Ferrera resolves without fuss in front of six pariah miuras in Pamplona

On the whole, and in order to be consistent with the constant absurdities of the presidential box during all the San Fermines, Ferrera also came out on the shoulders of the Puerta del Encierro in this last bullfight, and with as little reason as many other bullfighters. have done during the last bullfights the previous eight days.

But this exit from a sad and useless triumphalism cannot hide that what was heralded as Ferrera’s heroic act with the bulls of the Zaharich estate ended up being a disappointing showand not so much because of Extremadura but because of the absolute absence of caste from bullfighting.

Because the same fat as the tertiary, the curd as the bulldozer, the one with forms evoking the Navarrese blood that this mixed cattle also possesses as the one with the “chipped” look, none of the six had a single attack with the minimum delivery.

With more or less trips, although the least abundant, they all lacked caste and zeal, even to develop the always foreseeable danger of an iron that for years lost its fearsome legend.

With this material, Antonio Ferrera had no major options to show, only to attempt to solve the ballot with a recognized trade that, as Miura’s men entered the ring, became insufficient for the public.

He did not go beyond effective with the cape, whose silk was green today, perhaps in homage to the flag of Pamplona, ​​and he wasted little time with the crutch, soon giving up his vain efforts to get a few animals to follow the falling fabric or defended themselves by headbutting or pulling the pitons over the staker.

The only moments of fleeting brilliance were obtained with the second, a bull despite its 625 kilos of weight, which moved pajuno and without emotion when the matador did not demand that minimum which led him to cry. The boyancón barely endured half a dozen passages, although enough to have an ear cut off.

Rougher was the third, one of those who wore the most typical work of the Navarrese caste and which Ferrera got by with resolute ease, but with which he dragged on in a dozen fruitless innings to kill .

In a final attempt, and almost desperately, Ferrera gave the only nod to variety all afternoon in three long ariosas to greet the sixth and, as many assumed, he put on the Gregorian anyway. to ride the chopping horse.

But bragging came to nothing because, after prescribing two light punches, without any force, the bull, without sufficient punishment, defended itself by biting into a fret in which the Badajoz right-hander was barely prowling on legs around him.

That was before, between disenchantment, he knocked him down from a drooping lunge that the public and the presidency clung to to give him that ear that carried him on his shoulders to the unfenced streets for containment.

It was perhaps the best way to thank him for what ended up being his authentic gesture on this “Poor me” afternoon: that of giving all his fees to the residents of the Casa de Misericordia, to whom the covid, and the cessation of the Sanfermin bullfights left two years without income.