Palavras lidas #175

I don't much appreciate bullfighting (I'm one of those that covers the eyes), but Hatton's description and comparisons are too good not to be noted!

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Introduction
Wrestling with Bulls

(...)

   On cue, eight young men vault over the arena's painted boards, their legs together, tidily, like gymnasts, and stride towards the bull. They are forcados, a group sometimes described by wide-eyed foreigners as the "Suicide Squad." They are impeccably attired in spotless white, knee-length stockings, skin-tight trousers, clipped waistcoat and jacket (traditionally blessed at a special Mass), a crimson length of cloth wrapped around their midriffs, a prim white shirt and tie. These amateur entertainers have been watching the bull's movements intently from the ringside while the horseman performed his tricks. They solemnly approach the fearsome beast in single file so it can only see the man in front, lest it be scared of it by weight of numbers. The one at the front, who wears a floppy wool cap pulled down to his eyebrows, proceeds with dramatically paused paces towards the bull on the far side of the ring. He puffs out his chest, places his hands on his hips and bellows Toiro! Toiro! (Bull! Bull!) to taunt the half-ton of muscle and bone into charging at him. The crowd tenses up and mutters in anticipation. Some spectators cover their eyes. The bull snorts and, before long, it arches its back and dips its head, horns parallel to the ground, and kicking up bursts of sand with its stubby legs pounds towards the man who coolly steps into the gap between the horns, falls forward and grabs the bull around its tree-trunk of a neck. He hangs on for dear life as it flips him around like a rag doll. The crowd gasps. Sheer momentum means that the bull and his passenger plough full-tilt into the others behind who ricochet off the beast like skittles. Quickly they regroup and smother the bull's head and eventually it slows to a standstill. They do not always pull it off at the first attempt. Sometimes they have to dust off, wipe away blood, and line up again. Occasionally, bones are broken and flesh is torn. It is a display of nerve that merits a standing ovation.

   Wrestling a huge bull into submission with your bare hands is a uniquely Portuguese endeavor and a centuries-old tradition that invites parallels with how the Portuguese perceive themselves and their place in the greater scheme of things. They long ago took the role of indomitable underdogs arrayed against more potent forces that would submerge them but which, with varying degrees of success, they resist. The adversary, in historical terms, may be the perilous ocean or bigger rival countries. It might be their own national leaders. The foe could also be identified as something vaguer, such as cruel fortune. Or they may recognize their antagonist as residing in their own temperament, because their way of life sometimes colides with their best interests -- they do not, for instance, lack the valor and pluck for great accomplishments, but pulling their strength like the forcados does not always come naturally.

(...)

   And one thing is for sure: a country which wrestles bulls for fun can never be written off.

pp. xi-xvi
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Words describe, but images show.