Bullfights and The Bathroom

Ten years ago in Valencia myself and my good friend from college approach the bullfighting arena. The parallels between this age old pregame scene and our division 1 NCAA football experiences are uncanny. In tow are 4 girls from northern California,we go to college in the deep south. All young, bright eyed and bushy tailed. A few tickets later my friend and the four California girls are ascending the stairs to our seats in this ancient stone bullfighting auditorium. I spy an old drunk, I spy a family man alone, I spy a rich man in sprezzatura smoking a big cigar that smells nice as I passed. The Cali girls faces flush from excitement and kalimotxo as we shuffle into out seats. The first bull, very valient, takes the stabs of the armored horseman on his back well. Angry now. The runners white feathered hooks. Not a problem. Then the matador. “ole, ole”. I look over, my God, the Cali girls have been crying this whole time, I hadnt noticed. They were already in ugly cry mode eyes swollen, giving it up for your dead momma weeping. Hyper ventilating everything. My friend and I probably looked like monsters showing our razore teeth to one another. I fucking loved bullfighting and the first of three was not over. The matador lined up and drove his sword into the bull and he fell into a heap.

The second bull was not as good. He cowered from the armored horseman but took his licks, he took the feathered hooks like a bitch too. It was only when the matador came out and he wouldnt carge that shit got real. Cusions, paper cups and all amnner of detritus rained onto the bullfighting ring to the chant of “toro no es valiente”. The tone said “you fucking bitchass bull die like a man”. God I love bullfighting. The matador eventually got him to charge with half heart and stabbed the sword in him. The bulls cry then inhale then exhale that was a blood fountain was a scene I will never forget. At that moment the mercy killers ran to the bull and dispatched him.

About two years later I’m in my home back in the deep south. My health had gone to shit and my cystic fibrosis was really turning on me. Continuous memento mori, shit was great fun. I’d gone through a breakup gone into the hospital and out again. coughing like hell coughing up shit all the time. I’m laying on my back in my bed and I have a sensation, you gotta be fucking kidding me. Cock sucker! I heave up and run to my bathroom. White tub/shower white tile all white and I breath out a shower of blood. For the first time in nearly two years I think about bull 2 of 3. The rain of blood his lung punctured fatally. The bleeding in my lungs improved. I’m just coughing up a teaspoon at a time when I go over to my mirror. I look like a dead man. I rest my hands on the counter put my head down and started to cry. very quickly I made a connnection, I thought about bull 2 of 3, what that meant, what it meant for all of us and the rain of bullshit fromthe fans at his cowardice facing death. I looked at myself in that mirror, changed my face and whispered “toro valiente”. That was 8 years ago, and I’m still fine, not perfect, but fine.

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