From Raging Bulls to Roaring Laughter

My name is Fernando Ramírez. I used to be a bullfighter. My career wasn’t long, but it was exciting.

Growing up, my father often took the whole family to the bullfights at Plaza de Toros México. The scent of roasted peanuts and spilled beer mixed with the sharp musk of the arena sand. The spectacle felt like magic to me. The elegance of the matador’s movements, shimmering in their embroidered suit under the bright stadium lights, contrasted with the brute force of the bull in a way that left me transfixed. The crowd's roar rolled over me like a wave, making my chest vibrate.

When I was about ten, my father used his influence to get me backstage. I met my idols, and they took a liking to me. Before long, I was being mentored in the art. People started calling me “the next great promise” of the sport.

Unknown to me, the anti-bullfighting movement on social media was growing stronger every day. My parents shielded me from all of it. They blocked websites, filtered my devices. But I still noticed the crowds shrinking at the Plaza with each passing month.

When I asked why, I was lied to.

“They’re just bored of the current bullfighters,” my father said. “But you’re different. You’ll bring the crowds back.”

I didn’t know culture was changing. And I was foolish enough to believe what I was told.

When I was eighteen, the day of my big debut arrived. “The great one.” “The savior.” People said all kinds of things. They announced my name with great fanfare.

But the Plaza was nearly empty.

Just before facing the bull, doubt crept in. How could I succeed where others failed? Was I really special? What could I do that they couldn’t?

Then—chaos.

Someone made a mistake. The gate operator opened it before the signal. I wasn’t ready.

The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed, beneath the sterile glow of overhead lights. Pain tore through my back and abdomen like fire stitched into my skin. I heard the soft hiss of a respirator and smelled antiseptic and something metallic, maybe blood. My family surrounded me, their worried faces framed by pale blue curtains and the beeping rhythm of machines.

“He’s awake!” said my father. “How are you feeling, Nandito?”

I couldn’t speak. I made a writing motion. My mother handed me a pen and paper.

“I can’t speak. It hurts. What happened?”, I wrote.

“That idiot Arturo ruined your career,” my father said, choking up. “He got nervous, opened the gate early. The bull gored you, pierced your stomach and lungs. Dislocated your spine. Doctors say you’ll never walk again. Bullfighting is over for you. But you’re lucky to be alive, son.”

He tried to hug me but stopped short, tears falling as my mother and sister held him.

“I told him to stop watching cat videos at work”, I jotted down, trying to lift their spirits.

They chuckled briefly, then I wrote again.

“What am I going to do now?”

“First, recover,” my mother said. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

My father added, “Here’s your phone. No more parental controls. You’re an adult. Access any website you want.”

The first thing I saw was a message from Arturo:

“I’m deeply sorry. I quit. Now I help my aunt Camila with her quesadillas. Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

I didn’t reply. Not that day. I figured if I ever forgave him, I’d show up and eat some of those famous quesadillas.

During recovery, I spent long hours alone. My parents worked. My sister was at school. I had nothing but time. And the internet.

Not that kind of internet. My dad never blocked those sites, he didn't care about that. Forget I said that. What I mean is the world of social media, news, and anti-bullfighting content.

I saw post after post calling people like me murderers, barbarians, cruel. Videos autoplayed one after the other, their harsh voices echoing off the hospital walls. Faces twisted in outrage, footage drenched in red filters and dramatic music. It was like watching my childhood heroes put on trial in a courtroom I didn’t know existed.

Then it hit me: I was never going to “save” bullfighting. My family had lied. I might’ve had a career, for a while at least, but it would’ve been nothing like they promised.

Anger built inside me. But I was confined to a hospital bed, voiceless, and my family was already brokenhearted. I had nowhere to place it.

Rehabilitation went well. I regained my voice. My legs were useless, but I was strong. I practiced moving in my wheelchair, breathing without assistance.

But the anger was still there.

One day, still in the hospital, I picked up my phone and filmed myself.

“Hello, this is Fernando Ramírez. The so-called ‘next great promise’ of bullfighting. I was going to bring you all back to the Plaza with my spectacle. That’s what they told me.”

“You hear that, Pedrito123? You said I deserved what happened to me. Well, the bull agreed.”

“And XoXAnita3, who thanked God my career ended before I could ‘murder’ more bulls.”

“And all of you who kept throwing insults at me. You know, nothing is more motivating when you're fighting for your life than having your childhood dreams destroyed by anonymous strangers.”

“I was supposed to be so amazing, you’d forget about animal cruelty just to see me perform. Can you believe it? Well, I did.”

“And then? One idiot opens a gate too soon, and your messiah is crippled for life.”

“Now they’ll have to trick someone else into thinking they can save this doomed sport. It won’t be me.”

I uploaded the video, raw and unedited, told no one, and forgot about it.

After going home, I passed the days watching TV, playing video games, working on arm strength, and mastering wheelchair movement. College was out, my grades were too poor from years of bullfighting obsession.

Then came the notification.

Not another video upload. A like on mine. A comment.

“LOL, you are funny as hell. You should be a comedian. I’m totally sharing this.”

