Cockfighter

by Cockfighter (retail) (epub)

  The flies completed the morning conditioning. A record sheet was kept on a clipboard beside each coop, and I filled in the cock’s weight, number of runs, flirts, flies, and made a note of his color. The well-conditioned cock has a dark red face and comb. When the color turns pinkish something is wrong. In the space for comments I jotted down any observed weaknesses, or changes to be made in the diet due to gains or losses that were unexpected.

  Like people, every gamecock has to be handled a little differently. A chicken’s brain is about the size of a BB, but within those tiny brains there is an infinite variety of character and personality traits. I’ve seen personalities that ranged from lassitude to zealousness, from anarchy to obedience, from friendliness to indifference. Luckily, a chicken can’t count. If they could count, they would have resented the daily raising of the number of flirts and runs we gave them.

  A gamecock is the most stupid creature on earth and, paradoxically, the most intelligent fighter.

  When my chart notations were completed, I dropped a canvas cover over the slotted doorway of each coop, and the darkness kept the birds quiet until it was time for the evening training periods.

  The other cocks, not under conditioning, were fed, watered, examined and weighed, and I was through for the morning. Omar and I would then play chess until time for lunch. When Buford was around, I drove to Omar’s farm for lunch, and inspected his gamecocks before returning home. If Buford failed to drop by, I would cook either a potful of canned beef stew or pork and beans and fix a pan of hoe cakes.

  “How come you’ve never gotten married, Frank?” Omar asked me one day, as he looked unhappily at his heaping platter of hot pork and beans. “By God, if I didn’t eat something else besides stew or beans every day, I’d marry the first woman who came along!”

  Omar was so used to my silence by now that he answered his own questions. “I don’t suppose many women would want to marry a professional cockfighter, though. Most of the women I’ve known want their husband home every night, whether they like him or not, just so they can have somebody to complain to. But canned beans—ugh!”

  In the afternoon, after Omar went home, I took a walk with one of my gamecocks that wasn’t undergoing conditioning. When taken out of their runs, some of the cocks would follow me around. They like attention, but they also hoped that I would drop a grain of corn on the ground now and then. And sometimes I did.

  Mary Bondwell either fixed supper for us at four thirty at Omar’s farm, or we drove into Ocala for a steak or barbecued ribs. By five thirty, we were ready to start the conditioning all over again—the feeding, weighing, flies, flirts, runs and recording. Not many game strains can stand up to the hard conditioning I give them, but my two cocks—the Mellhorn and the Gray—came along fast, and Icky thrived on it. Omar’s Roundheads had a tough time for the first three days, but as soon as their excess fat disappeared, they came up nicely.

  At night, to get our gamecocks used to the lights and noise, because they would be fighting at night later on in the season, I turned on the overhead lights of the cockpit, and played sound-effects records on a portable phonograph. The records weren’t loud enough to suit Omar. He charged around the outside of the pit, shouting out bets at the top of his voice.

  “Hey! Who’ll give me an eight to ten! I got a blinker here, half dead already! Who’ll lay twenty to ten!”

  He then accepted preposterous bets in a mincing falsetto, managing to make enough noise for a major cockpit. It was comical to watch his wild antics, charging around the pit, flopping his big bare arms loosely, his black beard glistening under the lights. I could never picture Omar in a homburg and gray flannel suit walking down Madison Avenue. He fitted in with a cocker’s life as though he had been born to it.

  After only a few nights of noise and lights, every one of the cocks could stand quietly and patiently in the center of the pit, and pay no mind either to the records or Omar.

  And of course, we had a bottle every night, either gin or bourbon, and we passed it back and forth. Omar would tell me stories about New York, the advertising business, or anecdotes about radio and television people he had known.

  Quite suddenly he would stop relating a story in midsentence—“Frank, do you want to know something? You and I, you big, dumb, silent son-of-a-bitch, we’ve got the best life in the entire world! I wouldn’t trade my life now if I was given every filter-tip account in the United States and fifty percent of the stock!”

  He would reach for the bottle, take a healthy swig and pass it to me.

