THE DAY THE BULLS WON
As the tinny band tootled in the sunbaked parchness of San Sebastian de los Reyes, the two novilleros (apprentice matadors) marched splendidly across the main square, tagged by an apprentice apprentice who was to serve only as an alternate. This day the square of the little Spanish town was the plaza de toros, and a gloriously colorful poster tacked askew on a whitewashed brick wall promised that four brave bulls would test the mettle of the two men.
At 22, Angel Lopez Angelillo was the senior on the program and would be first. As the gate leading into the makeshift ring swung open, Poderoso, The Powerful One, stamped right in, slammed his horns into the retaining wall and sent boards flying. Carefully, Angelillo sculptured a ver�nica as Poderoso charged by. The bull turned quickly and caught him in between the horns. Angelillo, hit high in the chest but not punctured, described a somersault. His attendants carried their torero to the first aid station.
Out stepped Pedro Perez Stedda Pedro Martinez and made the kill. Then he set himself to face the second bull, Campero, The Guardian of the Field. "Let me take him instead," said the apprentice apprentice, a 19-year-old who had arrived without attendants and who called himself The Toledo Fox. "Gladly," said Pedro Martinez. Toledo's Fox was barely warmed up when, injudiciously, he turned his back to Campero. Off went The Fox to the hospital.
Again Pedro Martinez made the kill, and set himself to face the third bull, Fieto, the Little Ugly One. Pedro worked his bull as best he could, then drove in the sword. But Fieto, before he fell, rushed Pedro, butted him in the chest, gored him in the foot and dumped him on his head. Pedro and Fieto left the ring together.
The fourth bull of the afternoon would have been the 3,464th bull killed this year in Spain—but there was nobody around to fight him. The bulls finally had won a bullfight.
When the line squall hit Green Bay, Wis. one morning last week, the wind was gusting along at 52 mph. A photographer's tower on the Green Bay-Packers' practice field, 25 feet high, 1,000 pounds heavy and made of angle iron, tipped and then toppled. It landed squarely on the helmeted head of Linebacker Ray Nitschke.
Smushed into the grass by the iron framework, Nitschke wiggled his fingers and toes, and, when the tower was lifted, reeled to his feet. Then, extracting the metal bolt that had punched a hole in his plastic helmet, Nitschke hitched up his pants and returned to practice.
THAT DANISH DRUG