A good Cid, once again, in an endless performance in Santander

The last bullfight at the Santiago de Santander Fair was preceded by a formidable mess over Morante de la Puebla's offer to selflessly replace Cayetano, Roca Rey's refusal—there's a groundswell, bellum indecere—and the definitive inclusion of El Cid resurfaced with its incontestable triumph. He almost repeated the performance with the best performance from a corridita by Domingo Hernández that left much to be desired. One ear and another for a hard-working Roca Rey who never quite recovered. The TV cameras were present. The greatest damage was suffered by Juan Ortega, lost on an ill-fated afternoon. Three hours of performance, or death. Endless.

A bull with a fine snout and a polished expression had opened the bullfight, performing well. With his stride and facial positioning, the definition of the embroque above his exit was overwhelming. I always remember Barquerito when he wrote about the fondness for the sea in this Cuatro Caminos bullring. And perhaps that's why they should be discounted. He centered himself, tamed. And El Cid, also very centered, with that position recovered not from before his retirement, but from six years before his departure, gave it a serious, seated look in a two-and-a-half veronicas. The faena was carried out by both hands, with El Cid soon putting himself to the fight . Unhinged at the waist on his right —arroblesado, Guanes would say—more vertical on his left; his line was long on both sides. The final series of natural passes, with a waiting tempo, was formidable. In the final bullfight, El Cid walked at a walk, shedding the traces of his years. On Sunday, Hernández was ready for anything. Obra and bull maintained a good tone. A faulty thrust earned him the reward. A descabello blow earned him an ear.

Manuel Jesús Cid didn't finish either the afternoon or the fair due to his faithfulness to the old legend of pinchaúvas. He put together a bullfight with veteran skill, with a quarter that started better than it ended, manageable but without letting go, leaning on his hands to turn on them before the time. He completed, after all, the bullfight's lot , and in that, El Cid also remains faithful to the legend of his baraka.

A 613-kilogram zambombo, who was incongruous and ruined the bullfight—137 kilos ahead of the lightest, 476—was crude, rambling, feinting, and deceitful in his meager journey. Juan Ortega began with beautiful signature passes and beautiful trenches in a prologue that was aesthetically pleasing, but I don't know if it was for the bull. But the problem wasn't that, but rather the excessive time he wasted on nothing. A bullfighter like Ortega, once he's demonstrated his will and demonstrated a counter-style charge, can't drag himself out in an aimless performance only to end up revealing his impotence. The beast became tremendously uncomfortable to kill and was close to the third warning, which only a desperate, lightning-fast plunge prevented.

The afternoon turned ill-fated for Juan Ortega with a more harmonious but unbearable fifth, gentle and tame. Ortega again committed the same sins of spending an age in the bull's face, neither forward nor backward, allowing himself to be hooked a thousand times. The bull, swaying almost from the start, was slow to grab the sword. The Sevillian was very lost. So much study of old bullfighting techniques should help one to bend, go for necks, machete, and abbreviate as bullfighters of his lineage are permitted. And to take a bullfighting rant, but not like this. The sword finished off a blurred image with a formidable rally. A complete lap of the ring between punctures. Almost three warnings, again. Five bulls in two afternoons was an unmeasured gamble. Domingo Hernández the other day was the highest-rated of eight fought in Santander.

Roca Rey displayed several displays of his raw courage with a small bull that spoke volumes. And he also displayed a touch of genius. A one-handed pass with saltilleras resulted in a highly risky espaldina pass, with the bullfighter's body catching the same horn. The muleta work, so purposeful, didn't rise until the Peruvian star had gone into the sun , closing the distance, and between inverted circular passes and the close approach, his pitch was raised. Half a thrust, a slight request went unanswered, and an ovation.

The sixth was the best bull of a more respectable second half of the corrida. He lacked rhythm, commitment, giving and staying power. Zero class, dry in his pause. Roca Rey delivered a Stakhanovite performance, labored, stuck in the middle, as it is now: no freshness. A farewell squeeze, a sword thrust, and a wild cheer. The president held his own. One ear . A summary of two afternoons for the leading figure. El Cóndor has yet to recover.