Funny? That was supposed to be rage. Grief.

Soon, likes and comments poured in. Subscribers too. People sympathized. Some asked for more. Was this real?

That night at dinner, my family was glowing for the first time in months.

“I’m proud of you, Nandito,” said my father. “Using humor to face your pain... that’s strength. Why didn’t you show us this video?”

“It wasn’t meant to be funny,” I said. “I was angry.”

“Well, get angry more often,” said my mother.

“Make more videos, Nandito!” my sister chimed in.

So we did. As a family. Coming up with rants consistently was hard. Some flopped, others soared. But overall, the channel grew, and even helped bring in money.

But eventually, something inside me felt off.

The anger that fueled me... faded.

I got writer’s block. The videos stopped. Followers left. I felt stuck.

One afternoon, while deleting old messages, I saw Arturo’s text again. I hovered over the delete button. But something stopped me.

“I want to have dinner at ‘Quesadillas Camila’ tonight,” I told my dad.

“No way,” he said. “I don’t want to see that damn brat.”

“Please. It’s important. My channel’s dying.”

He sighed. “All right. If you insist.”

Arturo saw us the moment we entered. His glare cut through me. But we sat anyway.

He came to the table. “You shouldn’t be here. Go home.”

“I’m sorry for not replying. And for what I said in the video. I was furious. I know you didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Well, what you said hurt badly. People came after me when your video went viral. I couldn’t even come to the restaurant for a while.”

He paused. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. We’ll talk after closing.”

We ate in tense silence. The quesadillas were golden and crisp, the melted cheese stretching like string with every bite. The rich aroma of grilled masa and sizzling oil hung in the air. But it all sat heavy in my stomach. Every bite clashed with the awkward energy hanging over the table like smoke.

Later, he joined us.

“That day”, said Arturo, “I got too nervous. Everyone kept telling me that your debut had to be flawless. My hands trembled, and you know what happened. I didn't stay for the other bullfighters. I quit on the spot and left the place in tears. The next day, I asked Aunt Camila to let me work here.”

“I understand now. I know how we can fix this,” I said. “Be in a video with me. Tell your side. Rant. Mock me. Go off.”

Arturo blinked. “That... would be awesome. But will your followers like it?”

My parents exchanged worried glances.

“Are you sure?” my mom asked.

“This could backfire”, said my dad.

“I’m sure,” I said. “This is what the channel needs.”

We made the video. And in the process, Arturo and I became good friends.

“Hey guys, sorry for the long break. Today, I’ve got a special guest: Arturo, my dear friend.”

“Hey, everyone, I’m Arturo. Yep, that Arturo, the guy who opened the gate early and accidentally gave birth to your favorite channel. Let me tell you my side...”

Arturo nailed it. “Fernando was a nervous wreck that day; he infected me with it, it was his fault!” Arturo joked. “Yeah, sure, like you've never seen a nervous bullfighter before,” I replied playfully. Our back-and-forth was gold. The video exploded. It became my most shared, most liked post ever.

Arturo stayed at the restaurant—cooking was his passion. But he loved being part of the video.

The channel boomed again. Then came a call from a comedy promoter. They wanted me on a stand-up tour, alongside seasoned comedians.

“Stand-up comedy?” I said, my stomach twisting. “I don’t know about this.”

“Nandito, what did you love most about bullfighting?” my mother asked.

“Facing a giant beast with skill and guts, making the crowd go wild, that’s what I lived for,” I said, the words heavy with memory. Could I really face a crowd again?

“You were born to wow them, Nandito!” my sister cheered. “Go make them laugh!”

“She’s right. You may not be able to fight bulls anymore,” my dad added, “but you can still make people go nuts. Just look at your channel.”

They convinced me, and a spark of that old thrill flickered inside. The crowd was waiting.

My family was ecstasic. We spent weeks prepping.

My first live performance. The first time I’d face a crowd since that day in the arena.

Would it be another disaster? Or something more?

Showtime came. Backstage smelled like sweat and cheap deodorant, the walls covered with peeling posters from past acts. I was second in the lineup. The first act stumbled through their set, earning a few coughs and one pity laugh before landing a joke that finally cracked the crowd. The audience felt cold: arms crossed, murmurs low. Tough room.

Then, my turn.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “I’m Fernando Ramírez. And I’m afraid I can’t do a stand-up show tonight...”

The crowd tensed.

“…because I’m in a wheelchair. So, this’ll be a sit-down show instead.”

Predictable joke. Nailed delivery. The room exploded.

Later in my routine, I said: “My father once told me that bulls are brutes, don't feel anything, and through bullfighting, we show them how smart we are. Of course, since I got gored in my debut, that means I’m now the stupidest man on Earth”. Those laughs were electrifying. The magic at the arena during my childhood, I was feeling it here and now.

They loved every bit of it. I got a standing ovation. An entire auditorium, smiling at me. It was glorious. As I was leaving the stage for the next act, I heard someone murmur from the front row: “If I ever get hurt like that, I want to be like him”.

The comeback of Fernando Ramírez was complete.