March of the Toreadors

The crowd was gathering in the arena at Réal Sixways.  Blue and gold favours and flags fluttered around the ground;  the air tingled with the building tension.  To-night’s encounter would be a fight to the death: two old adversaries faced each other once more.  Both knew only one outcome mattered.

The spectators were in their seats; the gates were closed; the safety stewards were in position.  Into the ring came the white bull of Leeds, driven by desperation and aggression; fighting for its survival.  The onlookers knew that a wounded enemy is a dangerous enemy.  This evening would be a test of nerve, skill and stamina.

The frenzy of the crowd rose to a crescendo, the music swelled around the arena.  Out of the tunnel emerged our bull-fighters: the speedy picadors carrying sharp lances to goad and enrage; the towering toreadors who would deceive and weaken their adversary and, finally, the might matador who would move in for the kill.

At the sound of the whistle, the dance of death began.  Hither and thither rolled the conflict.  Sniping and weaving, the picadors feinted and darted around their adversary; Thinus El Porto, Havili and La Roux tempted and deceived, changing direction and forcing the opposition to defend against their sharp spears.  One false move and a picador lance could draw arterial blood.  But this was a wily and experienced adversary which Marshalled its defence.  At times, the picadors themselves were in danger of being charged down by flying feet.  Eventually, however, picador El Porto dealt the enemy a blow which drew blood.

Alongside the picadors worked the toreadors, now famous throughout the land.  Their skill and experience kept the Leeds bull where they wanted it.  Despite its guile and strength, it could not get close enough to inflict real damage.  Studded hooves and tossing horns threatened danger at close quarters but, with a flick of a cloak, a lift of the wrist, a pat of the hand, the toreadors evaded the danger.

The conflict ebbed and flowed as the spectators roared their support.  Gradually, the might of the Reggiano Windo and his powerful compatriots pressed forward, pushing their desperate adversary closer and closer to the line of whitewash. Finally, its will broke and the toreadors triumphed.

All was not over yet.  When a vital toreador was forced to leave the field because of a rose, it seemed as though the Leeds bull might yet inflict injury.  It was time for El Capitano Pat to rally his troops.  And rally they did, battering and drawing on their weakening adversary.  Finally, the end came and, at the death, it was matador Drahm (still suffering from an old injury) who administered the killing blow.

The crowd went wild with relief and the bull’s tail was awarded to the outstanding toreador, Philippo Murphientes.

At this point in last year’s bull-fighting calendar, the Worcester toreadors had won but a single encounter and accrued only 7 points.  This season, they had but one defeat and their points were doubled.  Little wonder then that around the stadium, many of the spectators sported headgear adorned with the horned trophies of fallen adversaries.