Life as a Matador—How Satisfying?
The story of one who realized his dream of becoming a matador, and what this life was really like.
FOR nearly twenty years I dreamed of becoming a full-fledged matador, and at long last the moment had arrived. It was April 2, 1967, in Alcalá de Henares, Madrid.
When I walked out of the hotel, there was a large crowd of friends and followers who wanted to be with me on this important day. That afternoon, in the ceremony called the alternativa, I was to have conferred on me the title of matador de toros, the highest professional rank in bullfighting.
Those presenting me were senior matador Curro Romero, the godfather of the ceremony, and as official witness the famous matador El Cordobés, Manuel Benitez. After a few words of encouragement welcoming me to this exclusive group of professionals, I received what are commonly called los trastos de matar, the tools of the trade. These are the sword and the muleta, which is the small cape used to deceive the bull.
Then came an embrace from the two veteran matadors. And finally, face to face with the bull. I passed the test. Now a promising career lay before me. At last I had achieved what I had desired for so long.
Early Desire to Be a Matador
When I was a boy, bullfighting was my only interest. I used to sit at the door of the local barbershop just to listen to the men talk about it. At the time, they were still talking about the death of one of the most famous bullfighters of all time, Manolete (Manuel Rodriguez), who was killed by a bull in 1947.
I had been practicing bullfighting for some time, but without a real animal. Finally my opportunity came. It was December 1958, when I was only fifteen.
Some older friends planned to go at night to a corral to practice. I managed to convince them to take me along. With difficulty they separated a wild cow from the herd. Then the four of us took turns at “fighting” it. After we finished, there was an argument as to who had been the best. One boy said that I had been. This surprised me, since I had no idea as to what was good or bad in bullfighting. From then on, my older friends took me along to their nocturnal bullfights, and I gained a lot of experience.
One night I was caught with a thrust of a cow’s horn that opened up my face from the edge of my mouth down to my chin. The only doctor I had was my companion, who poured aguardiente, a cheap brandy, into the wound. This was my first blood spilled, and I considered it an honor. But how would I react the next time? Would I be afraid to face a bull in a ring before an audience?
As I pondered such questions, I was even more determined to become a successful matador.
Pursuing My Goal
My father attempted everything to discourage me. He beat me, and denied me meals. When he discovered that I was missing at night, he locked the door so I would have to spend the rest of the night on the street. So when I was about sixteen I decided to run away with two companions who also wanted to be matadors.
We went to Salamanca in the north of the country, some 700 kilometers (434 miles) from my home in Palma del Río. We hitched rides on freight trains, and suffered cold and hunger, but were able to keep alive by begging food from farms, and sometimes by stealing chickens. At times I thought of returning home, but the thought of the glory of being a matador spurred me on.
One day we heard that there was going to be a bullfight in Ciudad Rodrigo, in Salamanca Province. There the bulls are so big that only a few persons are willing to risk themselves in the ring. But my desire to be a matador was so great that I did not worry about the danger. I just wanted to become famous.
On that occasion, because of my daring, I was given some money, sufficient to get me to Madrid. There, with the help of relatives, I joined a bullfighting school. I attended for three months to practice what is called salón bullfighting, and to improve my style.
My First Formal Fight
Now I was a novice, called a novillero. To reach my goal of becoming a full matador I needed experience and public exposure.
Finally the time came in 1963 when I first fought in a formal bullfight, with my name appearing on advertisements. It was in my hometown, Palma del Río, Córdoba. The occasion was the town’s religious fiesta, and, as is the custom in most towns, it included two bullfights.
Once in the ring, I was so anxious to win that I am sure that my fury was greater than the bull’s. And I did triumph—I was awarded both ears and the tail of the bull, the maximum prize, and the right to return the next day. On that occasion, too, I was successful. Everybody acclaimed me and said that I would become a good torero, or matador.
A businessman wanted to become my manager and representative. My father had changed his mind and no longer resisted the idea of my becoming a matador, since he could see the economic benefits. Before a notary he emancipated me and turned me over to the manager, as I was still underage. My mother, on the other hand, was against the idea because of the danger involved.
Further Steps Toward My Goal
My manager was very good to me at first, arranging for fights that I needed with young bulls. This permitted me to develop and improve. But then I stopped making progress, since my manager was an amateur in the profession and was not qualified to help me to reach the stature of a full matador. My contract with him was for five years, and the only way out was to buy my freedom, which I did. I had to sign away a large sum of money, but at least I was free to progress in my career.
With a new manager, I obtained a contract to fight in Bilbao, one of the most important and spacious bullrings in Spain. This proved to be an important fight in my professional career.
In the course of my cape work, the bull’s horn caught the cape and pinned it to the ground. So I was left defenseless, without a means of deceiving the bull. I could have run for safety, without loss of honor. But in my inexperience and desire to succeed, I stood my ground, kicking at the bull’s face. However, its horn caught my left thigh, almost piercing it through.
