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     We drove south from Tucson into Mexico, and we continued south until we saw the Nogales bullring from the highway. Then we stood in the long slow-moving line for tickets while the brass bands blared, grimy men sold serapes and sombreros and trinkets and banderillas, and exaggeratedly sad-eyed urchins, thin but sly looking, sold Chiclets. We bought the cheapest seats for $3.50, and the crowd outside was attractive, but that was nothing compared to the amphitheater of tight-trousered, large-thighed, straight-hipped, clear-faced, wet-lipped, big-eyes senors who sat on the cold concrete steps.
     The first bull, an unfortunate, sympathy-getting creature who had broken one horn, drooled shiny saliva, and the clotted masses falling from its horn looked unnecessarily cruel. The crowd gradually fell into the rhythms of the oles and learned to boo the picadors. The exhortation from the knowledgeable was to "be a brave bull." A bull who took ages to charge, or who wouldn't turn swiftly enough to permit the matador to show off his paso doble, was hissed roundly. The first bull was a poor kill; the matador only pinked him with his sword after he had failed the first few times. Others with wicked short knives had to come in close and jab a few times while the head tossed about and blood ran down the sides.
     The second bull leapt the fence---an amazing sight to see this more than half-ton beast leap into the air, scrape over the barrier, and crash into the wall opposite, then twist awkwardly around, when it would appear only a matter of luck that he hadn't gotten his neck broken. I insisted that the fellow in the brown suit was good during the first fight, but I was pooh-poohed because he wasn't wearing a brilliant suit of lights. Then the fellow next to me said he was Perez, and that both main fighters had retired, but had returned to fight for charity.
     The wind was cold, and the clouds only occasionally allowed the crowd to applaud the sun peeping through. Once drops of rain fell, and those who paid more for the shady side ran under their awning. The brass fanfare blew for each change of action, and struck up a quick snappy tune when the matador had executed a good series of passes. Our blankets over the knees felt good, and the Mexicans reinforced their body heat with goat skins filled with gin or wine, one of which was thrown into the ring after the two good fights.
     The third bull went over the fence twice, and the players scampered around the barricades inside the alley until the doors could be opened and the bull channeled into the ring. The kills were sloppy and stomach-tightening, though Aruzza, who got one ear, slipped in the sword easily about three-quarters of the way, and the bull spun four or five times before collapsing. There were unexpected traits---the bulls were not fought long: they were played by the novices, weakened only slightly by the picadors---who must often lose horses, since they were wildly jounced around by the bulls who seemed to thrust and charge, stand and meditate for a moment, then thrust again. One bull thrust five or six times, and the picador had no strength left to drive him off; when he did, the pick was left dangling ungracefully in his back. After five or six banderillas were stuck in, and after five or six cape passes, however, the muleta and sword were called for and the kill attempted.
     Only the last kill was swift and authentic, the orange sword handle almost vanishing into the short hair on the bull's back, going in as easily as a pin into a cushion. After that fight, the matador threw an ear at the woman in the old-fashioned yellow bonnet with ties and duster, which got red blood on it as she caught the ear to her. A bit of gore was added when the hawkers proudly moved through the crowd selling the rusty-colored "Perez banderillas."
     The day was windy, and buckets of water hardly kept the capes from whipping around. The one or two close passes were certainly breathtaking, and the blood on the suit indicated the closeness. Aruzza capped the afternoon in his elegant black suit by literally leading the third bull by his horns through his final passes. Kneeling, the cape held down, he reached out to the bull's head directly in front of him and gently steered the bull to the left, then to the right, until he simply stood before it in triumph as the crowd cheered. How strikingly similar to ballet, where you can sit and watch for hours for the simple workmanship, the elements, the forms, and then a great person produces a great moment, and that moment is worth the price of admission and the patience of waiting for the moment, and brings the desire to see more in the hopes of getting, again, this moment of elevating greatness.