(The following article by Keko Jones was published in the No Bullshit Fanzine 2000
Published by the Pamplona Posse it relates to the last death in the Running of
the Bulls in Pamplona)
A Siren's Song
By Keko
Jones
He was just another young American
backpacker in the summer of 1995, skylarking his way across
From
None of the quartet had much money, and
hotels were booked solid in the jam-packed city during fiesta, so they settled
for an overnight bus trip, planning to return the following
day.
Tassio was excited. It was his first trip to
Upon arriving at the
At some point during the night of revelry,
before the sun rose on the second-to-last day of the fiesta, Tassio and Quinn committed to participate in the encierro, Pamplona's famed running of bulls through the
city's streets. Initially, Quinn was reluctant to join the run, but he finally
caved in to Tassio's
entreaties.
They had not yet met any veterans, since
experienced runners tend to avoid the crowded late-night streets. As a result,
they received no seasoned advice on the safe way to run. This would be
costly.
Do you guys want to run, Tassio and Quinn asked their
traveling companions? No way, said the two. We'll meet
you at the bus station to catch the bus back to
Shortly before 8 a.m., Tassio and Quinn stationed themselves inside the barreras, the twin barricades that separate the runners from
the spectators in the casco antiguo, the old city, its narrow
medieval streets overflowing. There were plenty of experienced runners in the
nervous, eager horde, and most of the novices had received at least some basic
instructions from the veterans.
Tassio chose to run in the segment of the course
known as Calle Santo Domingo, believed by many
veterans to be among the most challenging of the tramos, or stretches, of the run. It lies between the corrales, where
the bulls are impounded each night before the encierro, and
Quinn wandered off to run elsewhere,
promising to meet up with Tassio after the encierro.
Tassio awaited the explosion of the rocket that
signals the release of the bulls from the holding corrales. It is not known whether he had participated in the
daily ritual prayer at the statue of San Fermín placed
in a niche cut into the wall opposite the former military hospital on Calle Santo Domingo. Here, runners seek the saint's
protection during the encierro, chanting in
Spanish:
"We ask San Fermín to be our patron.
Guide us in the run; give us your
blessing."
Normally, when the gates of the corrales are opened, the six bulls to be fought that night,
along with two substitutes and the steers trained to guide them in their run,
rush into Calle Santo Domingo, past the public market
and the former military hospital. They then turn left at the top of the street
and swing past City Hall through the Plaza Consistorial, the broad public square
at its foot. Here the bulls are fresh, bunched tightly, and
angry.
While Tassio
waited for his encounter with fate, Castellano, a
1,265-lb., reddish bull from the ranch of Torrestrella
in
At precisely 8 a.m., the rocket shot
skyward and exploded, marking for everyone within earshot the release of the
bulls. The strong corrales gates swung open, and Castellano and the others clattered effortlessly up the
slight incline of the Calle
There are runners known as los valientes, "the brave ones." These are the "wannabes," and
they are to be found throughout the course. To hear them talk, you would think
they are the most heroic of runners. In practice, they have little heart for it,
and they flee toward the relative safety of the bullring immediately upon
hearing the rocket, rarely seeing or nearing a bull if they can help it. A
mindless, churning mass of frightened young men, they immediately took up their
flight at top speed; their greatest danger being to
themselves.
Upon seeing the stampede of the valientes, Tassio hesitated,
momentarily confused. He was woefully unprepared for the bull
run, as evidenced by his walking shorts with a sweater wrapped around his
waist, probably to ward off the chill night air of the evening
before.
He had trotted as far as the Plaza
Consistorial from his starting point on Calle Santo
Domingo, then stopped, turned and looked back in an attempt to locate the bulls,
which had not yet reached him. Suddenly he spied them racing up the hill and
around the corner, scattering runners in all
directions.
Tassio turned again to flee down course. He
tripped over a runner who had slipped and fallen directly in his
path.
It was here that Tassio made his critical blunder.
If there is a cardinal rule of the encierro, it is this: If you go down, stay down. Cover your
head and don't move. Bulls respond to motion, not to the color of a runner's garb or the matador's cape. Once the
bulls have passed, someone will give you the "all clear," and then - and only
then - do you get up.
Tassio immediately jumped
up.
No one knows what caused him to do it,
although guesses centered on panic and inexperience.
Many noticed, however, that he turned to flee down course from the onrushing
herd.
Castellano, leading the charge, barreled into Tassio at top speed.
Some 15 inches of curved, dagger-sharp horn plunged into his lower right back.
It hooked through his torso, ripping through major blood vessels. The impact
propelled him some 40 feet down the street.
It was just 37 seconds into the
run.
Castellano, apparently satisfied with his sole,
murderous thrust, did not give Tassio a second look.
As the pack thundered past, Tassio
amazingly once again jumped up. Mercifully, the last straggling bull
ignored him. The mortally wounded youth made a final, futile attempt to escape
this avenue of death, then crumpled to the
cobblestones. His spasms bespoke the ominous nature of his
injury.
A crack team of Spanish Red Cross trauma
paramedics positioned immediately adjacent to the accident site, leapt over the
barreras and within seconds were frantically
attempting to save Tassio's life. Already pallid and
cadaver-like, he quickly was placed on a litter as two medics attempted to
stanch the massive flow of blood.
"¡Venga, joven! ¡Venga!" one of
the medics yelled as he jammed a compress into the gaping wound left by Castellano's horn. Come on, boy;
respond!
They raced the semi-conscious young
American through the curious crowd. Blue emergency lights pulsed as the
ambulance sped off to the Hospital de Navarra. They arrived just nine minutes
after the second rocket, which signaled the bulls were
clear of the corrales gates.
