The crowds number 14,000 cheering, howling and roaring for action. Even from the farthest edges beneath the grand arches walling off the grounds the ring seems vulnerably exposed. He is just a tiny spec at the center, red flag poised behind him. His ears are pricked up, allowing the sound of the crowds fade into the background. He’s fought hard to reach this arena, the most privileged in Spain with the most illustrious history. He’s made his prayers as he always did, kneeling before the altar of the Virgen de la Caridad in the Chapel just beyond and he hoped the luck would remain. Distractedly, he remembered the times when those like him, the torero, or bullfighters would enter on horseback and the walls were an assembly of planks and stone. But no this was not a time to be distracted for he could hear and sense the bull emerging…

And before he knew it the corrida was over and he was being hoisted on a surge of bodies, held aloft on soldiers carrying him towards the Puerta del Principe. The hulking wrought iron gates several centuries old had been flung open and Juan Belmonte was once again the town’s hero. The crowd had cried for a good show and a good show was exactly what he had given them.