The text came early last night from my 8-year-old grandson, Tallac. The one every grandfather awaits. The one in which a child actually asks an old man something about the life he lived long, long ago. 

The question: “Do you have pictures of your bull-fighting endeavors?”

It was as close as I would ever get to “Grandpa, what did you do during the war?”

Or, in theatrical terms, it was my Peter Falk in “Princess Bride” moment.

And I guess I blew it.

“Oh, no!” I typed.

Wait a minute.

First off, what kind of a movie would “Princess Bride” have been if Peter Falk and his grandson had started out by texting each other? 

Can you imagine?

Me neither. The grandson needs to be in bed and on the mend from an ailment, and the grandfather needs to be sitting in the red chair beside him.

But my grandson is in Northern California, up beside Donner Lake, and I am beside myself in San Miguel De Allende, Mexico. So, we make do. Not all life as it is in a movie. No reaching out to pinch a grandson’s cheek.

So. Where was I?

“Oh, no,” I typed. “That was, like, in 1982. No cell phones. The whole ‘endeavor’ lasted five minutes! But I’ll  always remember the feeling of being airborne on the horns of a bull!”

You better believe it, that if it had been in the era of the cell phone, videos would have gone viral before my crumpled body hit the ground. There would be pictures and videos. So many, many pictures and videos.

Today, it would be a viral moment.

Back then, it was just a gringo behaving stupidly.

My grandson texted back, “No pictures, never happened. Love Tallac.”

Ouch.

There it was. The hard truth. If I had been sitting in the chair beside his bed, I would have quoted Peter Falk – “Once upon a time …” and “keep your shirt on” — and the story would have unfurled. The movie would have been made.

The best I could do was a reply that perhaps sounded a little too desperate, “Ha! Ha! Ha! But don’t say that to a writer! We paint pictures with WORDS! Love you.”

(Tallac did invite me to visit when school ends in June. There is that.)

So. No photos. Only words and fading memories

“Once upon a time …”

Once a year, at the start of the bull-fighting season, the membership of the San Diego Press Club was invited to the old bull ring in downtown Tijuana to learn about the sport of Hemingway. 

That was the intent.

Bull-fight organizers were the optimistic sort who thought that education would lead to fair press coverage when the inevitable protests arose. Bull fighting had been a hard sell for years, though my San Diego paper still reported on it routinely as a sport.

When I heard about the invitation, my response was typical of a young man who’d only recently moved to San Diego from Connecticut: “Bull fighting is still a thing?”

“Not only is it still a thing, my new colleagues replied heartily, “but there is Mariachi music and dancing, and they put out a spread of food and margaritas like you wouldn’t believe.”

Again, showing my pre-Internet, parochial New England-ishness, I asked, “What are margaritas?”

“It is a bottomless barrel of Mexican fiesta-ness and spirit-lifting camaraderie, a love potion like none you ever drank in your fair distant country!” they replied.

“Verily, thou shall get wasted for free!”

In those days, free food and drink seemed to be part of the Press Club’s raison d’être. “Press Club” itself was a bit of a misnomer, as a lot of the membership was made up of public relations, advertising, and marketing types seeking media access.

Again, kids, in pre-Internet days, people got together at social gatherings to meet, exchange intelligence, swap business cards, share drinks and free food, flirt, and, maybe, push a story or two. It was called “relationship building,” not “networking.”

Being from a small New England newspaper, I was new to all this. I mean, I’m the guy who refused the jar of homemade jam from the local eccentric Antoinetta (aka “The Chicken Lady”) because she frequently stood up and berated the town council. I also declined to let the head of the Chamber of Commerce pay for my lunch, although his words still ring in my ears, “Bob, if I thought I could influence you with the price of a lunch, we wouldn’t be sitting here. You’re better than that.”

For the San Diego Press Club, “Bull Fighting Junket” was right up there with “County Fair Press Preview Party” and “Radio Station Massive Dessert-only Anniversary Party.”

I think you got an award if you attended all three in a single year. 

