The World’s Most Extreme Sport
I am a sports fan. I have been all my life.
In college I was hard-nosed enough to play
cornerback at 165 pounds. That meant standing
alone against power sweeps, looking at200-plus
pounds of pulling guard thundering full speed
at me, a fullback in the same weight range
right behind him, and a running back in the
180-plus range right behind them. I was supposed
to fight my way through the guard and fullback
to stuff the running back. Yet despite the
gross improbability of that scenario, I took
out at least one of them more times than
I can now recall (due, no doubt, to the aftereffects
of those collisions).
Not only was I tough and courageous in my
prime, I know what those attributes look
like. I have often seen them displayed by
others, especially during Olympic Games,
which invariably generate examples of individual
grit that fill me with pride at being an
aging part of the species that produces such
heroics. In addition, I have seen more than
my share of the reckless abandon that used
to drive me to stand in front of power sweeps
clinging to the ridiculous notion that I
should somehow be able to stop them. Any
of the “extreme” sports shows on cable TV
regularly illustrate that testosterone-driven
Yes, courage and reckless abandon are two
states of mind I thought I knew a lot about….I
could not have been more convinced of it….then
I saw Portuguese bullfighting. Portuguese
bullfighting is to “normal” courage and reckless
abandon what all-night raves are to English
tea parties. This is no exaggeration. Never
in my life as a sports nut have I witnessed
anything as exciting, as thrilling, and as
heart-stoppingly heroic as Portuguese bullfighting.
(Which, by the way, is to classic bullfighting
what all-night raves are to English tea parties.)
Forget Olympic glory, football macho, boxing,
rugby, rodeo…hell, forget dueling with Uzzis
at ten feet! Fagettabout’em! Those are for
wimps who would not, for any amount of money,
set foot in a Portuguese bullring if they
knew what would happen to them. It makes
the duel seem inviting. You doubt me? Let’s
go take a look.
* * * * *
We’re in Portugal. It’s the summer fighting
season, and we’re going to a corrida. We
take our evening meal in the late afternoon
because, unlike classic bullfights, these
are often held in the cooler temperatures
of summer evenings. Not always, but often.
We walk from the restaurant to the arena.
No tailgate parties here. Hardly any tailgates.
Just the usual swarm of people on foot, streaming
like ants toward a colony’s main entrance,
pulsing with the kind of excitement that
precedes any big sporting event anywhere
in the world. We wend our way with everyone
else, then a bit of pushing and jostling
as we get closer to the ticket window. Feels
just like home except we can’t understand
The town doesn’t matter. Once we’re inside
the plaza de toros the rest of the world
will cease to exist. And with a 7:00 pm start
time, ticket buying is simplified. No debate
about paying the extra charge to sit in the
shade. By 7:00 pm the sun will be lower than
the top of the arena’s high western wall,
so there will be no sun side or shade side.
That means tickets costs are differentiated
only by how close we sit to the arena floor.
There are fifty rows from the box seats abutting
the floor up to the top row. They are divided
into groups of ten, so we opt for row twenty-one,
the first of the middle group of ten. Not
too expensive, not too cheap, our seats provide
a terrific view, as do all 10,000 seats in
the arena. Because all bullrings are round,
every view is excellent, and high seats are
nearly as good as low ones. And because the
action of a bullfight continually flows all
over the ring, we can be assured of seeing
plenty of close-up action.
Classic bullfighting is seen in Spain and
many other Spanish speaking countries, most
notably Mexico. Only Portugal and southern
France deviate from the classic style, each
in their own unique ways. But the same terminology
is used for all corridos. The opening pageant
is called a paseo, and here is where a major
difference between classic and Portuguese
becomes evident. In classic paseos, the crowd’s
loudest response comes when the men on foot—the
matadors and banderilleros—enter the ring
and walk around it, the matadors in their
tight traje de luces ("suit of lights"),
as their spangled, beaded, and braided fighting
costumes are called. While those men might
appear to be pompous jerks for wearing such
tight clothes—especially the pants, which
so blatantly emphasize their cods—it is done
for good reason: they can't leave anything
on themselves—not the slightest ripple of
fabric—loose for a bull's horns to hook onto
as they go tearing past.
