Fear and Lowing at Bullfighting School

Location:
United States

bullfighting, history, toreo

By Tiffany Owens

She bursts into the ring at full gallop, kicking up dust as she circles around toward the many brightly colored capes that are being fluttered her way. This first cow is small, maybe 250 pounds at most, with nubby little horns. Her initial cape passes are impeccably performed by Coleman Cooney, owner and founder of the California Academy of Tauromaquia, and Santiago Gonzalez, one of Cooney’s first students and now an instructor and amateur torero in Mexico.

“Just pretend you’re at the petting zoo,” Gonzalez says to me, as he makes his way back to the burladero (wooden barrier), where I am huddled with several other students. But the comment does nothing to abate my rising adrenaline—I’ve already seen how quick she is.

The next thing I know, I’m cautiously sidling up to her in the center of the ring, knowing full well that she’ll charge toward any sudden movement. Snorting and twitching her ears, we are embroiled in a staring contest—and suddenly, she doesn’t look so small anymore.

I toss the muleta (the red flannel cloth mounted on a wooden rod) toward her, but she doesn’t budge. “Closer!” Cooney yells to me and I inch forward. “Now, really put it in her face!” This time when I cite her, she takes the bait and charges through—just an inch or so from my left hip—and turns on a dime to receive the outstretched cloth again and again.

My bullfighting debut is over in a matter of (seemingly slow-motion) minutes. I return to the burladero a bit shaky, but triumphant, feeling as if I should have a rose clenched between my teeth.

The ranch owner watches each pass with interest—it is important that these vaquillas, or training cows, be of great bravery and aggressive, charging quality and that they follow the cloth well, as these are the qualities that they pass on to their gargantuan male offspring—the real, razor-horned toros.

In the ring, it’s imperative to keep the heavy, awkward muleta moving in a straight line in front of the vaquillas, so that they learn that the cloth is smooth and predictable; but more importantly, so that you don’t angle it—and them—back toward your body. As with most sports, toreo is harder than it looks: a richly choreographed ballet that requires an incredible amount of upper body strength, concentration, artistry and grace under pressure.

“It is impossible to believe the emotional and spiritual intensity and pure, classic beauty that can be produced by a man, an animal and a piece of scarlet serge draped over a stick,” Ernest Hemingway proclaimed in his classic ode to bullfighting, Death in the Afternoon. Indeed, Cooney tells me he has two sorts of students that sign up to learn toreo: those that embrace the “old school” romanticism of Hemingway, and those that are in it purely for the thrill.

And thrilling it is. But bullfighting—even the non-lethal, bloodless type that’s taught at the Academy—is banned in most states; however, it is not illegal to teach the cape maneuvers and traditions of the toreo. For my weekend intensive course, the training “salon” was held at Cooney’s ranch in the mountain village of Alpine, Calif., just 35 minutes or so east of San Diego. The following day, the other students and I were transported to a working ranch in Valle de Las Palmas, Mexico, to try out our newly learned passes in front of live, pedigreed animals.

Cooney, also a screenwriter, started the Academy nearly a decade ago—the first of its kind in the U.S.—upon returning from Spain, where he lived as an expat for nine years, learning the intricate cape moves of the matador at bull ranches. Since that time, hundreds of students have signed up each year to learn the art of toreo.

The initial Friday night class consisted of myself, Wib Magli and Roger Gonzalez, both real estate investors from Memphis and Los Angeles, respectively. Magli was a first-timer, but had grown up on a horse ranch; Gonzalez was picking up where he left off with his matador training from 20 years earlier. We were joined on Saturday by Gonzalez’s family and a myriad of Cooney’s more advanced students: Daniel Vilches of San Diego; Jerry Roach, former owner of the legendary Cuckoo’s Nest punk nightclub in Costa Mesa; and Aleco Bravo, who was following in the footsteps of his father, Jaime Bravo, a former actor and esteemed matador in Mexico that was killed in a car accident in 1970.

The three bulls we met that day got progressively bigger and feistier as the day wore on. Gonzalez bravely took on the second, employing the cow in an elliptical toreo en redondo pass around his body with great style. But she was quickly learning that body contact was much more satisfying than cape contact. After seeing her toss a young, aspiring matador into the air, I politely declined a turn with her, in hopes that I might return home without a new hoof-print tattoo.

But the longer I watched the others, the more confidence I was building up to my final encounter. Number three had taken the cape well in her first round with Wib, so I ventured out into the ring again. This time, my mind was calm enough to recall what I had been taught the night before. The wind began to unwind my muleta, but I was still able to execute a number of capable passes that resulted in a few shouts of “Ole!” and applause from the stands. “Very toreo!” Cooney said to me as I came away from the ring—the proudest compliment I may ever receive.

Further Information

You should avoid here: Not for the faint of heart.