It was an irresistible invitation – so many things that I knew nothing about: Tijuana, bull fighting, margaritas … would Hemingway approve?

I think so.

My life was about as stable as Hemingway’s at that time.

As I said, I’d recently driven across the country to take a newspaper job in San Diego. I’d left behind two sons and an estranged wife, colleagues and a newspaper that I loved and respected, and, oh yes, winter.

Why did I do that?

Because on the same day that my estranged wife had said she was moving to San Francisco with our sons, I received a phone call from the San Diego newspaper offering me a job that I’d applied for nearly five years previously.

The fact that she changed her mind right after I accepted the job is another story.

So, yes, I was single/not single, alone in a new town, missing my kids, in Tijuana, enjoying the hospitality of a foreign country as only a devoted Press Club trencherman could.

You might say I was vulnerable when, during the illuminating demonstration of the art of bullfighting, our host asked for volunteers. “Would anyone like to try their hand at working the cape?”

Here, things grow fuzzy (on several levels). 

Did I volunteer? Was I nominated by my new friends? Just what was I volunteering for?

I just recall that the metaphorical spotlight fell upon me. I was the Chosen One. The one to enter that ancient ring of mortal combat. Man against Nature. Nature against Man. Machismo against Reason. 

I was to fight the bull.

Before entering the ring, I uttered the words no toreador should ever say: “Hold my drink.”

You know how they say alcohol slows down your thought processes?

It took me from entering the ring to being handed the cape – to realize the immensity of this undertaking.

“Wait. You said ‘fight the bull‘? You mean, as in a real bull?”

It was too late to back out. And, besides, there was a short line behind me of eager faces, waiting to pick up the cape and give it a go, once I broke the ice.

“Broke the ice” is what they call it when you voluntarily put your life on the line for the amusement of others. Less terrifying than “broke the ribs,” “broke the arm,” “cracked open the skull.”

Today, this sort of stunt is worthy of a small bit on a reality TV show. Back then, I’ll be honest, I was flooded with self-doubt. Correct that. I was scared out of my gourd.

Not that I had time to tread water in that pool of doubt and fear.

I vaguely remember getting some tips on how to hold the cape, where to hold the cape, what to shout at the bull, what to do when the bull charges, what to do immediately after the bull passes, and … not once do I recall the words “run like hell,” “insurance,” “ambulance standing by,” or “liability” being mentioned.

It was over before I knew it.

The bull came out. The bull pawed the ground and snorted. I squeaked “Ole!” and “Toro!” and wiggled the cape. I could sense people behind me backing away like I had an infectious disease.

The bull charged. I locked eyes. I took the bull-fighter’s heroic stance, cape just to my right, wiggling like laundry on a clothesline.

Here’s the thing.

That bull?

He had no interest in the cape. None.

That was the lesson I learned that day: The bull is smarter than the man. It takes a good bull no time at all to figure out that it’s not the cape that you want. It’s the guy waving it. The torero does not enter the ring with a bull that has already run the cape.

Mine was a training bull. A young bull, but a savvy one. With horns. And lots of experience running the cape. I think that was the inside joke.

Just before he hit the cape, the bull swung its horns sharply into me.

One horn went neatly between my legs. The bull executed a sharp upward thrust that catapulted me up and over its back in a neat somersault.

I lost points on the dismount. But I held onto the cape. So there was that.

People quickly surrounded me while the pros distracted the bull.

My career as a toreador was over.

 I was OK. Fortunately, I had enough tequila in the system to crumple liquidly into the ground — and also enough to deaden any lingering flickers of pride.

It wasn’t until I got home that night and saw the dark, black and blue line across my inner left thigh that I realized how utterly foolish I had been. And perhaps a bit wasted on my new friend, Margarita.

If I had been two inches shorter, or that bull’s horns had been two inches longer, well …

Ironically, the grandson who asked about my bull-fighting exploits? His father wasn’t even born until two years later, a year after his mother and I reconciled.

But that is another story, much scarier than bull fighting, I assure you.

The picture is AI-generated. The story is not.