Ladies Night at the Cock Fight

“You want to do WHAT!?”  David said as he peered over his rum and coke; different than his usual drink of absolut citron on ice.

“What!?” Tracey said flashing that devious, ‘up for anything’, wooing sincerity, smile she is absolutely notorious for, “I would like to see a cock fight.”  It is funny how the word ‘cock’ sounds coming out of a woman’s mouth.  “It is a cultural experience!” 

“Well, you are right about that,” Luis, the General Manager of La Concha, the large resort hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico insisted and went on to describe cock fighting as a gentlemen’s sport on the island and completely legal.  “Betting is done verbally,” he explained, “nothing is written down. It is an agreement between men and an agreement only as good as a man’s word.” Or a man’s fist in backing up the words, I suppose.

David, now looking at me for an answer asked, “Well?”

“It will be fun!”  I added hearing the same voice and feeling a smile similar to my sister’s being launched across my own face. With one nod of the head, David had left the table of owners and managing directors with which we were enjoying an extended happy hour and was at the concierge’s desk inquiring about cock fights. I couldn’t help but wonder when the last time the concierge had to answer that one? When he returned, a bemused smile gleamed across his face and as he informed us in an educated tone that cocks would be fighting from 6:30-10:30.  The concierge soon interrupted with an, “Excuse me sir, but they recommended to get there before 8:30.”  David’s partner inhaled his cigar and shook his head, gently sipping his Dewar’s white label on ice. David turned his attention to the General Manager again and using his owner’s clout asked what sounded like a question, but was surely more like a gentleman’s directive.

“Hey Luis, do you want to go?”

“Yes

I

Do.”  Luis replied, my own eyes filling with a strange excitement.  Growing up in Smithville Flats, New York had afforded us with certain experiences that would of course prepare us for the night ahead.   In fact, one of my earliest memories was of a deer hanging from a limb of the large maple tree in my parents’ front lawn.  Alan, one of my parents’ best friends had tagged it.  Hanging it in order for it to be skinned by using a truck and some properly secured rope.  Let’s just say, a skinned dead deer hanging from a tree in your front lawn leaves an impression.  Later, in my late twenties, I distinctly remember Tim’s look of disappointment when he was quartering his own tagged deer that was hanging more inconspicuously in my parents’ barn, just feet away from the remembered “lynching” tree, where the rising temperatures of a November day made cutting and moving the deer meat inside quickly, a necessity.  He had a hindquarter in his arms and had carefully emptied the entire refrigerator to fit the soon to be hacked deer pieces until they could be ground, cut, wrapped in white freezer paper into 1-2 lb packages to be used and eaten by friends, family and us the rest of the year.  I had offered to help, not really expecting to do anything more than hold a knife.  So when he said, “Take this to the refrigerator in the apartment.”  The look on my face must have changed dramatically.  I scanned the back leg, which looked as if would take both arms and hands in hugging fashion to securely do the task he requested.  I envisioned the smell, what the smooth muscle fiber would feel like in my hands and even went as far as to picture what I would look like once in the house, trying to balance the thing as I opened the door and position it in the refrigerator.  My body must have seized up, muscles immediately heading toward rigor mortis. Like Maggie, my black and white Springer Spaniel when we said she would be taking a bath.  Tim getting the voice he used with her in those moments, a cross between frustration, anger and authoritarian, “Seriously Rebecca, I thought you were going to help!”  I remember looking at the carcass in his arms, the muscle fibers, the fat, and the hair that hung to the ankle that connected to the hoof and I felt a wave of anger and astonishment run over me.  I am sure I laughed and said something very flippant and when I offered to go and get rubber gloves was aptly fired from the job. Which is exactly what I was hoping for, who are we kidding? The fact is, however, Tim had truly believed I was the type of girl who could help out with such a task without rubber gloves.  And why wouldn’t he think this?  I was the one who went to the taxidermist with him, didn’t squirm at the dead geese in my lawn or kitchen, only put up a minor fight when goose, deer, or even duck jerky was made in my back room making the house for a whole week smell of a combination of hickory smoke and Worcestershire sauce.  All I can say is I used to be that kind of girl. 

Tracey was never that type of girl and looked as poised as she always did in her strappy black heels and black and white dress which was certainly more suited for her role as C.F.O. than for watching animals mauling each other in public. I, in a 1970’s polyester halter blue and white dress which had been haphazardly picked up in a Milan second hand store, looked ready to attend a party by the pool.   No matter how out of place we would be, I had the distinct feeling my youth had prepared me.  After all, I was no longer married to a man who would actually enjoy this sort of stuff.  I was just witnessing a ‘cultural experience’ and then heading off to dinner where good food, conversation and wine were guaranteed. 

David, not understanding our past and only really knowing Tracey, worried and insisted that the official story should not include him.  But getting into the backseat of Luis’ white BMW and him responding to my question of how long does one cock fight last?

David, now playing the coy one, “Ah, just what you’re normally used to, Becks, one or two minutes.”  I couldn’t help but flash an, “Oh really!” back his way. 

His story seemed to be confirmed by the parking lot attendant who boasted in Spanish that he had seen some cocks kill their opponents in just minutes.  I couldn’t help but feel my heart come to my throat and stomach, do two flips as we approached the sign around the circular building in large blue letters reading “Cock Fights”. 

