A couple of weeks ago I witnessed something really and truly tragic.  Goaded by my curiosity I went to a bull fight at the arena in Beziers, one of the only towns in France that is still allowed to hold them.

The arena was nearly empty when we arrived and the lady at the ticket booth warned us “you know, they will kill the bull…”  but we went in, nonetheless.

The scene opened with a strange dance performance by the matadors and their helpers, carrying sweeping capes of yellow and pink.  Then all but one matador left the field and at the far end, a door was opened for the bull to come out.  But no bull came.

Up above the doorway, a man wielding something like a huge harpoon, stuck it down through strategic holes in the roof, jabbing the bull to make it angry enough to at come out and fight.

When it finally appeared, the matador taunted it with his red cape in a strange and sad sort of dance that even still, wasn’t without a certain artistry.  Until…

Until other “helpers” came into the ring, spinning above their heads some sticks like strange colorful nunchucks, which had points on the ends like fishing hooks, so that once they were jabbed into the bull’s hide they would be sure to stay there, dangling grotesquely, while the bull charged and missed the cape time and time again.

After about fifteen minutes, finally, the coup de grace: the matador jams a long steel blade into the nape of it’s neck and a thick, maroon stain oozes out from the wound.  The bull is breathing hard and with every breath comes a stream of blood, falling in thick drops onto the dirt.  But it’s not dead yet.  You see, the stadium was empty today because it’s not regular bull fighting season and unbeknownst to us we were watching matadorial “students” practice on “easy” bulls–more timid and gentle than their peers.

And so it took the matador another four attempts to finally kill the bull.  Even then it swayed dizzily on it’s feet, back and forth for several minutes, while the crowd cheered heartlessly.  Once it was dead, a tractor came out along with several coarsely dressed workmen, snuffing out any vestige of poetry to be found in the moment.  Three of the men bound the bull’s legs to the tractor so it could be dragged out of the ring and the fourth man crudely severed the tail and the ears, handing them ceremoniously to the matador who then paraded around the ring to a standing ovation.

In a grand gesture, he threw one of the ears to the audience who then scrambled after it, like a foul ball at a Dodgers game.

Then they cleared the ring and did it all over again.  Four more times.

Never in my life have I witnessed something so despicable, so grotesque, so horrible: both the fight itself and the audience, taking such rapacious pleasure in a gruesome and cruel “sport.”