did find strange was there was no public address announcer – none. And even if there was one it wouldn’t have helped since all the announcements would have been in Spanish anyway. And there was no national anthem sung before the matches. And to make matters worse, I had finished my beer and couldn’t get out of my seat to get another one. And to make matters doubly worse, Charlie spilled her ¾ full beer over the wall. Oh my, the horror of it all.
Now it was bull time, I jokingly did my best Michael Buffer impersonation – which the guys next to me didn’t understand. They then open some doors and out comes the bull. This dude was one mean looking bull, not that there are many not so mean looking bulls. Just take a look at Joakim Noah – he is one funky looking Bull.
Another tangent run here – back in early March my nephew Aaron and I drove to Miami from Lakeland, FL to see the Bulls play the Heat. This was during the time that the NBA was celebrating Latin Week so all the teams took on a Spanish theme nickname - which is a really neat thing for the NBA to do, only if they didn’t screw it up by just adding an “el” or “los” in front of the team name. So the Bulls became Los Bulls and the Heat became El Heat. How friggin dumb!!! How cool would a Bulls jersey be if it said “Toros” on it, not Los Bulls.
Back to the bull fight which really isn’t much of a fight. The matador assistants stick the bull with spears with frilly stuff on them to add color to the event. The bull is also gorged with a large spear from one of the dudes on the horse. By the time the matador starts doing his ole’ing, the bull is pretty much subdued.
But our bull had fight in him and didn’t go quietly into the night. The matador was doing his ole’ing and got knocked over by the bull. The bull then started going after the matador while he was on the ground. The matador assistants all came to the rescue of the matador and saved him from any injury. While the matador was on the ground and the bull looked as if he may win, the thought popped into my head that there may just be some hope for the Cubs yet.
The fight ended like every other bull fight with the bull being put down. It was a lot more gruesome then I had imagined it would be and made us feel dirty that we actually paid to witness this, but strangely we would have felt like we had missed something about Spain if we didn’t go. Oh the quandary, right Harley. The saving grace to the day was that during the match it start to rain pretty hard which soaked Brent and I – note to people with umbrellas, they may keep you dry but the guys sitting on either side of you get soaked from the run off. After the match was over, the ring hands drag the bull around the ring which is supposed to honor the bull. Honor, schmonor – we had enough and used the fact that Brent and I were soaked to not stay for the next 2 matches.
As we were waiting for the subway in the nearby Metro station (with a bunch of Americans who all were “too wet” to stay for the other matches) we started talking to this couple from America who were both visibly upset. The girl said she almost threw up on the people in front of her - which at that point I realized where the line “we ain’t leavin till we’re heavin” originated. Later in the week we all admitted that we were having issues getting the image of the bull fight out of our head, which I finally was able to do until now after typing up this blog. Thanks!
So I guess that’s it for today since I have that image stamped in my brain again and can’t type anymore. Check back soon for part tres of the Spain Chronicles where your heroes took the speed train to Barcelona. So for now this is so long and good bye where I just thought of a good use for the bullfighting image – I will add it to the grandma and baseball image when needed at the “appropriate” time. Yep, I think I have something here – baseball, grandma, bullfighting….
