Jugarse la vida – the literal translation is
“gamble with your life,” but I suppose the best way to say this in English
might be “put your life on the line.” In
Spanish, the phrase rolls off the tongue easily, with a poetic rhythm. Yet, when used in bullfighting, even amateur
bullfighting, the stakes are real.
Carlos Vargas, an aficionado práctico from Saltillo, 65 years old, and
with a burning desire to torear, se
jugó la vida with a difficult novillo from Torrecillas on October 28 in
La Plaza Nuevo Progreso de Guadalajara and lost the bet. No, that isn’t quite
right. Carlos lost his life, but he
also won. He won in that battle that we
all face, in life as well as in the bullring.
It is a battle that is filled with challenges, but also filled with
joy. It involves taking risks. And we never know ahead of time when it will
end. Carlos bravely faced the danger of
a fierce novillo, not shirking from the real risks he knew the bull
presented. I knew Carlos and considered
him a friend. We first met two years
ago. From what I saw, I am sure Carlos
faced life in the same way, with courage and honor regardless of the obstacles
and odds.
The Annual Convention of
Aficionados Prácticos held in Guadalajara attracts the finest aficionados
prácticos from around the world, and the prize for the best performance in the
three day event is the “Estoque de Bronce.”
Carlos wanted that trophy, not to show to the world but to prove to
himself that he was the best. Two years
ago, I won the trophy and Carlos jokingly told me, “Esta vez, no nos vas a
chingar, gringo.” This year, there had
been some excellent performances by several aficionados who cut two ears. So Carlos gave it his all. I guess you could say he gave too much. Another aficionado finished off Carlos’
bull, but the crowd demanded two ears for Carlos. His banderilleros took the vuelta before taking the ears to the
injured matador. At the time, we all
had hopes that Carlos would soon recover, and all the aficionados agreed that
the trophy was for Carlos. And,
although he was never able to hold this bronze sword in his hands, the trophy
is his. He won it fair and square, even
though he paid the ultimate price.
It was the final day of the
three day convention, and Carlos and I were fighting along with four other
aficionados prácticos. We met at the
sorteo, Carlos and I drawing the two biggest animals – real novillos well over
300 kg, which looked to be a full three years old. My good friend Raúl Ochoa drove us back to our hotels and offered
to pick us up. On the way to the plaza,
we talked and joked, hoping that the bulls were brave; we were confident that
we would have a good time. We even
passed a funeral procession, considered by many to be a sign of bad luck. Not one of us said a word about it, but I am
sure everyone in the car noticed. And I
suspect, like me, they all felt a lump in their throats. Had there been some wood handy, even though
I like to think I am not superstitious, I would have knocked on it.
I won’t try to describe
Carlos’ performance other than to say he went out to triumph, a jugarse la vida. Was he tossed because of an unpredictable
movement by the bull or did Carlos make a mistake? Perhaps he was simply pushing the envelope in pursuit of the
Bronze Sword. Or he might have been
pushed by his pundonor, something
that is all about pride in its most positive sense. Whatever the reason, he was tossed twice during the faena. The second time he landed with such a thump
that it stopped his heart and before it could be restarted too much time had
passed. He was put on support systems
at the hospital, where he survived a week before passing away while still on
life support.
According to the obituary,
Carlos was 63, but he told me he was 65 and we laughed about being the same
age. He didn’t say he had been a
novillero, but the obituary gave the details of his career. I should have guessed as much from his
bull-sense and technical know-how.
The day after Carlos died I
was fighting in a festival in the same plaza.
After dedicating to the crowd, I walked to the center of the ring, near
the spot where I remembered he was tossed. I looked upward, raised my hat and
whispered, “Va por ti, torero.”