  “I know you’re tired of listening to me ramble on. Why don’t you get out that electronic monster of yours and play us something?”

  I had rigged an extension cord from the shack, and I would play for an hour or so, sitting on the bench beside the lighted cockpit. I never played songs, I more or less played with the guitar instead, trying out chord progressions, or attempting to express a mood of some kind. Omar never said whether he liked my music or not, but he listened attentively.

  One night Buford drove over with a big pot of greens his wife had cooked for me. Omar told Buford to get his enamel cup from the hook above the faucet where he kept it, and then filled it with whiskey. Before Buford had finished the cupful of whiskey he got mellow and sang for us—old-time blues and field hollers. When he held a note long enough for me to catch it, I would hit the corresponding chord on my guitar. I might have been a little drunk, but I thought Buford had the greatest voice I had ever heard.

  These were all pleasant evenings for me. I have always guarded my aloneness jealously. But Omar didn’t encroach on my solitude, he complemented it. For the first time in my life, I realized that companionship between two kindred spirits is not impossible—as long as each man respects the other’s rights.

  On the eighth day of conditioning, the exercising of each cock was cut in half. On the morning of the ninth day my Mellhorn Black got moody and refused to eat. He wasn’t sick, he was mean and sulky. I put the Gray game hen in his coop with him for a couple of hours and he snapped out of his lethargy. When I removed the hen and dumped a spoonful of feed on the floor of his coop, he gobbled it up in no time.

  Omar thought this was funny. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me, Frank,” he laughed. “If somebody dropped a blonde into my bed for two hours every night, I could probably eat those beans of yours and like them.”

  On the twelfth day, the cocks were taken off exercise and food together. They weren’t given any water, but they didn’t want water. This was a good sign, and meant they were ready for the pit. They would fast right up until pit time. All five cocks were in the peak of condition. I made Omar “feel” every one of them, and his fingers learned the difference.

  “If I didn’t know better, Frank,” he said, “I’d think these cocks were made out of stone.”

  Sunday afternoon we put the cocks into traveling coops and drove to the cockpit in Omar’s station wagon. The Ocala Game Club wasn’t really in Ocala—it was closer to Martel, eight miles west of the city. But it was called the Ocala pit because out-of-town cockfighters stayed in Ocala motels when the February 24 S.C. derby was held. During the entire season, the pit operator, an old retired farmer named Bandy Taylor, held back matches almost every Sunday.

  Bandy Taylor was in his late sixties, with brown leathery skin and enough deep wrinkles on his face to resemble a relief map. His legs were so bowed, he couldn’t have caught a pig in a trench.

  Although Bandy’s pit was not an elaborate setup, all of the Lownes County cockfighters liked to meet there. His wife maintained a small stand outside the pit area, where she sold coffee, Coca-Colas and hamburgers, and Bandy charged a reasonable, one-dollar admission fee. The old man, an authorized S.C.T. referee, never bet on the fights, but he made enough money on admission fees and the food his wife sold to get by. Any wins I had there could be signed by Bandy on the official records, and they would be acceptable by the Milledgeville judges for qualifying purposes.

  The crowd
was small, considering that four hacks between Pete Chocolate and our new partnership had been scheduled. There were thirty some-odd spectators, including a nervous Yankee tourist from Silver Springs. There were only a half dozen other cockers, looking for extra hacks. I wanted to get an extra hack for Icky, but the prospects weren’t too good. I wrote my name and Icky’s weight on the blackboard and hoped for the best.

  Pete Chocolate won the toss and decided to fight from bottom weights up. His fighters were all Spanish crosses, and they were in fine feather. Omar held for me while I heeled the 4:02 Roundhead, and then he tried to rustle up a few bets in the bleachers. I considered fighting Icky against the other 4:02 opponent, but the Spanish Ace looked too formidable. I had made a good decision. Omar was also lucky in the stands, because the only bet he could get was a ten-dollar even money wager.