The metal detectors sounded at the entrance and the woman behind the plexi-glass window, after taking one look at the four of us, waved us through without standing from her chair. It appeared there would be no pat down, or a second thought from her. Once at her window we soon decided that general admission for $12.42, was more than sufficient.  David, bent down to the window and politely said, “Four for general admission please.” The lady behind the counter responded, “Ladies don’t pay.” 

A gentleman’s sport indeed! Tracey and I shrugged a ‘hear we go!’ and rounded the corner.  The stadium was amphitheater in style and housed approximately 100 seats, which were divided into color-coded sections.  At the top level there was walk way, with bathrooms and a bar selling beer and on the left side was what can only be equivalent to the horse paddock at Saratoga, a room far less glamorous and instead of oak wainscoted stable walls, consisted of 100 plexi-glass cubbies that held the cocks until they were called down to fight.  There were two men sitting behind the glass and except for the birds between their knees, appeared to be completely oblivious to the whole scene.  It was between these gentlemen’s legs that the birds were given their colors either white or blue and where a three-inch, white, razor sharp, extra talon was glued on to the calf of each of their legs.  The right move with that addition must account for those legendary two-minute decisions. 

I shuddered at the thought of it and found my way to the orange general admission seat and finally focused on the 12-foot circle ring at the bottom of the stadium. Two cocks were fighting when we arrived, as I noticed remnants of bloodstains and feathers on the once new Astroturf.

I suppose what happened next in the 2 cockfights we watched could be written down in an anthropological study.  I could try to avoid, judgment, opinions, disgust, shock, but any attempt would just be futile.  Perhaps I should start with the fact that the snacks that they sold around the ring between matched looked very much like chicken tenders.

Fifteen minutes is a long time in which to watch three-pound birds fight.  I mean of course, at first I was amazed.  Watching open mouthed, the birds being taken from the holding room to the center ring in a hanging plexi-glass box that came over our heads and descended until it reached the ring where two teenagers waited patiently to take the birds out, place them in what looked like a cotton laundry bag and weigh them for the crowd to see.  Once it was confirmed they were indeed three pounds they were taken out of the bags and each were properly hit with a stuffed animal cock, which appeared to help inspire violence.  They were then put in another holding box that was open to the floor.  The buzzer soon sounded and the weighing, transporting, holding contraption rose and the fight began.  15 minutes ticked down on the clock and when a bird fell another timer began, counting back from 60. 

The starting bell rung and the stadium burst into a frenzy of shouting Spanish. Men looked up and down the stadium, nodding and waving.  After moments another bell sounded and the men turned their attention away from each other and back to the birds where the yelling came in waves of instructions to the cocks.

The fight itself is not entirely gruesome.  I suppose at first it is just flapping wings, beaks pecking.  They don’t screech in pain.  It is just two birds trying to kill each other.  Things I knew going in.  Things I knew when I said going to a cock fight would be fun. And there I was sitting watching as the cock with the blue tape on his legs got hit with that large white talon and his 3 lb body began to convulse on the fake grass below him.  It soon wrapped itself in fetal position as the clock hit 45 then eventually 40.  I felt myself gasp. I couldn’t look.  But I had come, said it would be fun, so I forced my head to turn and watch.  The men still screamed, the winner strutted less victoriously than I had imagined he would and when the clock hit 0, the buzzer started ringing and the blue ringed cock got up.  Hopped up, in fact!  It wasn’t over he had risen at the right time! I looked at the clock 5 more minutes.

FIVE MORE FUCKING MINUTES OF THIS!?

“Why didn’t he stay down for 1 more second?” was what I longed to cry as I pulled on my hair. I didn’t and the match continued as the clock ticked down, my sister and I exchanging looks, ‘this isn’t exactly what we had in mind’.  But, the birds now bloody and hurt wouldn’t have it.  They were done.  The managers would stop the clock and bring out another rooster to try to get them fired up again, but thankfully, it didn’t work.  The match was a draw and as the handlers picked up the injured birds and took them out of sight, I wondered about a lot of things.

The birds were both alive leaving the match.  Would they continue to live past tonight?  And if they did, was there some kind of cock rescue program I didn’t know about?

The fact is: cock fighting bothered me. What was surprising is that it surprised me. When I said, “It would be fun!” to David, I wasn’t trying to be cute.  I thought it would be interesting and not feeling overtly attached to gamecocks, thought it would be indeed entertaining. I guess for me, in the end it was the celebration of the senseless killing that was the hard part. It wasn’t until I was sitting with a group of men watching their faces fill with thrilled excitement and hearing their shouts of exuberance that I realized I didn’t really need or want to be there.  I had seen cockfighting first hand and was glad I went, but was even happier to leave.  Realizing I no longer have to pretend to like anything I don’t, smiled at the fact I would now get to eat a great dinner which was something traditionally Puerto Rican that I actually would like to support, Seafood Mofongo.  Two cockfights were enough to see, and I am not sure I would ever need to go back.  David even admitted that attending once every ten years was a lot more than sufficient.

“Though, I will probably need to take my boys someday.” He added with a smile.

“Yeah, in ten more years,” Tracey smiled back.

‘And without telling their or your mom’ I thought to myself. Because to be honest they are certainly those kind of girls.