In Portugal the paseo begins the same as
in classic corridos. From one of the two
opposite-facing main gates (torils) that
enter into the ring (one for bulls, one for
fighters) comes a half-dozen heavily blinkered
horses with heavy padding covering their
bodies. The men riding them—picadoros—carry
long, bladed lances called varas. As in classic
fights, the picadoros will shove a vara’s
serrated blade into the bull’s withers to
weaken and anger him. They proceed around
the ring's outer edge, horses at a slow canter,
riders acknowledging the crowd's polite cheering
and whistling (their version of applause).
After them come the next participants, who
cause the entire crowd to erupt with a thundering
ovation of shouts and shrill whistling. That
ovation is for the six horse-and-rider teams
that are the stars of the show. With their
suit-of-light-clad riders waving and beaming
at the crowd, those beautifully groomed horses
prance sideways around the ring in a movement
called carioca, keeping their faces to the
crowd and their rumps to center-ring as they
make their way around its edge. And as the
horses prance, the riders stand up in their
stirrups, causing you to realize….no reins!
They guide the horses with pressure from
their knees. How long does it take to train
them to do that?
After the horses, a dozen young men enter
on foot. They wear tight, matador-type costumes,
the same as novilleros, or beginning matadors,
in classic bullfighting. As with novilleros,
their costumes are the same—same gold color,
same styling—more a uniform than a costume.
However, these young men are about as far
from being novilleros as it is possible to
get, as we will soon see. Meanwhile, judging
by the roaring and whistles they elicit from
the crowd, we can feel safe assuming they
are something like banderilleros, the men
in classic bullfighting who run past charging
bulls to stick bladed darts into the same
withers the picadoros later attack. But they
are not banderilleros, either.
They are something else entirely.
* * * * *
When the paseo finishes and the ring is cleared
for the appearance of the first bull, we
are vibrating with anticipation. That is
the pageant’s purpose, to focus all attention
on what is about to happen. In football terms,
if we have not arrived at the arena with
our “game face” on, the opening procession
does it for us—we are now locked and loaded.
The first bull blasts out of his toril like
a shadow from hell, black head held high,
sniffing the air, looking wildly side-to-side,
trying to get its bearings in a drastically
new environment. Unlike classic bulls, this
one's horns are cut off three inches from
the tips. Instead of the sharp natural points
that would tear into a body—human or horse—like
a scythe, these are covered by small knobs
of tan felt. They can easily break the bones
of any human or horse they hit at any degree
of speed, but penetration is highly unlikely.
The arena floor is a circle fifty-five yards
across, covered by packed sand with a reddish-orange
tint that glows in the fading twilight. That
color is common to bullrings around the world
because it easily absorbs the taint of spilled
blood, which is inevitable even in Portugal.
However, the bull doesn’t know that—not yet.
He makes a quick turn around the floor to
get a feel for it, then stops near his entry
point, sides heaving just a bit, a tad out
of breath, thoroughly perplexed. But not
for long. As soon as he fully stops, the
gate opposite the bull-gate opens and a matador-on-horseback
enters the ring.
Applause and whistles explode as a white
horse with black mane and tail appears. It
rears onto its hind legs as its rider lifts
both hands high to acknowledge the crowd,
then both settle into the work at hand. The
horse comes down onto all fours and focuses
on the bull, at the other side of the ring
and gazing intently at this new element in
its unfolding drama. The bull paws at the
ground in front of himself, flicking sand
up onto his back.
The horse breaks into a carioca to its left,
moving athwart the bull, his face locked
onto the squatter, bulkier animal. The bull
instinctively moves in the opposite direction,
trying to keep the horse and rider from closing
any distance on him. Suddenly the horse breaks
directly toward the bull and the bull reacts,
following another instinct to move straight
at the running horse. The horse breaks again,
this time to its right, allowing the bull
to take up the chase directly behind it.
But that is as close as the bull can get.
The white horse has done this often enough
to know just how fast he has to run along
the barrera, the five-foot-high wooden wall
lining the ring. It protects the event's
other participants, who usually mill around
on foot within the ten-foot-wide safety zone
between the barrera and the eight-foot stone
wall that is at the bottom of the arena itself.
They were concentric circles, the two walls
flanking the safety zone, and the white horse
skimmed along the outermost barrera like
a wind-up toy running on a track.