  The Spanish cock uncoupled my Roundhead, breaking his spine, in the first pitting. He was counted out, paralyzed and unable to move a feather. Omar paid Pete Chocolate the fifty-dollar loss, and paid off the fan in the stands. Because of our quick loss in the first fight, Omar was able to lay a thirty-dollar bet on the outcome of the second hack.

  In the second fight, I showed the 5:00 Middleton Gray, and he finished his opponent in the fourth pitting. My Gray shuffler got above the Spanish every time.

  The third battle was one of those fights that never appear to get anywhere. The two cocks were evenly matched, and very little damage was done until the eighteenth pitting. By the twenty-third pitting we were alternating on calling for the count. On my count, however, the Spanish developed a rattle from an earlier wound, refused to face, and the hack was mine. Our Roundhead was well battered and wouldn’t be able to fight again for at least two months.

  The fourth hack was a miracle win. My 5:10 Mellhorn Black had been in fights before, and he smothered the Spanish in the first two pittings. In the third pitting, the Black attacked furiously the moment I released his tail. The Spanish was bowled over and fell back close to the wall. He leaped high into the air, and landed on the ground outside the pit. The Spanish was game—he wasn’t a runner by any means—but he was outside the pit and my Black was still inside.

  It was a tense moment. I held my breath, and none of the spectators made a sound. If Pete’s Spanish had jumped back into the pit, the fight would have been continued.

  He didn’t. Confused, twisting his head about in search of my gamecock, the Spanish darted under the bleachers in bewildered retreat. The hack was mine by default.

  I had known Pete Chocolate for several years, but this was the first time I ever saw him get really angry. He caught his gamecock, removed the heels, and swung the cock’s neck against the upright post. He then jerked off the cock’s head. This isn’t easy. It takes a strong man to pull a chicken’s head off with his bare hands. He tossed the dead chicken on the ground and came back to the pit.

  “That’s the first runner I ever had, Frank,” Pete said blackly. “A Spanish don’t run! That same cock won two fights before. Is that a runner? D’you ever hear of me showing a runner?”

  I shook my head solemnly. Blood had dripped from the dead chicken’s neck onto the white polo shirt Pete was wearing with his tuxedo, and his white tennis shoes were splashed with blood.

  “He didn’t run, Pete,” Omar said. “He was confused and didn’t remember where the pit was, that’s all.”

  “He won’t get confused again!” Pete said with satisfaction. He whipped out his wallet and paid Omar off. We were ahead one hundred dollars from Pete Chocolate, and Omar had won eighty dollars more in side bets. We had lost one cock, and our Roundhead had been battered so badly he might not ever win another fight. We were just about even.

  A good first day, I thought, as Omar joined me at the lunch stand.

  “Frank,” he said, “there’s a kid at the cockhouse with a Gray cross of some kind who wants to fight Icky. His name is Junior Hollenbeck. D’you know him?”

  I nodded and finished my Coke. I didn’t actually know Junior, but his father, Rex Hollenbeck, was a real-estate man in Ocala. He had introduced himself to me one day in town. Mr. Hollenbeck was a fan, he said, and he had seen me handling at the Orlando International Tourney.

  “Do you want to fight him, Frank? The kid’s only about nineteen, and his Gray shades Icky two full ounces.”

  I started toward the cockhouse to see whether I did or not. Junior was waiting in front of Icky’s coop, cradling his Gray gamecock in his arms. He was a well-dressed young man, wearing buckled shoes, charcoal-flannel Daks, and a gaily colored body shirt. His tangled chestnut hair was worn long, all the way to his shoulders, and his face was sunburned. He had a sparse straggly moustache, and the pointed chin whiskers of a young ram goat. Evidently his nose had peeled, because it was smeared with a thick covering of white salve.

  “This is Mr. Mansfield, Junior,” Omar introduced us.

  “I know. I saw the 4:02 weight on the blackboard, Mr. Mansfield,” Junior said, all business, “and thought I’d challenge you. My cock’s won two fights this year and has a couple of ounces over yours, but I’m willing to cut away some feathers for the chance to fight you.”

  I stared impassively at the kid, and he blushed through his sunburn.

