The Cockfight

     It has been said that chickens were first domesticated for cockfighting then for food. No other bird has affected the course of human history like the gallant, intrepid, and tasty chicken. 

      I don't know whether to call cockfighting a sport, a pass time, a bloody confrontation instigated by men between birds hopped up on steroids that is basically an excuse for drinking and gambling, or a tradition that honors male bavery. Cockfighting is very old. Some accounts hold it originated in the Indus Valley, some say China. Other accounts claim Themistocles was responsible for initiating the sport. Since the Greeks seem to have been responsible for everything why no go with that particular tale. 

     In the first decade of the fifth century B.C. The Athenian general Themistocles, on his way to confront the invading Persian forces, was said to have stopped to watch two cocks fighting and summoned his troops, saying: “Behold, these do not fight for their household gods, for the monuments of their ancestors, for glory, for liberty or the safety of their children, but only because one will not give way to the other.” In this manner he inspired his troops to courage. It is said that after his victorious return to Athens he initiated a cockfighting festival to pay homage to valor and courage. The cock became a political-religious symbol,, a patriotic call to arms. Sounds honorable enough, but many traditions can change over time. Now cockfighting does not seem to be tied to political or religious themes. Gambling,,,, cult of the macho, and I suspect male admiration for distilled virility,, in the form of the impossible,,, Deisel The Steel Teuton "Testosteronisized" Plexico, or if you will, Sylvester Stallone, Chris Hemsworth, or Arnold Schwartzenegger to name a few. 

     I want to be able to say that attendees at cockfights admire the valor of the rooster but their apparent indifference during the event towards these animals who fight to the death says something else. When I ask them why they enjoy cockfighting they answer evasively. Some, like the impresarios, enjoy the aspects of training,, but those that are truthful will state that really really it is all about gambling. The owners, or impresarios, those who actually present the cocks, like trainers in a boxing match show some stoic emotion but nothing like the more overt level in Bullfighting where the crowd urges on the risk taker with shouts of "Ole Ole". At the end of a bullfight they might throw flowers, sombreros, and even panties to be touched by the Matador then thrown back to the person who made the offer. Impresarios, who are involved in the match, will urge their wounded rooster to bolster himself by spraying spittle or tequila over their heads,, or literally put the rooster's head into their mouth as if it were an ice cream cone, in order to clean the blood. 

     Perhaps I am wrong but on the surface a cockfight is a social event. As long as tempers don't flare over a bet, then all hell can break loose. Spectator involvement in the outcome occurs when the "money lady makes her rounds to accept bets,, and also during the actual fight. In the longish hiatus between fights that can last from 20 seconds to 15 minutes. People socialize, eat tacos, drink, and bet while the roosters are prepared  for the match. Tied onto one of their own natural spurs is a "navaja" or razor sharp hooked blade. Then the roosters are "plaited" or animated to fight and finally presented to one another. The socializing stops when the two roosters are let at each other flopping and flapping in blurred movements, like quick brushstrokes, too fast for the eye to see,,, Japanese Samurai on speed.

    

     I took my brother to a cockfight when he was in Tenancingo. He studied the first two fights hardly speaking at all. I wondered what he was thinking. Soon, however, I was privy to his mind. He leaned in towards me between fights and said. "I've got it. I know what's going on here." He whispered to me in english as if he had unlocked the Da Vinci Code, and didn't want anyone else to hear,, in a large arena of only spanish speaking people,,,,,,, "The rooster that winks at me before the fight always wins." Wow I thought. He is taking this theory seriously. I didn't know what to say.  After just 60 minutes of keen observation he had invented a religion. Now all he needed was a parish.  My brother then used his secret information as he bet 20 dollars on the next "winker". The winker was vanquished in just ten bloody seconds.

     

      If one has ever kept chickens especially the bantam varieties used in cockfighting one knows that their "spurs" can grow long and pointed and that male chickens are naturally aggressive towards one another. My first chickens were a stout bantam rooster, El Presidente, and his wife Griselda. I gave him the name El Presidente for his regal air as he marched about the yard. I could picture him , his chest and shoulders adorned with medals. Griselda reminded me of my third grade teacher Mrs. Holland, because they both seemed to wear the same dress. He was what I would call a benevolent dictator. He took care to watch over Griselda all day as she scavenged, ushering her to the bushes when he sensed danger from hawks or humans. He, with all his colorful iridescent plumage, would wait in the open as fighter or brave sacrifice as Griselda cackled her way to safety. 

     At the time I was working out of desperation cleaning out large commercial chicken houses before new chickens arrived. In 13 weeks they went from chicks to wobbly legged chubby roasters. I was always called to work the day after the "processing plant guys" came in the night to round up 40,000 chickens and take them to the first step in their eventual destiny, ending up as parts arranged in a styrofoam boat in the supermarket's cooler. As was often the case two or three birds escaped the hands of the "processing plant guys". In the dark trying to grab 40,000 chickens three or four at a time by the feet is not always smooth. That morning when I went to begin my shoveling I saw a large white chicken wobbling about outside the chicken house. Commercially raised chickens are alotted less than one square foot per bird during their 13 week stay in the chicken house. By the time they are near market size they can hardly move for the crowding. They stay in their alotted space,,pecking at one another,  eating specialized energy food, and drinking water. Their legs are so weak they resemble wandering drunks if they find some space. I grabbed the wobbler and tied her in the back of my truck. I thought I could take her back to the barn, feed her something healthy, give her some space, then when she was cleaned up,, eat her. Chicken house chickens are good for meat not eggs.

     That evening I brought the white wobbler to my house and left her in the barn on a bed of hay. El Presidente and Griselda were perched  as always tightly together above the white wobbler on a thick dowel. I remember El Presidente giving the newcomer the eye as I left. The next morning when I entered the barn I found the commercial bird lying dead on the hay. Her head had been perforated like a drain pipe by El Presidente. I pictured him telling Griselda the night before,,, "She is not our kind", and in the early morning when light was as scarce as hen's teeth,,, and all was still,, he unsheathed his lethal swords.........

                                       

The Guys

The Money Lady

A Fighting Cock

Muchachos 

  Impresario


   Opposing Impresario


Plaiting, or using a bird, not in the fight, to excite one that is. 

  Presentation and The Money Lady

The Blur Like a Japanese Character

Trying to motivate the apparent loser

Brushstrokes

Blood and fury

  

  Exhausted

Someone has a sense of humor, a female scarecrow.