My brief career as a matador

My brief career as a matador
The controversial national sports of Spain is bullfighting. The woke brigade get apoplectic at the mention. The testosterone charged get orgasmic at the sight of the blood and gore.
Some states have banned the sport and in some it’s ignored but in Seville it has the status of high art and it’s the blockbuster sport of Madrid.
The top matadors earn 1 million euros per fight or up to 3 million a day . And they become national heroes. After the fight they’re carried out on the shoulder of the fans , but occasionally on stretchers as sometimes the bull wins.
Careers of matadors aren’t long, and most iconic matadors have died in the ring, or retired after a crippling injury, as we discovered in the hall of fame at Madrid’s bullring. There was only one legendary female matador on the wall of heroes, so I guess that’s one more glass ceiling broken in this most macho of sports.
The season was over when we reached, so there was no real fighting to witness, and I wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or not.
After visiting the ring, the museum, seeing the films etc., there was one experience that we could have, that is experiencing the adrenaline rush of the matador vicariously, through AI.
We put on a cape and wear the mask which transports us to the ring, with the roaring crowd and the snorting bull, and we have to make the moves and dodge the bull, making as close passes as we dare. Just like the real matadors, except that you can neither kill nor get hurt.
I was initially hesitant, but when a petite and jolly Moroccan fellow tourist in a hijab took the plunge and pranced around with great swagger, I too decided to brave it.
As usual, my uncanny sence of directions took over and I couldn’t find the bull. But when the roar of the virtual audience warned me, I noticed that the bull was behind me.
After a narrow escape, and some more clumsy passes , I was beginning to get the hang of it and started to enjoy myself, and the incredible adrenaline rush, and decided to to try the daring close passes, reminding myself that the bull isn’t real.
Incidentally that day was the world cup semifinal, as I was rooting for Kohli’s record breaking century.
There was one more fellow Indian in our group, and he was following the match and updating me.
And just as the bull was rushing, he shouted, century, which I heard over the roar of the virtual spectators, and turned around to cheer.
The next thing I knew was the bull getting me squarely on the back and sending me flying. Though there was no pain, the fright was real.
Thus ended my all too brief career as a matador
Soumya