Morante de la Puebla finally performs at the first Puerta Grande in its history with a masterful afternoon at Las Ventas.

At 9:40 p.m., with the moon hanging in the Madrid sky, a fervent crowd cheered Morante de la Puebla along Alcalá Street. And Madrid, as if it were Seville, chanted his name—"José Antonio! Morante de la Puebla!"—putting one of the greatest bullfighters of all time in his place, the greatest these eyes have ever seen.

Madrid finally rose to the level of history. Madrid finally rose to the level of Morante. And Las Ventas finally opened its Puerta Grande to an unrepeatable artist, who offered a masterful afternoon of bullfighting, not only for his dazzling artistry, but also for his extraordinary bullfighting talent. MdlP signed a treaty unmatched by anyone with two average to mediocre bulls from Juan Pedro, far from the excellence of those from Fernando Adrián.

Morante de la Puebla felt the bullring already ablaze during the paseíllo, on its feet when it broke into a stirring ovation. The crowd meted out a restorative justice to the outraged maestro. He saluted with his blue montera, midnight blue like the jet-embroidered suit, his handkerchiefs like doves in a magician's pockets, the gold waistcoat that distinguishes the matador. At 7:10 p.m., amid the bull's running, Morante had performed two verónicas with his cape straight, loose, tied to the beat. And two more stratospheric verónicas, swaying on his chest, in the play of his waist, in the pulse of his wrists. And the bull left again after a short swoop, before tangling with winged chicuelinas, swirling around the baroque style of his figure. The half-pass was tucked in but not clean, amended by a graceful serpentine, with a graceful step.

From the Seminarian, by Garcigrande, to Sacristán, by Juan Pedro, Morante's history passes through God. From that anthology of May 28th in the Corrida de la Prensa to this first jewel of the now historic Corrida de Beneficencia. Capellán carried an enormous depth, an infinite length, and a bullfighter's horn slung over his neck. A big fellow but not flexible. Noble and steady but not excellent, his depth measured as his quality.

Morante brought the necessary skill, skill, and poise from the high passes, the savory ones with the elbows, finished off with a martinete and a chest pass to be etched in the ice of memory. MdlP placed himself with the bull on Antoñete's territory—parallel to the second line—with Antoñete's geometry in the connection—changing only from shoe to shoe in the turn—and thus the bullfighting sprang forth, uniting with him. MdlP merges with the bull in such a way that everything is a single sculpture. But in the third series, all of an unattainable height, volcanic in their depth, well-resolved with hand changes and chest passes, the bull asked the maestro to take a step, because he had collided with the muleta. The following natural passes were a prodigy, of adjustment and naturalness, of unparalleled purity. That's what emerges when Morante sinks into his heels. Madrid roared. The job was done. The juampedro sang it. We crossed our fingers for the sword to sink, and it sank high with Morante pushing with the heart of 22,000 souls. The death was spectacular, the handkerchief explosive. One ear with thunderous force, and the other fell by the wayside. That restorative justice from the beginning should have been applied as well. And, above all, because the score was tied with Adrián afterward...

There was hope. Curro Romero was carried out of this plaza on the shoulders of the crowd with one ear in 1959 and 1965. But in the end, poetic justice prevailed. Morante de la Puebla pursued with all his soul the Puerta Grande he had longed for, pursued for 25 years, invented. That was it. A prodigious invention with a bull that gave him nothing, incredibly brave in the face of the bumps, finding the vein of bullfighting like a diviner in the desert. The juampedro had protested, saying that he really said little, but the worst part was that he offered nothing. Neither class nor dedication. A certain violence. And then Morante gritted his teeth, found that beam of light from his privileged head, and waved his muleta. From the start, he was on his knees with a Roberto Domingo painting, passing with his right hand that tempered the untempered and came out cleanly from below. The performance, in addition to its brutal artistic tone, grew from the depths of the extraordinary bullfighter that he is . That placement of God stepping on the earth.

That erupted with a pair of natural passes that bore the hallmark of eternity, two unthinkable natural passes, of unprecedented depth and a truth that even the meowers were silenced by the roar. MdlP felt his PG half-open and completely emptied himself. A change of hand from the rooster to Belmonte's natural pass, going to the opposite horn, heading for glory. What a hell of a guy. The kill was still to be made, oh, and he did. He fell low on the sword, yes, but history owed him so, so many near misses, so many performances, so many masterpieces, on the border. The president yielded to the strength of the people, and, finally, the bullring rose to Morante's level.

What happened before and after him was like when Calypides tried to imitate the nightingale's warbling to Agesilaus, and Agesilaus replied: "I do not wish to listen to you. I have often heard the real nightingale, and I know how it sings."

It doesn't matter when you read this: Fernando Adrián took home a batch of cows , the bull of the afternoon, a certain Pardillo of superlative quality and elastic movements, the sustained rhythm of something special, the class of the tame wicker that made his bravery open up. Adrián was what he is. He only gives a harsh coarseness , a tenacious disharmony. It was hard to understand the cheers after seeing the greatest bullfighter. They awarded him one ear. Also notable was a fifth of proverbial stride, exhausted before its time. Boring perhaps. The best passes were on his knees, in a prologue against the bull. Named Archivero. A metisaca. He has been given bulls to re-establish the field of bravery of excellence.

Borja Jiménez got himself into a bad snag with the sword against the less accomplished group, who also didn't have much of a head start on an afternoon that had only one name. "José Antonio! Morante de la Puebla!" chanted the crowd on Calle de Alcalá.