Never give up on Victorino: the bravery of Mosquetón and Escribano conspire in Seville

At 9:05 p.m., approaching nightfall, when Victorino Martín was plummeting down the precipice of acidic and corrosive meekness, with a rare experiment in form, Mosquetón leaped forth, the true old-timer of the house. And he found himself facing a Manuel Escribano on the rise—from less to more in understanding— to conspire to save a corrida that was already pointing to a great blot on the history of victorinadas in Seville. Never give Victorino up for dead. Not even in a dark-skinned bullfight like this one. Escribano not only displayed total commitment—from the long porta gayola to the challenging third of banderillas—but also the lucidity to rectify from a point: when, in the middle of the performance, Mosquetón began to show some bullfighting inconsistencies and the resulting complications that led to his disarmament, he changed his terrain.

Quia! And not only that: right there, in the middle, the seat, the stiff muleta, the connection, magnified the performance at a different speed. Which was the slow one. And, above all, because of the hand that it was, the left. The Maestranza roared with each stroke, slowed by both hands with the brave depth of Mosquetón, which made furrows in the sand. Escribano sketched his wolfish smile. A sword thrust from above leveled everything on the upswing, the unleashed frenzy, and the two ears. Pablo Romero's president, Macarena, awarded a lap of the bull during the drag, which I question. Not the bull's class with the muleta, but the prize. Wrapped, by the way, in a very mean, docile, bullfight that Mosquetón stopped with a single shot.

I question the bull's return to the ring after being dragged away. Not the bull's class in the muleta, but the prize. Wrapped, by the way, in a very badly tamed bullfight.

Nearly three hours of celebration and a lot of ungrateful bullfighting. Escribano himself had suffered when a tall, stilted bull appeared through the bullpen gate, lacking any profile, finishing touch, face, or seriousness. A candidly tame bull. Halted by the cape, hesitant on horseback. There was no reason for the matador from Gerena to grab the sticks, but he grabbed them and sought out the turns and the terrain. The third stage became a highly prized affair, lasting an eternity with the Victorino digging in. More costly and exposed than brilliant, moreover. Avoidable if you sent the light infantry. The task was also laborious and meritorious, intelligent in giving him space and patient in waiting for him. The animal traveled—so to speak—longer on the left side. A barbaric effort to pass him. A puncture and a rear sword thrust penalized his performance. He greeted an ovation from the third, displaying the embroidered Giralda on his taleguilla and the Giraldillo on the back of his jacket, which hurt the eyes.

The other protagonist was Daniel Luque. The black crepe on the sleeve of his jacket hung like a notice for his father's death, barely a week ago. Another bay-colored bull leaped out, covering himself at the tips, his face twisted, a bow on top of his head. So open. A miracle if he charges like that. DL's cape greeting led to a one-handed improvisation to complete a semi-disarming move. The long passes were redirected into an extraordinary series of veronicas with the back of the cape, so flat, throwing his chest out in the air. He raised his cape to the sky, crossed himself, and gave his all to a fight in which the bravery came from the bullfighter and the aggression came from the bull.

Always on the inside. He waited for him with the muleta held back, swallowing him up endlessly. Not only with the goal of passing him, but of bullfighting him well. He passed him by millimeters with each thrust, earning oles. And also with his left hand, tremendous. From time to time, the bull became violent from below . The tension of the faena, experienced in sepulchral silence throughout the Maestanza, did not impede the good sense of bullfighting that animated the aftermath of the titanic effort. Luque offered himself defiantly and with a frontal attack. The Victorino, full of bile and meekness, ended up cowering and torn. A victor's knee-to-the-ground gesture. But his sword went far behind him, marring the bizarre work. It ended with a request and a standing ovation. The sixth completed a set with no more hint of bravery than Mosquetón's. He tore and soured like lightning, already with the banderillas. And then he showed himself to be unbelievable, not taking anything down, just twisting and turning on his hands.

Just like the bull that opened the afternoon, 180 minutes earlier. The opening Victorino bull, the tamest in living memory (with all due respect to the final wash), didn't offer El Cid the slightest chance, without a single pass. It took him ages to emerge from the pens, and when it seemed he did so, he did so with courage and determination. Juan Sierra went for him, as was fitting, with the rigor and courage of his professionalism. El Cid continued the fight; the bull—touched high on the horns and serious from the front—lowered its head, turning backward. And since he didn't want to go for the chest protector, the director of the fight cleverly moved his horse. All the other bullfighters were left in a bad position on the other side.

He waited with the banderillas, dug in, and never got past with the muleta, feinting like a hidden predator. He disturbed the air. The veteran matador from Salteras tried in vain, slashing at the legs and jamming the sword. He succeeded again with a deeper fourth pass, also more faithful to Albaserrada, somewhat fickle, but ultimately with a sharp meekness so as to not be out of place, shortening each time more and more. Sierra, now with the banderillas, put in a superb performance.