[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]
Went to flight school. I don’t know where the name comes from, but it’s the cock fighting arena. My dad tried explaining the whole process so I
heard a lot of stuff like, “Now they’re taking bets on the winning
cock.” I know, real mature. This place was shady. Seriously. It
was like I was in a bad Jean-Claude Van Dam movie. Just kidding,
there are no bad ones. It’s in a dilapidated building underneath some
sort of highway bridge. You know how only rich people fill the arena
in Vegas on fight night? Imagine the exact opposite. Everyone in
there is drunk and gambling. And looking for blood!
All the owners line up in what’s best described as a gutter around the
fighting area. The two in the current matchup go in the arena, cocks
in hand (that’s the last one, promise). They go to the center and
make the cocks face each other for a few seconds. They return to
their corners, where an assistant has another rooster for the
pre-fight. This one is used to raise aggression. During this, the
announcer screams something on the mic and the betting begins.
The building roars. Betting isn’t centralized. There are about
thirty bet managers within the crowd. To bet, you catch a manager’s eye and
give one hand signal to specify which fighter and another hand signal
to specify the wager. This goes on for about five minutes, then
someone whistles real loud. Assistants leave the arena so
only three people are left in the ring – – two owners and the referee.
Both of the referees forearms are shielded with steel sleeves. He cuts
the covers off the razors on the roosters, the owners step forward and
drop their fighters, everyone hushes, and the fight begins.
It’s not as bad as I imagined. When I was a kid, I pictured birds
getting decapitated mid flight and heads flying through the sky.
It’s mostly ruffling feathers. Flapping wings signal action.
Apparently they’re trained to target the neck.
We watched four matches. In the first, one bird dominated. Its
opponent got turned around after the initial tangling. Everyone
seemed to sigh, and neck met a blade a moment later. Blood spilled a
few feet across the ring. I looked at the losing owner, and he
seemed, well, defeated. Depressed is more accurate, as if he had been
conversing with this bird for a few months. The winner just grabbed his
bird and upped out of there.
My dad placed a bet for the last match. Ten seconds into the fight,
he said, “There goes my money.” His cock went limp. The other one
walked toward it but got okie doked. Okie doked to death. The winner
collapsed after the fight, like Ali in the Thrilla in Manila. Except if Ali died. Both owners just looked mad.
The other two were draws. When both are tangled or just aren’t
moving, the ref grabs them and stands them up in the middle. If they fall
over, the crowd counts the pecks. ISA, DALAWA. If one pecks twice and the other doesn’t,
he wins. Let me tell you, the crowd is really into this part. Really into it. And
they don’t seem to like draws. We watched the ref stand up
what were pretty much dead chickens ten times in the last match before calling
it a draw.