One lap around, the bull in frantic pursuit,
so close, so very close, reaching and thrusting
with his padded horn tips, desperately trying
to snag them on his prey's soft, exposed
buttocks. But no matter how hard he tries,
no matter how fast he runs, he can’t quite
catch the white horse running a couple of
strides ahead. Two laps around…three…. Suddenly
the horse hits an afterburner and flies away
from the tiring bull, which can only pull
up short in baffled surprise. Sides heaving,
tongue lolling, saliva drooling, the bull
backs his rump against the inner wall (another
instinctive move) as the horse situates himself
and his rider at the opposite side of the
ring. Round one is over.
* * * * *
The horse stills himself so the matador can
stand up again in the stirrups, lifting a
pair of two-foot-long banderillas, each the
thickness of pool cues, one in each hand.
One end of each banderilla has a three-inch
steel blade with sharp, jagged serrations
cut into both edges; the other end has a
colorful spray of three-inch paper tassels.
Holding each banderilla by its tassel end,
the matador brandishes them overhead for
the crowd to see.
They roar and whistle wildly: “Ole'! Ole'!
The matador drops back into his saddle holding
the two banderillas in his hands. Now we
understand why he and his mates guide their
mounts with knee pressure rather than reins.
But, clearly, that animal does not need guidance
from its rider. It knows.
A hush of anticipation settles over the crowd.
They, too, know. Then the bull moves, cutting
a small, tentative arc to its right, gauging
its opponent’s response. The horse quickly
follows suit, cutting to its right, keeping
aligned exactly opposite the bull across
the ring. In fact, both rumps practically
touch the inner wall. The crowd tenses….
The horse's front hooves beat out a steady
tattoo on the sand, tapping up and down in
a nervous, prancing movement as he searches
out whatever he is looking for. Whatever
that is, whatever kind of opening he is seeking,
he finally finds it and takes off like a
shot straight across the ring—straight at
the startled bull!
Unlike the first time, when the horse baited
the bull into chasing him around the ring
to tire him out, this time he doesn’t break
left or right. He continues dead ahead like
a runaway freight train, straight at the
bull, who doesn’t stay startled for long.
Instincts take over yet again as he retaliates,
bolting straight at the horse, zero to thirty
m.p.h. in only a few menacing strides. In
two seconds—three at most—it seems too late
to avoid a collision, yet neither animal
shows the slightest inclination to turn away.
The bull seems bound to shear that daring
horse's front legs off and turn them into
bloody stumps, about where they attach to
his body. We can only brace ourselves for
the inevitable impact.
Suddenly, when only five or six yards separates
the two charging beasts, the horse breaks
its straight-on stride and he gives the bull
a head fake! As in basketball or football
or hockey or soccer, he zigs when his opponent
thinks he will zag. He pulls his forelegs
together and plants them to his left, outwardly
appearing to be moving in that direction.
Naturally, the bull veers with him. But as
soon as the horse's front hooves are planted
in the sand, he pops them back to his right,
back to his original line of momentum.
While the horse does that, the bull completely
swallows the head fake and goes thundering
past horse and rider, only inches from the
horse's left flank. It’s like watching a
narrowly averted train wreck—and it isn't
over. As the bull goes tearing alongside,
the matador leans over in his saddle, down
to where the bull is, and jams both banderillas
into the hump of muscle atop his forelegs.
Each three-inch jagged blade bites into the
muscle and holds, leaving the two-foot-long
wooden darts above them to swirl and sway
with every movement from then on. Meanwhile,
the colored paper streamers on the ends contrast
with the bull's black hide like candy canes
against a dark Christmas stocking.
Everyone in the arena cuts loose with those
shrill whistles and a booming roar of approval.
"Ole'! Ole'! Ole'!" This now includes
you and me, shouting at full volume.
* * * * *
Before we go further, something must be said
about basic bull intelligence: it isn’t much.
If classic matadors can sweep a cape in front
of a bull's face for twenty minutes or more
and it can't figure out that behind the cape
is not where the action is, we should not
be surprised to learn that the same animals
can be successfully head-faked by horses
— apparently a vastly superior intelligence.
This is amplified upon when the horse gets
in front of the bull again and leads it on
another fruitless two-lap chase around the
We have seen this before. The horse suddenly
sprints away to square off with the bull
from the opposite side of the ring. The matador
stands up in his stirrups to brandish another
pair of banderillas. The crowd is duly appreciative,
then the familiar hush falls so the horse
can undistractedly choose his moment to bolt
toward the bull. The bull reacts as before,
launching himself in an all-out counterattack.
