Un-Bloodied and Unbowed

Before 1,500 gasping and cheering spectators, Leonardo Benitez taunts a very angry 1,000-pound bull with his hot-pink cape. Sequins sparkle in the afternoon blaze. The bull digs its hoofs into the dirt, snorts and charges. In a swift motion, the Venezuelan matador flicks his wrist and thrusts his torso outward in utter confidence as the animal’s sharp horns pass scant centimeters from his thigh. It skids to a stop, frothing, momentarily confused, then whips its head around for another pass.

It’s a scene one would expect in Madrid, even Tijuana, but this is suburban Los Angeles County. And this bullfight, in the Portuguese tradition, is bloodless, at least on the bull’s part. The spears common in traditional fights are here replaced with sticks fashioned with Velcro points. The bull wears a matching Velcro patch around its collar. But the danger for the matador still exists, and the audience is duly captivated.

This corrida, or bullfight, closed out the 75th annual Divine Holy Spirit Celebration last week of Artesia’s Divino Espirito Santo, a Portuguese cultural center. Benitez and Lisbon matador Jose Luis Goncalves, and cavaleiro (a bullfighter on horseback) Joseph Correia of Madera, each faced two bulls over the course of the evening with much pomp and pageantry in between.

During the festival, a small mob of boys climbs the scaffolding under the bleachers to peer into a cramped trailer where the bulls are angrily knocking about. “I’ve been coming here since I was born,” says Ricardo Consuelo. He and his friend, Miles LaFaye, both 11, hope to get into the ring themselves one day. “I want to ride horseback.”

Correia and his white stallion, Draco, are stunning as they parade into the arena. Horse and man bow to the crowd. Correia hands his feathered hat to his father, Manuel Correia, who breeds bulls and Andalusian bullfighting horses. He grabs the hat and ducks into a slot in the arena wall big enough for a man but not a raging bull. The younger Correia and Draco proceed to gracefully skirt the bull’s mad dashes until six tinsel-festooned spears are Velcroed to the bull, further fanning its fury.

But it’s the group of local forcados or “grabbers” who steal the show. The 12-member Southern California Forcados has one of the most daunting roles of the entire corrida--wrestling the bull down by hand. It is a maneuver that has one member charge headlong at the bull with the others in quick pursuit. The first forcado goes for the horns; the others pile on where they can for a result that looks something like a rugby scrum over the bull. Though less elegant than the matadors, the forcados require skill and much courage.

At one point, a forcado is lying in the dirt while the others scramble up the sidewalls of the arena lifting their stockinged legs just inches above the bull’s reach. The animal turns and charges low, tossing the fallen man to the side. The audience cranes to see what the damage might be. Two banderilleros, the matador’s assistants, unfurl their capes and shout to distract the bull long enough for the forcado to scramble out of harm’s way. He’s up. He seems to be walking straight. The forcados prepare to charge.

Each has a hat tucked under his arm, a sort of long ski cap. Whoever wears his hat takes it upon himself to rush the bull first. Donovan Hendrik, the “golden boy” of the team (perhaps the only natural blond in the entire arena) faces the bull, dons his hat and rushes straight for the horns. His teammates pile up after him, wresting the bull to a stop. Testosterone versus taurine. Once the bull is subdued, they let him go and run back to safety. It’s a riveting enough display to wrench folks away from the saloon.

The forcados practice every Sunday for three hours, ramming a 55-gallon barrel on a wheeled teeter-totter at each other. Each forcado wears black knee pants, a tailored jacket, necktie and three yards of brilliant red fabric, which is wrapped around his waist.

Joey DeMelo is on the injured list. He lifts up his pant leg to prove that the danger in the ring is real. “I’ve got a metal plate and six screws in my leg,” he says. He also has a 9-inch scar from the 25 staples doctors used to put his leg back together.

“Most guys come [to be a forcado] for the adrenaline rush,” he says. “But they start getting into it for the tradition and the history.”

After seven years of training, DeMelo met his match in a ring last year. The bull lifted him off the ground and threw him so hard his leg snapped, the bone piercing his skin. It was the first broken bone for the Southern California Forcados in 18 years.

“Don’t you feel bad for the bull that hit you?” jokes an elderly man passing by. “He probably has a headache.”

“He’s still alive, they kept him as their star stud.”

“You were lucky,” the man says with a serious nod.

“I know. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

The bullfight is a major social occasion for those in the Portuguese community, many of whom hail from Portugal’s volcanic Terceira island in the Azores. Children run wild on soda pop binges, teenage girls get dressed up, old men hang out by one of the two D.E.S. saloons munching on bifanas--pork sandwiches.

The bloodless bullfights have been part of the festival since the 1970s. This being a special 75th anniversary, all past festival queens were invited back for the parade. Ninetysomething Mary Ferreira, the very first queen, returned as grand marshal. Eighteen other Portuguese organizations from throughout California’s dairy belt, from Tulare to the Mexican border, participated. Highlights of the festival include the parade, a beef soup meal, ceremonial Mass, crowning of the queen and an auction. “It has an element of the profane and the religious,” says John Garcia, secretary of the D.E.S.

The Mass is an important factor. Bullfighting without religion is a misdemeanor offense, according to California Penal Code 597M enacted in 1957. Fights are permissible only if associated with a religious activity. Madeline Bernstein, president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Los Angeles, laments this loophole. “It’s beyond me how religious institutions could condone tormenting an animal as somehow connected to a religious practice,” she says. “It sets a bad example for children; they imitate it and start throwing things at their pets. It’s not OK.”

Though the bulls are not gored, there is a little blood. Draco the horse bleeds slightly from Correia’s powerful spurring. It’s not a gentle sport. It is designed to bring out the worst in what is otherwise a peaceful beast. The odd pairing of two barnyard animals that normally would pay no mind to one another is all part of the spectacle of bullfighting.

Though the bulls are not harmed, they will most likely be sent to slaughter after the corrida. “They can only be used once or they learn too much,” says breeder Manuel Correia. There are 18 bull-breeding farms in California. The bulls are sold for such occasions for about $2,000 each.

As the corrida winds down, the band strikes up a classic pasodoble-- traditional Spanish bullfighting music with blazing horns. All the bullfighters parade the arena, taking in a round of applause and drinking from the leather pouches of red wine that are tossed from the stands.