Miguel Arruza

By Aarav Isaac Samuel

Miguel Arruza had just finished getting ready. His heart was racing fast and he was nervous not because he was going to face Spain’s largest bull but because he had to live up to his family’s legacy. His family had consistently produced Spain’s greatest matadors for the past three generations. Miguel’s papá and uncle had been captivating the Spanish audience since they first stepped in the arena twenty years ago. They were the most fearless fighters to face the bull. They did not mind killing the bulls.

Miguel was not like them. He was kind-hearted and did not believe in the violence that was involved in bull fighting. But, his father had never understood that. And Miguel did not have the courage to stand up to his papá, so he suppressed these feelings. He knew that if was to survive and raise his family’s banner, there were sacrifices to be made. It was a matter of family honor.

His papá always reminded him that bullfighting was unlike any other sport. It was the test of valor and artistry in the face of death. His papá said that it was a true man’s game – a way to prove one’s masculinity. A way to bring honor to the family.

Miguel was 10 when his uncle was injured while bull fighting. Miguel, being the eldest, had moved in to aid his uncle who taught him the art of bull fighting. His uncle lived alone. Bullfighting was the only love he ever had. Miguel’s papá, meanwhile, had settled down in the village and opened a bull ranch.

Miguel never could freely tell his uncle that he did not want to be a matador so he kept his mouth shut. Even though he never truly gave his all, his Uncle would persevere. Miguel could have fooled someone else but his uncle’s eye caught his potential. His uncle had taken his reluctance to fight, as fear. So, he worked on that. Miguel had been training with fervor as long as he could remember. Whenever he stepped in to the arena, his instincts kicked in. His uncle always remarked that Miguel would make their ancestors proud. Once in the ring, he was swift and moved with finesse. There was no scaring him. He could face the bull like it was a mere dog. But, he had never killed one. Never before. But today, that was what he had to do.

After seven long years of training, Miguel was about to enter the same ring where his papá, his uncle, his abuelo and his abuelo’s papá made their debut. He was different now. He was not the same boy that he was when he first started training. Time had made him manly. He would do what had to be done. It was either the bull or him.

He adjusted his traje and stepped into the dusty square space. The roar of the crowd around the arena was deafening, as Miguel took his place. It was like the arena itself to life. He waved at the crowd and bowed down to those presiding. He then took a deep breath, closed his eyes and turned to face the gate.

The horn sounded and the bull was released. Miguel was at ease. He had done this a hundred times. He could do it easily. He sunk the spear between the bull’s shoulder. Just slightly as bullfighter’s do, to make the game more interesting. The bull became more and more aggressive. The bull’s aggression fueled Miguel’s confidence. He had complete control.

He was the king of the arena. Every move captured the audience’s heart. He made it look easy. Like child’s play.

The first two rounds were over. It was time for Tercio de Muerte, or the Third of Death. It was time for the bull to die. Miguel was ready to. He had practiced this hundreds of time on dummies. He knew the spear in his hand. He could feel it. Like it was a part of his body. He took the red mulleta and held it in front of him. He stared straight at the bull and pointed the death spear at the bull. He breathed.

Never look into the eyes of the bulls. His uncle had told him this, countless times. And, he had followed this instruction. Miguel waved the mulleta and the bull, frustrated at the movement, charged. Miguel dodged. The bull hit the wall. The trainees pushed him back with blunt spears. The bull turned to face Miguel. He charged again. Miguel sidestepped but the bull’s horn caught the cloth and snatched it from his hand. It took some time as the bull tore the cloth from his horns. Miguel was ready for the fatal jab. He looked at the bull, into its eyes. But, he did not see rage. The bull’s face was loose. No clenched muscles. It charged. The look in the bull’s eyes put Miguel off-balance. He escaped, barely. Miguel’s thoughts were running. Something had shifted. The bull was not angry. It was just charging like it had been trained. Just doing the one thing he knew. Just like Miguel was.

The bull charged to kill because it was an animal. It was not intent on killing. It was its training. But Miguel was human. He understood death. He hated it. The bull was not intently trying to harm him. The bull had to die both ways. That was its life’s end. Tonight would be its last. If Miguel didn’t, its trainers would. Without Mercy. Miguel could not let that happen. All these years, he fought for his family’s honor. But honor through murder. Miguel did not want that. The bull was a living being. He would not kill it. He could not.

The bull charged again, straight at Miguel’s held spear. If Miguel would not move, the bull would be his. His father would be proud. His uncle too.

But, Miguel moved. He threw the spear point-first to the ground. People waiting for the bull to be pierced were shocked. This was not supposed to happen.

Miguel walked away to the gentle whisper of crowd. He was alright being the talk of the town. He could live with people calling him a wimp. But, not doing what he believed in. Killing a living being just because people wanted him to. No sir, he would not. People will say all sorts of things about him. They would not understand. Miguel knew what he felt was right. And that was enough.

The spectators were in awe. No one had done that before. Left a bull. Not killing it. That was a shameful act.

Then, one clap turned to a thousand. Roses were thrown down. The crowd was with Miguel. His act captured more hearts than his ancestors ever had. The crowd wanted the bull to live. Indulto was granted. Miguel made a thrust, without the sword like he had made the final thrust, as was customary. The bulls life was spared. It would be returned to the ranch for treatment, never to see the arena again.

Miguel had fought. He had won, greater than he could have ever imagined.

By Aarav Isaac Samuel