Marco Pérez survived the cruelty of the Madrid bullring and his own manager, Juan Bautista. Coming to confirm the alternative with a run of the B series by Victoriano del Río, a staircase of ugliness, the leftover of the season, is a court of call. And doing so after successfully passing through San Isidro, riding and conquering an overwhelming summer, is a court of call. Wait until May! Marco passed the fiery test with everything against him, including the final armageddon of a crummy 626 kilo torancazo.
Victoriano brought six cinqueños and none to fall in love with - that ultimate mass for the streets as a coda. One went well and the rest moved badly. It was his third appearance in Madrid, far from the category of the Corrida de la Beneficencia and the unforgettable Cantaor. A blur of terrible taste. No trace of class among a bag of caste without style. Bravery is another story. They know it well in that house with their unattainable curriculum in this square.
Marco Pérez confirmed the alternative with Despreciado, a brown bull with a broken back, certainly mounted, very serious on his face, but at the same time showing his shovels. Good presence for the public and also for the bullfighter. Not to be confused with pretty. It was considered a very notable game by the respectable when, in reality, it was not so notable for the bullfighter: among its many virtues were the endings. He started the muletazo better than he finished it, losing the humiliation and, therefore, the interest. They judged Marco with extreme acrimony and Despreciado with excessive enthusiasm. So much so that when the mules dragged the bull, the disproportionate ovation sounded like punishment for the young man from Salamanca, who in turn heard a thunderous division of opinions. As if the bull had left him, and no.
Marco Pérez was ready in the resolutions and records, although Despreciado occasionally tripped over his crutch. It seemed that things would pass calmly when he responded to the precise chicuelinas of Emilio de Justo with a removal for aprons, turned into seminavarras, and tafalleras. The last of them and a half abelmontada veronica sparked unanimous joy. Whoa! That biliary memory of Madrid would sooner rather than later recapture the sour atmosphere of his farewell to bullfighting as the only sword. The confirmation ceremony was, by the way, a scrum of hugs; De Justo absurdly asked the presidency for permission. Everything is nonsense.
Marco started genuflexo, low, with the bull, which charged extraordinarily into the two formidable doubloons on the left hand, which he then presented with conviction. But Despreciado started very well, but lacked an ending. A certain mirage. One more bull for the public. His trip became shorter to the right, and Pérez skillfully threaded the passes from the neck board. The whistles were already crackling because of his constant placement in the quotes - "you're out!" -, everything that Víctor Hernández, much more outside, would be allowed to do. The task continued in that same tone: the bull less in its delivery, but always obedient and prompt. A draw finish from the solvent from Salamanca put the icing on the cake before a counterattack that provoked bloody vomit and the anger of a sector that could do voodoo with Marco's doll.
The derision increased in decibels at the last minute before the gigantic sixth, a 625 kilo bus, as dessert to the staircase of ugliness that Victoriano del Río brought, as I say. That moved by hitting cambayás, headbutting, replacing and running badly. They applauded Alberto Sandoval's goals a lot, but there was no real punch there. Marco Pérez was a great guy with the beast and was never intimidated by the hostile environment. The viciousness with a seventeen-year-old boy, with a slight build and a height of five feet sixty-something, was incredible. His was a display of testosterone. He resolved all the challenges, but not only: he boldly offered his left. When he killed on the second trip, the more sensible ones breathed and applauded; The others continued with the noise. Marco had survived.
Emilio de Justo justified himself with an effort against a horrendous, forward-thinking, demanding and arrhythmic fourth quarter, who he killed with the soft ones after passing a second, shaken with meat and quickly cracked, who did not position his face badly.
