Event which involves a fight between at least two animals ... for purposes of sport, wagering, or entertainment (7USC2156)

When TJ told me a group of people were going to the weekend-afternoon bullfight, I enthusiastically said I wanted to go along, forgetting that this would entail more than your casual beer-swilling sporting event – in particular, the deaths of animals, six to be exact. Although I began to get butterflies even before we left, I wanted to do justice to this tradition, considering this was probably going to be the one and only time, so I suggested sitting on the sol, or sun, side (as opposed to the sombra, or shade, side), where we could pay less to be closer to the action.

I am no PETA representative; I am aware that animals die in order for me to eat, but still, I don’t like to spend an afternoon at the meat-packing plant. And for those who say I should have to see the slaughterhouse show, I disagree. There are plenty of things that people need to stay alive, but that people don't watch for viewing pleasure. A colonoscopy comes to mind.

My main problem is, I generally identify with animals more than the people; I have a bad habit of anthropomorphizing. At one point, I thought a bull was behaving like Sage, whom I consider part-human, by bouncing around the ring in a devil-may-care frolic. Another one reminded me of Ferdinand, famed in story by Munro Leaf and in film by Walt Disney, as he sniffed around the ring, possibly at the sanguine traces of his friends. So it was a bit hard to watch an animal running around bleeding; I prefer my bloody cattle stationary on a plate.

The other problem is, the ritual of this slaying takes a lot longer than your typical bovinicide. In an attempt to be somewhat objective, I will explain this lengthy process. In the event we went to, there were three cuadrillas, or teams of fighters, that faced two bulls each over a three-hour period -- that's about 15 cents per bull-butchering minute. Before the action began, they were introduced in a parade.

Each bullfight involves three stages, or tercios, which begin after the just-agitated (by a barb put in its neck) bull is welcomed by the matador, the fanciest-dressed dude, and three other toreros, his entourage, who get a feel for the bull by taunting it with capotes, or capes, oftentimes leading it to crash into the ring’s barriers as they take cover.

In the first tercio, two picadores, or lancers, enter on horseback. They and their horses sport extensive protective covering; the men had stirrups that looked like mini-backhoes, and the horses wore the kind of padding you see strapped to gym walls, except this cushion has to stop bucking horns, not bolting adolescents. The picadores carry varas, more like long spears than lances, which they attempt to thrust into the bull’s neck as it charges the horse. This assault draws first blood.

In the second tercio, the three henchmen, now in the role of banderilleros, take turns trying to stab two banderilleras, or spikes, into the bull’s shoulders. This stage seems much more sporting as this requires the banderillero to get within close range of a now-enraged bull.

In the last tercio, the matador is left alone in the ring with only the bull and his muleta, the quintessential red cape. Here begins the traditional dance of tandas, or passes, in which the matador is sometimes close enough to pat the bull on the rump. During a series of good passes, the crowd will linguistically butt-tap the bullfighter by chanting “olé, olé.”

This dance, or faena, concludes with the matador killing the bull by stabbing it through the shoulder blades to the heart with the estoque, or sword. In an ideal world, this estocada would be done in one clean stroke, but with five of the bulls we saw, the other toreros had to intervene in the faena to help the matador get his muleta or estoque back for a second, third, and sometimes fourth or fifth try, like with Rafael Ortega's second bull.

All throughout the tercios, the audience share their opinions of the cuadrilla’s performance. If the bull seems to deserve to win, the crowd will shout “toro, toro” to the bullring’s president, petitioning him to spare its life. Although we heard some of these shouts, along with taunts of “culo” (I'll let you look up that word for yourself), during the first round with Alberto Espinoza, no bull survived. All were drug off by mules after their demise.

If the matador exhibits masterful skills, the crowd waves white handkerchiefs, pressuring the president to award the fighter one of the bull’s ears as a badge of honor. Humberto Flores proudly displayed this reward in a victory lap, in his debut at the Bullring by the Sea.

And now for the subjective assessment. There actually were some positives about my experience. Despite the seemingly skimpy number of spectators, the atmosphere was festive, much more interactive than, say, an Indians game. This exhibition came with a complete pep band, not just one guy with a drum.

The in-stand cuisine was more extensive -- and less expensive ($3 for a beer!) -- than at a ballgame. The vendors hawked everything from fruit plates to fried chicken, half-melted ice cream to piping-hot potato chips. And of course, trays of beef jerky, which I would describe as "fresh" if it weren't obviously smoked.

Nevertheless, once is enough. I came, I saw, I commit this post and these photos as confirmation of my singular cultural and agricultural investigation.