  “That is,” he added, “the man I bought him from said he won two fights in Tallahassee.”

  I took the Gray out of Junior’s arms and felt him. The bird went in and out like an accordion. I turned to Omar, winked, and moved my chin down a fraction of an inch.

  “You’ve got a hack, Junior,” Omar said. “And you don’t have to cut any feathers. The Southern Conference allows a two-ounce leeway either way on hacks. But you’ll have to fight short heels. Got any?”

  “No, sir. I don’t have any heels at all. I thought I might borrow a set. And I want to bet twenty-five dollars, even money.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll lend you a pair. D’you want me to heel him for you?”

  “I know how to heel him,” Junior said defensively. “I’ve heeled cocks plenty of times. Just lend me the heels and hold him for me.”

  Omar laughed good-naturedly. “Sure. Wait’ll I tell Bandy there’s an extra hack, before his crowd gets away.”

  There had been two hacks held before the four between Pete Chocolate and me. After our last hack, a few of the spectators had departed, including the nervous tourist, but there were still a dozen or more standing around discussing the fights. When Bandy announced that there was going to be another hack, they scrambled hurriedly into the bleachers and began making bets.

  We heeled with inch-and-a-quarter gaffs. To my surprise, Junior did a good job of heeling his Gray. By the way he handled his chicken, I could see he knew his way around the pit, and I felt a little better about the fight coming up.

  While Bandy examined both cocks prior to the fight, I listened to the bettors. Although the Gray was announced as a two-time winner, and the Blue—as Icky was called—was announced as a short-heel novice in his first fight, most of the bettors were taking Icky and offering five to one. The odds were caused, in part, by my reputation, but they really preferred my gamecock because of his color. This kind of thinking was like betting on the color of a jockey’s eyes instead of on the record of the horse at a racetrack. At any rate, Omar had a hard time getting bets. Even with the high odds, only a few men were willing to back the Gray. But Omar finally managed to lay three ten-dollar wagers.

  Junior was nervous during the billing, but he handled fairly well.

  When Bandy told us to “get ready” in his reedy old man’s voice, Junior squatted behind his score, and held the Gray’s tail like a professional.

  “Pit!”

  Icky took two short steps forward and then flew six feet into the air. The Gray ran forward on the ground at the same time, and Icky landed behind him. They wheeled simultaneously and mushed, breast against breast, engaged in a shoving contest. The Gray backed off, and then tried a short rushing feint that didn’t work. Icky got above him, shuffled, and th
e two went down with Icky’s right gaff through the Gray’s left wing.

  “Handle!”

  Junior disengaged the heel from the Gray’s wing bone, and we retreated to our respective scores for a thirty-second rest. He worked so furiously over the Gray I had to grin. He blew on the cock’s back, stretched and jerked the neck, spat into its mouth, rubbed the thighs vigorously between his hands, and licked the head feathers and hackles with his tongue.

  These were all legitimate nursing techniques, but to use them, any of them, after the first pitting was ridiculous. Over-nursing does more harm than good. Unless a gamecock is in drastic need of help, the handler can help him best by letting him rest between pittings. I laced Icky away from the Gray and let him stand quietly so he could get the maximum benefit from the rest period.

  “Get ready,” Bandy said, watching his wristwatch sweep-hand.

  “Pit!”

  We dropped them on their scores. Because of rough over-nursing, more than for any other reason, the Gray was slow in getting started. Icky made a forward dash with raised hackles, took off in a low, soaring flight, fanning in midair, and cut deeply into the Gray’s neck with blurred gaffs. The left heel stuck, and the two cocks tumbled over, coupled.

  “Handle!” Bandy said quickly.

  The instant Junior removed Icky’s gaff from the Gray’s neck, his gamecock strangled. When a cock’s long neck fills with blood, the strangling sound is unmistakable. Except for going through the motions in accordance with the rules, the fight was over. Until the Gray actually died, or refused to fight through three twenty-second counts, or unless his handler picked him up and carried him out, we still had to go through the routine pittings and counts.