Once again at the last possible split-second
the horse breaks away by applying another
head-fake, except this time he fakes to his
right and cuts back left! He’s ambihoofstrous!
Seeing this brings two questions to mind:
First, how can anyone train any animal to
do something that risks limb—and therefore
life—at every pass? And second, does the
horse run the show, or does the matador on
his back? One must assume that—like good
running backs in football — the horse needs
the freedom to make his moves on his own.
He needs the ability to change course if
the bull is leaning one way or the other.
But to answer this definitively might be
like walking into the kitchen at a gourmet
restaurant, forever spoiling the marvels
beyond the façade. It is better left as a
However it works between horse and matador,
they never screw up. It is a clean fight
as the matador puts six—count 'em, six—pairs
of banderillas in the top of the bull's withers.
When all twelve are placed, sticking up or
dangling down his flanks in various directions,
they look like stiff, tan-colored dreadlocks.
It is a masterful performance.
As the matador waves to the crowd and accepts
its thunderous accolades, again including
ours, the bull stands at the opposite side
of the ring, sides heaving, really tired
now, rivulets of blood dribbling down his
flanks from the inserted banderillas, probably
wondering what would come next in this horrible
place he’s been brought to, so utterly different
from the placid green pastures where he’s
spent every previous day of his life.
Sure enough, out comes a picador riding his
padded horse, carrying his vara. The exhausted
bull's instincts take over again, compelling
him to try once more to catch and gore a
tormentor. And this time—lo and behold!—it
works! He connects! But his delight is badly
misplaced. The picador’s job is to let the
bull catch his tank-like horse and begin
trying to gore it. All the bull hits is thick
padding, so the horse doesn’t get hurt, and
the picador is able to jam his long lance's
serrated tip deep into the bull's withers,
vigorously sawing at his muscles to further
weaken and further disable him as he fruitlessly
rips and tears at the horse he is trying
so hard to gore. This part is by far the
least fun to watch.
* * * * *
Because we have focused on the picador doing
his gruesome work, we have not noticed that
eight of the dozen young men in the gold-colored,
novilleros-style uniforms have hand-vaulted
over the wooden restraining wall and are
now spread out in the ring on the opposite
side of the bull. One of the eight wears
a cap made of dark green felt with a wide
band of red material ringing its base, the
part that goes around his head. From that
base it extends up about a foot, built like
a triangle and pointed at the tip. It looks
like a dark green, red-trimmed dunce cap,
or something Santa's elves might wear.
These are the forcados, the unique addition
to Portuguese bullfighting that moves it
well beyond the bravado of classic. The crowd
notices them and begins to whistle and shout
approval as they move into position. The
one wearing the cap takes the lead while
the others line up behind him, single-file.
All but one is in his late teens or early
twenties, and that odd-man-out is in his
middle-thirties. He is the last one in the
Once the forcados are set, the boy wearing
the cap lifts it off his head with both hands,
holding it aloft as the crowd cheers lustily.
He then places it back on his head, tucks
it tight, folds the floppy top down so it
dangles beside his head, turns to face the
bull, and starts walking toward it with what
appears to be eager anticipation.
While all that plays out, the bull stands
over against the far wall with his butt pressed
up against the wood, hanging his head down
near the sand, wheezing for breath, his shredded
withers now spilling blood down both front
flanks with every thumping heartbeat. He’s
had more than enough and seems to know it,
but the poor beast is still subject to his
instincts, which are phenomenally territorial.
This is the whole point.
The forcado wearing the cap of honor walks
proudly to the center of the ring, chest
out, chin up, hands on hips, strutting the
way classic matadors do. As he moves to the
center of the ring, his seven "teammates"
stayed lined up in a straight row behind
him, gradually spacing themselves until they
reach approximately ten-foot intervals.
When the bull notices this new threat invading
his space he bellows and takes a few staggering
steps to his left. The boy in the middle
slightly adjusts his position to keep himself
squarely in front of the bull, but each successive
boy behind him has to adjust proportionally
more; the farther away from the center, the
more the shift to the side.
