The history of men testing their courage against bulls goes back to the beginning of time, when the first hunters challenged wild animals with stones and sharp sticks.  The sport of bullfighting originated in Spain and was introduced to Mexico five hundred years ago.  The Plaza Mexico bullfighting ring is the largest in the world.  I had been there on my first trip to Mexico City, thirty-five years earlier, and remembered with some fondness peeling myself off a bathroom floor, with a world-record hangover, to get there.  All in all, it had ended up being a wild and merry afternoon.

It seemed lucky beyond belief that there was a fight scheduled right before I needed to return to Los Angeles, especially since the season begins around the last weekend of October and only lasts twelve weeks.  I looked and it seemed like it wouldn’t be that difficult to get there, a ride on the red Metro line and then a short walk from there.

By now I was down to three runes and I still hadn’t drawn the blank one, Wyrd, or the rune of destiny yet.  The suspense was killing me.  I’d already decided if I drew Wyrd, I would return it to the sack, like being dealt a Joker.  In the middle of the night, I’d wanted to wake up and grab a rune, just to get it over with, but I’d waited until the morning and drew the rune Raido, signifying time or a journey.  Now it was down to just two.

I started for the bull ring in the late afternoon.  After getting off the Metro, I followed my written directions and got lost, needing to ask directions and turn around before I could follow the flow of foot traffic and make my way to the ring.  What a grand ritual, the dance of death, on its way to being outlawed the next year.  There were more protestors out front protesting the brutality of the fight then there were spectators to watch it.  That was a first.

I had no idea if any tickets would be available, so scalped one for about ten dollars.  As it turned out, the ring was almost empty.  I never even looked at my ticket.  I just wandered around, making my way closer and closer to the center, and then retreating again to the top to sit beneath the band, in full appreciation of the tuba player, who flapped his arms with great gusto to propel his Oom-pah-pahs.

A bullfight is a performance in three acts.  First there is a grand procession where the matadors, dressed in gold, along with their teams, the picadors, banderilleros, and mozo de espadas, or sword bearers, enter the ring together.  There are typically three fights in an afternoon.  During the first act of the fight, the Tercio de Varas, the bull is released into the ring and is approached by the matador with a gold cape, who tests his manner and quirks.  A picador then comes out on horseback and stabs the bull between the shoulders with a lance to lower its head and focus its attention.

During the second act, the Tercio de Banderillas, three assistants, or banderilleros, come out and try to place two banderillas, or sharp sticks in the shoulders of the bull.  These attacks agitate it and get it in fighting form. 

In the third act, the Tercio de Muerte, it is just the matador, with a red cape, and the bull.  This is a dance to the death.  The matador runs the bull through a series of passes, or faena, that are designed to be graceful and wear the bull down.  The matador has two swords, one for show and one for the kill.  At the end of the third act, he calls for the steel sword, and aims to drive it into the heart of the bull, simultaneously placing himself in danger by putting himself right in front of its horns.

A quick kill is met with acclaim.  A botched one can receive much derision.  Only the bravest of bulls ever receive a pardon.  Most die with their blood spilling out on the dirt floor.  Sometimes the matadors die too.  Over five hundred matadors have been killed in the ring.  Many more have been gored and injured.

Seeing that I was in Mexico for the Dead of the Dead, this visit to the bull ring seemed to be an appropriate third act.  I sat and watched the first two fights, the first up close, the second from a distance.  The second matador was having problems finishing his bull.  It got to the point where it was embarrassing to watch.  I was hoping he’d just pull out a pistol and get it over with.  Instead, the misery dragged on.