It was not quick enough for Tassio.
Although some of the most expert
horn-wound specialists in the world worked furiously to save his life, their
efforts proved futile. He was pronounced dead at 8:50
a.m.
One of the medics assigned to the
ambulance, Jesús María Rueda, later told one of the local newspapers, the Diano de Navarra, that Tassio was
near death before reaching the hospital. He had lost, the medic said, 90 percent
of his blood through massive hemorrhaging before they
could get him into the trauma room.
Meanwhile, at the bus station, the other
two backpackers were vexed by the failure of Tassio
and Quinn to arrive on time for the trip back to
Are you the friends of Matthew Peter Tassio, they were asked? Yes? Would you be kind enough to
come with us? Bewildered, piled into the police car and arrived at the hospital
social workers at 10:30 a.m. There they received the sad
news.
Quinn, faced with the daunting task of
identifying his friend's body at the hospital's morgue, later was secluded in a
room at the Hotel Maisonnave, provided at the city's
expense, to await the arrival of Tassio's parents from
Glen Ellyn, a Chicago suburb. The Maisonnave,
ironically, is the hotel of choice for
Tassio was the first American ever to lose his
life in
Novice runners who had seen the
ashen-faced body on the litter shivered with the realization that could have
been them. Veterans tortured themselves with thoughts of why no one had warned
Tassio of the dangers.
"Jesus Christ! He stood up in front of the
pack after being knocked down!" cried one of the most skilled English-speaking
runners of the current crop. "Why didn't somebody see he was unprepared for the
run and either get him the hell out of there or give him a quick tutorial?
Didn't anybody give a God damn?"
The rhetorical question born of
frustration and emotion was directed to a group of veteran runners gathered for
coffee at the
The bullfight televised that evening on
TVE, Televisión Española's
Channel 1, was preceded by a moment of silence in Tassio's honor. Trumpeters of the
Peña La Unica, normally one
of the city's most boisterous social clubs, played "Taps." Around the plaza de
toros, one could almost hear the tears that flowed
freely from the eyes of 20,000 locals and visitors alike. The bullring, usually
a scene of bedlam, was shrouded in a decidedly eerie, almost unearthly
quiet.
Veteran matador Juan Moro had drawn Castellano by lot earlier in the afternoon. That evening, he
signified with a brindis al cielo, a graceful sweeping gesture toward the heavens with
his cap, that he was dedicating his performance to Tassio. Castellano later was to receive,
posthumously, the prize as the bravest bull fought during the entire eight days
of bullfights.
"The death of Matthew Peter Tassio is a wound in the heart to all Pamplonicas," the city's new mayor, Javier Chourraut, said in a July 15 news conference a day after the
fiesta ended.
Chourraut told reporters after the tragedy that
"citified" Americans particularly are at risk because they fail to see the
dangers inherent with wild animals such as fighting bulls. Americans, Chourraut said, tend to think of running the bulls in terms
of television programs or Disneyland attractions, adding that most American
youths have never been near a fighting bull, a statement hardly
debatable.
Throughout the day of Tassio's death, at the spot adjacent to City Hall where he
fell mortally wounded, an impromptu memorial sprung up, fueled by the emotions of the multitude attending the
festival. On the curb at the crest of Calle Santo
Domingo, a neat mound of memorabilia began to grow: bouquets of roses, hats,
caps, hundreds of red fiesta neckerchiefs, pictures of Christ and other
religious icons, lit candles of prayer, of reverence and of
remembrance.
In the center of
the mound lay a copy of another local newspaper, the Diario de Noticias; which featured
a photo in graphic detail covering the entire front page, taken at the instant
of Tassio's goring. It bore a handwritten inscription,
in Spanish:
"In memory of my American friend I never
knew.
Your death has touched us all. May you
rest in peace forever."
It was unsigned. The mound mushroomed in
the waning days of the fiesta.
The Festival of San Fermín ended, as it always does, at midnight on July 14 with
the Pobre de Mi, the mournful song and candlelight
procession through the darkened streets of the old city. After eight days of
wild abandon, the revelers
sing:
"Poor me; oh, poor me; San Fermín's festival has ended."
That year, the melancholy was doubly
poignant. When the thousands gathered in front of city hall for the fiesta's
closing ceremony, they surrounded the memorial to Tassio. Spontaneously, they changed the words of the
lamentation, slowly swaying as they sang a final salute to the fallen
runner:
"Pobre de ti, pobre de ti . . . Poor you; oh, poor you . .
."
That afternoon, Tassio's parents, Thomas and Cynthia had arrived in
Early on the morning of the 15th, they
were met by Mayor Chourraut, Bilbao-based
The fiesta was
over.
As if in search for him, Tassio's parents slowly walked the tramos of the encierro. As they
reached the spot in plaza where Tassio fell, his
mother placed a bouquet of flowers on the steps leading into the ayuntamiento, the City Hall.
It had been
Tough, too, for the grieving
parents.
"This has been our greatest loss; please
allow us to suffer these moments in solitude," Thomas Tassio had told a reporter for the Diario de Navarra upon the family's arrival at Noáin. The Spanish news media that had gathered at the
airport for their arrival honored the father's
request. It could not have occurred in the
The Tassios
remained in Pamplona for just 21 hours; long enough to visit with the ambulance
driver who raced their stricken son to the hospital, doctors at the Hospital of
Navarra who fought so desperately to save his life, and city
officials.
And then, at 4 p.m. on July 15, the body
of Matthew Peter Tassio left
As the Tassios
bore home the body of their son, officials of the city of