When the bull settles into what looks like
his final defensive position against the
wall, the boys line themselves up for their
final time. Then the one in front begins
a ritual that is three centuries old. He
locks his hands on his hips, elbows turned
out, the way a drum major would prepare to
lead a parade. He thrusts his chin up and
out, like Mussolini on a balcony, before
taking an exaggerated step (what kids call
a "giant" step) forward and stamping
his foot down hard, simultaneously shouting,
"Hey!" at the bull. It is the same
shout martial artists use when breaking boards
or bricks—a sharp, gutteral “Hey!”
The bull is now quivering a bit, frightened
and in a kind of shock, so he doesn’t react
to that first step and shout. The boy confidently
takes another, with his teammates scuffling
forward behind him, careful to keep their
relative distances intact. Still refusing
to take offense, the bull holds to his position.
The boy maintains his proud, erect posture,
hands on hips, as he takes another step and
shouts again. That does it. He finally moves
beyond the bull’s point of no return. And
despite everything the bull must be feeling
at that moment, instinct takes over and he
bolts forward, right at the crazy forcado
wearing the green cap, who makes no move
to get away from the charging beast—no move
Like everyone else in the arena, we are riveted
by the incredible drama unfolding before
us. The instant the bull reacts, the impossibly
brave, impossibly foolish boy plants his
feet and holds still, keeping his hands solidly
on his hips, unmoving, unwavering. If you
have ever played American football for even
one down, as I have, you are especially mesmerized.
You cannot believe what you are watching.
The boy waits...and waits…for what seems
like an eternity but in reality is only two
or three seconds, if that.
Now the die is cast irrevocably. The bull
is maybe ten feet away, leaving the boy no
chance to avoid being trampled. Finally,
at that last grinding second, his steel nerves
crack. He takes a step back…just one, but
you notice that while it is done quickly,
it is done carefully, as if there is some
purpose to it. The bull thunders ahead, undeterred
by the movement. Unlike the horse, the boy
is not trying to fake him out. He stays on
the same line as the charging bull, he has
simply taken one small step backward….
As he does that, the teammates lined up behind
him do the same thing, working hard to maintain
their ten-foot intervals as they move with
the flow of the bull’s charge. And the math
for that charge is this: the half-ton animal
going thirty miles an hour at that barely
moving boy is equivalent to a small truck
careening toward a parked bicycle. It is
not even a contest. And then, when the bull
is only a few feet away from his target,
no more than five or six, the boy in the
cap takes one final backward step...and jumps
Your first thought is that the boy has finally
come to his senses and is trying to avoid
the bull by jumping over it. You’re wrong.
Indeed, he does jump straight up, but only
a foot or so, keeping directly in the bull’s
path. Then it becomes clear he only wants
to rise high enough to leave his hips between
the bull’s blunted but still staple-like
If he misses that jump left or right, he
might lose a precious private part. Luckily,
he doesn’t miss. He lands dead-center on
the bull's charging head, his hipbones between
the blunted horns as the thudding force of
the impact bends him in half at his pelvis,
his slightly-spread thighs banging against
the bull’s face while his upper body slams
down along the top of its thick neck.
In that terrifying split second—and it is
absolutely no more than that—the boy must
accomplish two critical tasks: first, because
a successful "catch" (as it is
called) will leave his head near the banderillas
dangling from the bull's withers, he must
try to avoid getting his face slashed or
an eye gouged out by any exposed blades,
which is as much a matter of luck as avoidance
technique. Even more important—face injury
or not—is that he must reach his arms around
the bull's neck to lock his hands beneath
it in a death grip.
Once he has carried out his all-important
tasks (and the green cap has gone flying
from the impact), the second boy in line
must perform his own crucial job with an
equally negligible margin for error. The
bull's reaction to having the first boy locked
around his neck is always to lift his head
with a sharp tossing motion to flip his antagonist
up-and-over, behind himself. If unimpeded,
the flip causes one or both of the boy's
shoulders to dislocate, thereby dislodging
him from his grip. Consequently, the second
boy has to anticipate the move and intercept
the first boy's legs as they start lifting
up and over.
Rather than step back, the second boy must
stand his ground with his arms spread wide,
like a football linebacker, needing to encompass
all possible positions the front boy's legs
might take. Then he leans into the charging
bull to lock down on the front boy's uplifting
legs, keeping them from flipping up any higher
than horizontal. If the picadors have done
a skillful job of cutting the muscles and
tendons inside the bull's withers, the worn-down
beast won’t be strong enough to flip both
boys onto his back.
