Morante breaks the Seville conclave and proclaims himself Pope of bullfighting

Morante de la Puebla proclaimed himself the Pope of bullfighting at the Maestranza, shattering this Seville conclave of presumed heirs. He worked the miracle of art, the most gallant, passionate, and beautiful, and drove the Maestranza mad once again. God bless the clarity of his mind and the purity of his heart. A winter of darkness and 18 electric shocks later, he was carrying two ears amid spasmodic cries of "José An-to-nio! Morante de la Puebla!", like that biblical April 26, 2023, tail in hand. And he sat back on the throne they said was no longer his. And he wept like a child with all the suffering broken at his feet.

The murmur of the flood of fans had been overflowing the streets leading to the Plaza de la Maestranza hours before. The very Sevillian bill featuring Morante, Juan Ortega, and Pablo Aguado, called "art," although art is a gift only from God, and God belongs to La Puebla , had sold out at lightning speed, with none of the three bullfighting. The "sold out" sign hung from the box office for the second time this season; the other, with the common link of MdlP, hung from the recent Easter Sunday. It returned without anyone in Seville even realizing it had returned.

At 7:00 p.m. on this historic Thursday, May 1st, the genius granted them another opportunity—and there aren't many left—alongside his "children" and presumed heirs, whom he usually devours. As happened once before . Aguado's complex and complete emergence in 2019 provoked an earthquake that shook the Giralda and Morante. Just as Ortega's bullfight on the afternoon of the bullfighting event in 2023 provoked a voracity in him that only his critical mental health has been able to curb. On that sad landing in April 2024, JO performed the faena of his life in Seville.

At 7:05 p.m., the three bullfighters appeared in the ring of this passionate stage of the Maestranza, which Canal Sur's cameras projected far beyond its borders: Morante, dressed in an impressive green-hope suit laden with gold , marked a cross with the toe of his shoe in the arena. The Pope of bullfighting. Loaded, but heavy, Domingo Hernández's opening bull leaped, his face tucked in. MdlP, pumped up with enthusiasm, waited for its free exit, let go of his straight cape, and, one by one, launched tasty veronicas that led to a prodigious long pass. Nothing compared to the two veronicas that fell from his wrists during the pass just before the bull performed a somersault that counted as a puyazo. The half-pass to the hip completed the unfinished work of art.

Domingo Hernández displayed good condition, a certain class, a depth that was lacking in the same way that 50 kilos were missing. Juan Ortega, dressed in a light blue and silver meringue, intervened on the aprons. The Pope and the altar boy. Juan José Domínguez's fight seemed profuse and misguided. Morante was crystal clear about this; his expression betrayed his determination, attitude, and commitment. The prologue of the bullfight in the third, on the opposite side to where the fight took place, exuded bullfighting skill and hope. The maestro went to the same watering hole with him, and there he engaged in a series of right-handers full of poise. And on the left, he blew a natural that acquired supernatural status before other good ones, so settled, solid, and genuine the bullfighter, with more depth than the bull. He began to decline despite the tempo and the air he was leading. A beautiful round of passes with both feet together on the right and another of natural passes in front of each other, already in the third as the finale, all pure and tight. The erratic sword—a pinchazo, a media, and a descabello—did not prevent the applause.

Juan Ortega heard another at 7:57 p.m. after delivering a very secure sword thrust. That confidence from his learned craft, in which he has grown so much, also presided over the performance, with a bull that went forward without going, or coming forward without going, always in falsetto, dozing, and demanding more than he transmitted. From the moment he came out, he signaled a lack of rhythm. And Ortega insisted on fighting him in time with a host of very lively verónicas, but in truth, only one, on the left side, reached the level of extraordinary. You can't fight a bull without rhythm in time. He tried again in the pass, with more or less the same success. More noise than nuts. The bull, with more cheek than body, showed complexity in the banderillas, which Jorge Fuentes paid for when he crossed. And then it continued as described.

The mounted third, always cocky, notoriously humiliated, and oblivious to everyone in the previous stages, lacked zeal. And also ease of movement. And, of course, bravery. Almost all of it. Pablo Aguado drew bullfighting signs for him, from the start, kneeling on the ground, with that innate cadence, when he caught the bull's breath. Or, rather, when he held its pulse and held it with his muleta. A sublime trincherilla, a formidable aid. Aguado remains faithful to an unstudied naturalness, and he peppered the inevitably disjointed faena with rich elements, which he didn't culminate with the sword. They brought him out to the third stage for the beauty of the flecked bull.

At 8:28 p.m., Morante de la Puebla finished the show with one hand, using the cape in a major surprise that turned the Maestranza upside down, its feet trembling for centuries. The long passes flew from hand to hand, their chests swollen with old bullfighting, while the crowd clutched their heads, wild with enthusiasm. By the time he delivered the final pass, the arena was already a madhouse. A pasodoble rose from the side of Maestro Tejera. The gallantry of genius, his bravery, continued with the muleta. The bull, well-built and armed, had his keys, his terrain, his touch of genius . MdlP, the bravest of bullfighters, and the wisest, and the most complete of his lineage, revealed all the secrets of the charge, offering his femorals. There in the sun. Like a tribute from which sprang incredible natural passes, unthinkable right-handers, with the bull whistling around his thighs. And he endured it all, giving the ultimate meaning to bullfighting, which is the surrender of one's life. And so he threw himself between the head with the sword and the horns in his heart. And he buried the steel, pushing with his soul. The bullring erupted, once again. An explosion of two ears, a miracle after the darkness of winter. God bless the lucidity that intoxicates his prodigious mind.

The lanky quinto, with his scant breath, was enough to allow Juan Ortega to launch veronicas into the air, time standing still. The music also began. A torrent of oles echoed in a winged pass with chicuelinas. Pablo Aguado responded with the same stick and in the same rhythm. The prelude to the faena of bonitos assisted by the high pass lacked continuity, with the charge calling for arnica. Barely a round of right-handers. In vain. A disarming and a low thrust.

The last one was of little use. Pablo Aguado blew his cape with that old-fashioned air of playing with both arms. There was no reason. No case. And it was already night.