The Tragedy of Joselito

The boy woke up especially early. It was a hot autumn day and the last day of the Talavera de la Reina bullfighting season. He had devoted the entire season doing an assortment of jobs so he could buy a ticket for today’s spectacle. His hero, Joselito, would be in the ring and he would not miss it.

Knowing his father would not let him attend until he completed all of his chores, the child got to work. He mopped the tiny kitchen floor. He milked their lone cow, Magro, and fed the chickens. He drew the day’s supply of water from the rusted pump in the yard, heating it up on the cast iron gas stove.

By mid-morning, worn out by all of his arduous work, he joined the family for breakfast. The family, assembled around a small olive wood table in the kitchen enjoying a simple meal of tostada con mantequilla y mermelada, - Spanish style toast with butter and jam. The boy’s mother poured coffee into her husband’s earthenware mug and hot chocolate into the children’s cups. The boy’s father studied the local newspaper.

As the sun sank below the surrounding mountains, the youngster made his way across the Iron Bridge. He strolled towards the stone and red brick bullring.

It seemed like the entire city assembled in the plaza outside the arena. Vendors hawked everything from small flags to medals depicting Joselito. Sellers also presented a collection of snacks - sandwich mixto, spicy patatas bravas and sweet churros. The smell of the food was intoxicating, but the boy had only enough money for a ticket, so he headed straight to the ticket booth.

Stuffed inside the cramped cubicle, a gray-haired man squatted on a worn wooden stool behind a shallow counter. The man was so large; the boy wondered how he fit inside the booth. As the youngster approached the booth, the man shifted his weight with an audible grunt. The boy paused as the man adjusted himself before approaching the open window.

Once at the window, his fear struck him speechless. He dropped a handful of coins on the counter - he had saved the exact cost of the cheapest ticket so there was no need to count it - and raised one finger in the air.

The man silently palmed the money and, with a few flicks of his stubby fingers, counted it. With his eyes back on the boy, he reached under the counter. He came up with a small slip of yellow paper, which he slid through the window. The child snatched the ticket from the counter. Steps away from the stall, he peeked down at the ticket. His eyes brightened as he realized it was a ticket for the front section of the arena, behind the wooden barrier. The ticket seller made a mistake! The boy fought his way through the line and approached the window. The man stared at him with bewilderment.

“Excuse me, Señor. You made a mistake,” the boy said, holding up the ticket.

“No mistake,” Without glancing up, the man grumbled.

“But…”

“No mistake”. The man finally looked in the boy’s direction. “Enjoy,” he replied with a wide grin, revealing several missing teeth.

The boy’s heart was beating so intensely he thought it would burst. He was so puzzled by the man’s kindness that he didn’t recall walking to his seat. The next thing he knew, he found himself surrounded by men in fine linen suits and bob-haired women carrying parasols. The sweet smell of cigarillo smoke and calimocho - an alcoholic concoction made of red wine and cola - permeated the air.

The same hawkers the child noticed in the plaza moved inside with the throng. His mouth watered as the scent of churros hit his nose. A well-dressed man in a straw boater hat called out to a merchant.

“Another round of calimocho for my friends!”

The man noticed the poorly dressed boy sitting next to him, beamed and said, “And a churro for my new friend!”

As the boy took his first bite of the soft doughy treat, music blared from the arena’s loudspeaker, indicating the start of the day’s event. First to enter the stadium was a group of Miguel Primo de Rivera devotees. The crowd, tired of the oppressive dictator’s regime, let out a collective “boo”.

Next, entered the bullfight contenders - the horse mounted picadores, the sword-wielding banderilleros, and ultimately the matadores, themselves. The spectators vibrated with excitement as Joselito crossed the sand covered ring. This titan competed in the largest arenas in Spain, and the town’s citizens were thrilled to have a legend in their midst.

“Today you are witnessing history, my boy,” proclaimed the man as he wrapped his arm around his new companion.

Many bulls fell that day. With each successive defeat, the crowd became more frenzied. Late into the night, the moment had finally arrived. The crowd pressed in closer as the final bull entered the ring. Bailador was smaller than the other beasts. He meandered around the arena as if lost.

This isn’t a proper opponent for a master like Joselito, thought the boy.

As the matador entered the arena, the spectators broke out into cheers. The wooden bench beneath the boy shook. Joselito ignored the surrounding chaos. He methodically adjusted his montera and brushed a speck of sand from his jacket. At the opposite end of the ring, Bailador paced. Joselito ignored the creature.

“He’s showing the bull that he is in charge,” observed the fellow.

When he was ready, Joselito strode to the center of the ring. He drew the cape from his shoulder with a flourish. Bailador noticed the movement and charged towards the matador. Joselito barely moved as the bull sped towards him. He brushed the bull aside with his cape like you would swat a fly.

The cat-and-mouse game went on for several minutes - the bull just missing Joselito and Joselito barely moving. Bailador was unlike other bulls that day. He was erratic, swerving at odd moments.

“He’s in a blind rage,” commented the man.

“All the easier for Joselito,” replied the boy.

“Not true. He’s unpredictable and therefore more dangerous.”

As if to prove the man’s point, Bailador galloped past the bullfighter, its coat glistening with sweat. He hooked a picador’s horse in the neck, knocking it to the ground, trapping the rider’s leg in the stirrup. The audience drew in a gasp.

Seeing his partner in trouble, Joselito rushed to the man’s side. This was a calamitous mistake. Moving quickly. Reacting without thinking. Losing focus. Taking his eyes off the five hundred pound animal - all the things he had trained most of his career not to do- would cost Joselito his life.

For a brief moment, it appeared as if Bailador was bowing to the matador. Standing next to Joselito, the bull’s head hung low. With a speed none of the spectators saw that day, his head whipped upwards, his horn catching the matador’s thigh. The man’s body flew into the air like a leaf in the wind. He fell slowly. His abdomen impaled on the animal’s blunt horn. The bull tossed him to the ground. The crowd rose to their feet. Women screamed. Some fainted. Men wept. When Joselito didn't move, Bailador ambled to the edge of the circle.

The audience poured onto the arena floor. The boy followed the man in the boater hat. He snaked his way through the crowd to kneel at the feet of his hero, tears flowing down his face. A hand settled on his shoulder.

“Men may die. Legends do not”, remarked the elderly ticket agent.

A few days later - the day of Joselito’s funeral - all of Spain turned out into the streets. It was a day to mourn and a day to celebrate the life of Spain’s greatest bullfighters.

The boy never returned to the bullfights or the arena after that disastrous day. Seeing his hero die was all too much.

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