That is the case this time. Once the first
two boys are secure in their grip on the
berserk animal's head, the remaining six
forcados are responsible for slowing its
speed down to nothing in the few seconds
it will need to reach the wooden barrera
opposite. If they fail, the boy on the horns
and the boy around his legs will be smashed
like insects against the wall. If the bull
can, it will run right through that wall,
which it cannot see in any case with two
forcados draped across its eyes. So the remaining
six have no choice—they must stop the bull's
maniacal charge, and quickly, or all of them
could be squashed.
As daringly as the first two boys have met
their fate, five of the remaining six show
equal aplomb as one-by-one they pile onto
the bull's head and neck, holding tight and
digging their feet into the sand to arrest
its momentum. Meanwhile, the last fellow
in the line—the mid-thirties one—is always
the oldest in any group of forcados, a seasoned
veteran of several years "up front.”
He coolly sidesteps the approaching mayhem
to allow the bull and its catchers to rush
past at rapidly diminishing speed. Then he
deftly reaches out and grabs the bull's tail,
digging his heels in from the opposite direction,
working every bit as hard to stop the bull's
forward progress as the boys on the other
At the same time, he twists the tail as hard
as he can, which is the final key to a successful
catch. All animals with tails become afraid
and disoriented when their tails are twisted,
so a bull will quickly stop charging if its
tail is wrenched that way. If everything
goes right, that occurs no more than a few
feet from the wall, which is the case this
time. The bull stops moving, the seven boys
hanging on its head hold it still for several
seconds while they chant their "team
cheer," then they all let go at once—except
the one twisting the tail—and scurry to safety
by vaulting over the five-foot-high barrera.
The lead boy goes by way of the mid-ring
to retrieve the green cap, so he is the last
to vault the wall.
The final act of the drama is that the older
guy lets go of the tail and runs flat-out
to scramble over the wall, too, leaving the
stunned, exhausted bull suddenly alone in
the ring, not knowing whether to crap or
go blind. Meanwhile, the crowd erupts again
at the successful catch, the boys take several
well-deserved bows from inside the safety
zone, and a group of ten steers is let into
the ring. They’ve been trained to enter the
ring, make one loop around its outer perimeter,
and then go right back out the gate they
No doubt overjoyed at finally seeing his
own kind appear in the hellhole, the bull
eagerly falls in with them and follows them
out of the ring. Outside the arena he will
be loaded into a van and hauled to a local
butcher shop, where he will be killed and
dressed out for consumption the following
day. Such is the life of any fighting bull—classic
or Portuguese—a one-way ticket to oblivion
no matter how courageously they perform.
* * * * *
Things have now gotten good and started.
Before the night is over there will be five
more fights exactly like that one. In principle,
everything is the same each time. In practice,
things do go wrong. Horses make mistakes,
such as turning the wrong way and being hit
broadside by a pursuing bull, which spills
both horse and matador onto the sand and
requires some frantic recovery techniques.
Sometimes the lead forcado (that dubious
“honor” is rotated among their members) fails
to properly execute his "catch."
Whenever that happens, what the bull does
to them is…. And what they have to do in
Well, to try describing it would risk trivializing
it, which I refuse to do.
I simply cannot express how profoundly deep
is my respect for the forcados. The matadors
and horses are spectacular, no doubt, but
those boys…. My eyes always mist over when
I consider the incredible bravery and toughness
they routinely exhibit in the many bullrings
scattered throughout Portugal. Of the countless
things I could say these words about—“You
really should see this for yourself”—the
aftermath of a Portuguese bull catcher missing
his catch would head my personal list. I
am not exaggerating.
Perhaps the most amazing thing about those
boys is how “normal” they are. They are not
trained to high levels of skill in gymnasiums
or weight rooms, the way our young athletes
are. No! They are ordinary boys doing a most
extraordinary task that requires no special
physical attribute beyond a heart filled
with more raw courage than most football
teams taken together. On my best day ever,
I could not have approached what they do.
Wait, I’m wrong. The most amazing thing about
those boys is that they all come from Portugal’s
best families. They have everything to live
for in every conceivable way, yet each year
produces a new crop eager to crawl over each
other to be chosen to stand in front of those
potentially deadly bulls. Which leads to
one final unfathomable question….
Why don’t the Portuguese rule the world?