The magnetism of Roca Rey in the afternoon where Rufo sliced ​​his shoulders

Saturday night had been long in Valencia. Very long noise and short of silences. In the surroundings of Bailén street the firecrackers were incessant. And not only those who sell in the trenderetes at 1.50. Next to the train station more than one hit a sainete. Broken love paraders paraded – “He has lied it to me, he has lied it to me!” He shouted one with the age of doing the militia and romances of an early morning. Or we thought about the coldness with which the Cuenca and Albacete’s said goodbye. ‘A thousand eyes hid the night’ from the window of the Zenit, one of the barracks of the fans, who echoed that phrase of Juan Manuel de Prada in the great interview with Bruno Pardo that the hams and writers feel the cold well.

Wonder also sat Andrés Roca Rey, the magnet of failures, with a magnetism that no other bullfighter possesses today. His fair, and not only for his way of calling crowds, is one of those that mark a season. If on Saturday he really wore his tasks to the good bull and the bad, on Sunday the emotion was invented with one of the bulls of the Parralejo that prayed the jandilla run. Only Tomás Rufo, winner for the big door, would account for a lot of headlines.

Often bounced on Borja Domecq’s face after only four of his bulls were approved and, according to the farmer, some of the best left. They liked the makers of the second, that expression, that neck to pick up and that tail. But the illusion disappeared after a third of rods in which he was about to tear down the piquero, so unleashed. Even the hoof bleeding when Rufo entered the Quito with the cape behind his back. Until half a dozen puddles in which the life of the jandilla that excited us was turned off. The Peruvian began, with the straight bull now, as if wanting to shave the taleguilla. Nor was Roca flimpy, who tried by both hands knowing that nothing had to be done. The bull asked for death, which was delayed, and a warning fell.

We do not know how the ones who stayed inside, but the third -party anovillado was away from the trapío of this square. The light whistles forgot as soon as the soro trumpet rang and Rufo stood on his knees, enduring the buoyant attack. That was an explosion of joy. To all of the cucumber, mature and involved in a well structured task, although not always of successful distances. The ‘flamenco shell’ sounded in the background when, in the epilogue, his fabrics dustred the zurda series of the celebration, of exact measures, with the rag on track and slowed down. The swords needed a blow of executioner, which was not an obstacle for the request of the double trophy. The presidency estimated that with one was enough among the anger of the staff.

Yes, he attended the request of the award that boosted him on his shoulders in the sixth enclosed, which he greeted Portagayola. Body to earth had to throw when the chestnut passed over. Rabido, he fell off his knees again. What a great pair would then blow Sánchez (Fernando), which is that it comes out. Rufo got into the car that had dragged rock, to the anxious mass of the triumph. It was an abundant task, sometimes more than splicing than to flirt, but ambitious and ready, topped with a Roquista displacement before the sword fell in ugly mode.

Those lying in that clean body of the condor in land of 10 and 11. There was a task to a middle parralejo that ended up applauded and surrendered to his baton. Bárbaro El Arrimón, with a brutal connection, with that magnetism that only feels when the number 1.

Manzanares is a strange phenomenon. A handful of bulls ram him, but his touch has vanished for a long time. Greater firmness and delivery put with the most demanding and first set of the Parralejo -a bronco bull but with much to fight -that with the head of Jandilla, fast already pulls. In an unequal run and with enough options -he said in general -he tied an ear with a king rock, but not to sensations. Hypnotic yours.