My blood was flowing. The crowd would surely excuse me for withdrawing. Momentarily I was indecisive. But then the desire to triumph and progress toward my goal of becoming a full-fledged matador proved stronger than the pain of the wound. I called for another cape, and despite the fact that bullring authorities tried to stop me, I again faced the bull. I began feeling weak.
Even though the public does not want to see a tragedy, they get excited. and are expectant in situations when the danger to the matador is great. In spite of the injury, I completed the cape work and killed the bull successfully. Amid the acclaim of the crowd I circled the arena, and was then carried off to the infirmary. After receiving first aid, I was transferred to the special hospital for bullfighters in Madrid.
Reports of the fight were published in the papers, bringing me to the attention of the bullfighting public. Also, a picture appeared showing me, horn wound in thigh, fighting the bull. I became famous, and obtained engagements in the best rings in Spain and in the south of France. Thus I eventually reached my goal, taking the alternativa on April 2, 1967.
Satisfaction as a Matador?
I now began receiving up to $2,500 or so for each corrida, or fight. However, after paying my cuadrilla, or troupe, the travel expenses, food, hotel bills and 10 percent to my manager, often less than 10 percent was left for me. I was not accumulating the riches that I desired; in fact, I was spending more than I earned, figuring that the following season I would earn more.
For a time I considered it marvelous to be a matador—it offered fame and adulation. But I began to see that these people were more the friends of the matador than of me as a person. They wanted to bask in the reflected glory of the victorious matador and to be seen with him. Thus, after successful fights, the hotel would be full of “friends”; fiestas would be arranged in my honor. But on the day when things went badly in the ring, these “friends” were conspicuous by their absence.
Furthermore, I began to realize that bullfighting was run by a small number of powerful persons. A few empresarios controlled the major bullrings, and whether one obtained contracts to fight in them or not depended more on one’s connections than on one’s skills. Also, newspaper writers commonly would not report a matador’s triumphs in the ring unless they received their “tip” beforehand.
Then there were the almost inevitable gorings. Of course, they were painful physically, but they also hurt the pocketbook, since the season only lasts a few months and a goring might put one out of action for from two to four weeks or more. I had seven gorings, and it got to where the scars on my body looked like a road map.
Life as a matador, I began to see, was not all that I had imagined it to be. However, it was something else that caused me to question the value of the life I was living.
The Matador and Religion
Religion is closely associated with bullfighting. Matadors customarily visit an image-filled shrine to worship prior to each fight; many carry a portable shrine with them. I remember, on one occasion, that I prayed before my shrine before entering the ring, as was my custom, but on coming back afterward I discovered that the shrine had caught fire! If I had arrived any later the entire room would have been burned out. That made me think: If these images could not save themselves, how could they possibly protect me in a bullfight? This doubt plagued me.
On another occasion when I was bullfighting in France, I went to confession, as was also my custom. Those of us who were waiting were surprised and disappointed when the priest would not come out to attend to us. Then when he heard that I was there, he came out and attended to me, but ignored the humble people who had been waiting for so long. Incidents such as this began to weaken my faith in the Catholic Church. Yet I believed in God, and had respect for the Bible. In fact, I used to enjoy reading it.
So once I asked a priest about the Bible, explaining that I wanted to understand it. However, he discouraged me, saying that the Bible was for theologians and that it would drive me crazy if I read it. That saddened me, weakening my faith in the Church even more.
A Better Purpose in Life
About this time, in the fall of 1968, my wife and I were having breakfast when a knock came at the door. She opened it and found two women who spoke to us from the Bible. To each question I raised, they provided a Bible answer. I marveled, desiring to handle the Bible like that. On reading the literature I had accepted from them, I realized it could help me to get the Bible knowledge I so much desired. Soon we accepted a regular Bible study in our home.
It was just at this time that I was invited to participate in a bullfight as part of a fiesta on a ranch. The bishop of Seville was there, and I noticed how much he was enjoying the proceedings. But somehow I felt out of place.
In my career I must have killed about 240 bulls. But even then, as I watched other matadors fight a badly bleeding and suffering bull, I felt pity for the animal. As I became more familiar with Bible teachings, I realized that bullfighting was no career for a true Christian. That bullfight in connection with the fiesta on the ranch proved to be my last.
As I came to appreciate God’s purpose to create a righteous new system of things, my desire to serve Him grew stronger.
(2 Pet. 3:13) This became my chief purpose in life. And since the Bible explains that God wants all to know of his new system, I began telling others about it.—Matt. 24:14.
Many were surprised, as well as pleased, to see me when I called at their door. They were keen on talking with me about bullfighting. But then I would take the opportunity to explain that there is something much better in life than bullfighting—it is knowing and serving our grand Creator. I have certainly found this to be true. Contributed.