Sport: Blood & a Station Wagon

Sidney Franklin is brave with a cold, serene and intelligent “valor . . . No history of bullfighting that is ever written can be complete unless it gives him the space he is entitled to.

—Ernest Hemingway,

Death in the Afternoon (1932)

Brooklyn-born Torero Franklin, now 50 and scarred by repeated gorings, has hung up his matador’s suit, but he is still deep in his old sport. Nowadays Franklin is content to be the impresario of the bull ring at the small (pop. 18,000) Andalusian city of Alcalá de Guadaira, where he can teach the youngsters, and drink manzanilla with the oldtimers in the quiet evenings at the town casino. Last week Seňor Franklino, as he is known at Alcalá, outraged the aficionados.

It all started when Don Plácido, owner of the mule team that drags the bulls out of the ring after the kill, decided that he was not getting enough pay. Moreover, Don Plácido felt he deserved twice as many free tickets to pass out to his friends. Don Plácido made his demands last week, and Franklin gave him a firm no.

“In that case,” said Don Plácido, convinced that Franklin would give in because there is no other muletero in town, “no mules this afternoon.” Franklin shrugged: “O.K., have it your own way.”

After the first kill, the spectators waited for the caparisoned mule team to enter the ring. Instead, when the gate opened, in drove Franklin, a broad grin on his tanned face, at the wheel of his Chrysler station wagon. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Franklin roped the bull’s horns and tied the rope to the rear bumper. Back at the wheel, he towed the bull around the arena amidst an uproar of catcalls, hoots and laughter. Then he drove out. Three times that afternoon, Franklin drove into the ring and hauled away the carcass.

That night there was a deathly stillness when Franklin turned up at the casino. Franklin sauntered over to his table, picked up the Correo Andaluz and started reading. One Alcalá cattle dealer, braver than his fellows, crossed the smoky room, cleared his throat and said: “Listen Seňor Franklino. If Plácido fails to show up another time, just let me know. I’ll bring down my team of working mules from the farm. Please never do that again. It’s bad for the fiesta.” Franklin rose, bowed gravely and replied: “Thank you, senor. I’ll do that. I’m sorry, but I could not accept a bullying from Plácido. Not even for the fiesta.”

The atmosphere cleared up. Once again Alcalá de Guadaira was proud of its one and only norteamericano. Over the manzanilla, Alcalá relaxed.