There was no glory in it, pride, yes. Vanity? Check. Were they adolescent White boys you may have thought they were about to play hacky sack. As the old man put it, "In the old days it was all us good ol' boys but now it's been overtaken by Spics, Flips, and us Whites are stuck on the outside of the circle." Most of the men were Mexican with a few Filipinos and White boys thrown in for some variety. Papa Carl hobbled up to the circle to talk shit and look over the competition. I headed away from the ring, around the shack and back to the truck.
Carl's little brown pickup was a Mazda that had seen better days. The paint had been scratched away by use and oxidated by the sun. Dust and mud caked the tires and its rear wheels were somewhat low from the load of crap he constantly hauled around. Topped by a white camper shell, no one could tell what was inside by looking through the scratched and encrusted tinted window. Standing against the cornfield, it imprinted an agricultural scene that will never leave my mind. A sweet and grassy aroma from white corn was light in the air as the dust cloud from our trip into the middle of the farm settled. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as the summer's wet heat made sweat drip from my brow, into my eyes and then down to soak my shirt even more. The cocks were restless and in anticipation they slowly sighed like a quiet siren singing to Death himself. The men's banter was just under the volume for speech to be understood. Sunlight shot the dust cloud through and through with diamonds. Each ray highlighted the spinning air as if each eddy was a dervish slowly descending from paradise. Farm life was never something I enjoyed but I could see its beauty in those small, quiet moments.
Up went the hatch to the camper and I pulled down the gate, pinched a finger in the latch and cursed ineptly. Each rooster had its own A-frame enclosure tacked together from plywood. We were only going to enter two into the ring, Old Man Davis had heard that some of the bettors had some high quality fighters with them and like any boxer knows: you win some, you lose some. According to modern science, many dinosaurs had feathers and birds are just an evolution of the more quickly developing species. This evolutionary lineage was not lost on me and their ferocity was astounding. The razor sharp blades strapped to their feet made them deadly. Training the birds had been long and hard work, this made them winners.
Every time the weather allowed in the spring or summer and if we had birds of the right age they sparred. Trimmed combs and wings made each rooster look streamlined as we strapped on a chicken's equivalent of a boxing glove to each foot. A friend of Carl's would usually help us when it was time to spar. Lucero would bring his little boy who was about my age to help. After strapping the "gloves" on to each cockerel the little brown boy and I faced each other in anticipation as we carefully released the birds and backed away. They fought in a flurry of feathers and dust. Screams escaped their craws and their necks were frilled out with feathers from top to bottom like metal Christmas trees. After a few minutes of the two birds abusing each other viciously, Lucero would grab them by the neck to stop the fighting. Carefully removing the "gloves" so we could return them to their respective rooster teepees was the scariest part of the process for Lucero's boy and me.
Today was different from those training sessions, instead of the "gloves" we had tied the knives to their feet. Those same knives were ordered special from magazine ads and were sharpened, polished, and stored in a place of honor. Those same knives made the blood bubble, the feathers fly, and the occasional head flop to the floor of the ring. Those same knives still shine in my mind's eye whenever I think of a blade well made. I can easily recall the anticipation I felt every time I would sneak into Papa Carl's spare bedroom to look at those same knives.
The men there called to me as I slowly brought the enclosures to the ring. They would speak to each other en Español and the only reason I knew they were talking about me was because of the words cuarto, poquito and guero. My father was Mexican but you never would have known it. My Germanic heritage showed through, every summer gave me the same appearance: sunburned bright red with blue and silver eyes shining through the red. Since he left when I was very young I only picked up whatever Spanish I knew from the other kids in town. The hubbub died down as the birds were matched up.
Carl conferred with Old Man Davis. Old Man Davis was nearly senile but he stood up straight as a rod and hooked his thumbs through his overalls as if this were the most entertaining thing he had done in a long time. A huge smile overtook his face as he recognized some of the men in the circle. The two old men leaned in toward each other. Papa Carl had to adjust his crutches to get closer to Old Man Davis. Finally they made their bets.
Betting always turned out the same in these circles. Everyone wanted to know how Carl would bet. Some bet in line with his opinions and others bet against him as a matter of spite. He wasn't known as the premiere rooster breeder in the region for nothing. I knew our match was coming up shortly. I watched the first two fights before I went behind the shed to stare off into the sky and tried to attain a state of no-mind. When Papa finally bellowed out my name I ran back to the ring, ignorant of how much time had passed.
I picked up the first enclosure and opened it slowly. The Filipino man across the circle was only slightly taller than my prepubescent self. He stared fiery hate into my eyes and cursed under his breath in Tagalog. I removed the hood from our bird almost simultaneously as he did. Both his bird and the one in my hands were pulling for the fight. Once the count was finished we released both roosters and backed out of the ring quickly. Feathers and blood already lay in the dust all around the ring, there were scratches on the ground where they had launched themselves at each other. The two birds for this fight were well matched.
Still the brunt of the Pinoy's hateful gaze, he would occasionally flick his eyes back to the ring. Jumping, clawing, pecking, screaming, a flopping carcass that didn't know its own demise and at last, it was over. "Look at your chicken's head Flip! It's limped over to the right and it ain't ever coming back up. Just like your tiny dick ya shit licker," Papa Carl continued to bellow his victory in ever ebullient torrents of filth for a few minutes until the short islander cleaned up his bird and left altogether. Looking back, that gaze during the fight was probably directed at Papa. I saw the money change hands and Carl handed me one of his sticks as he shoved a wad of cash into his sweatpants pocket. The second fight was coming any moment and I was ready to go home. Stuffing the winning rooster back into his box was always a matter of agility and avoiding those same knives. Blood from the match was all over my hands and pants by the time I got the first cock contained.
Our second fight was with a Mexican fellow's bird, he was a friend of Lucero's and greeted us warmly. My grandfather understood him easily enough and let out a "bway-nose dee-ass" in his thick Arkansas accent. I looked at the man's son, a few years older than me, he was more nervous than a Chihuahua on coke. The two birds played out their danza de espada much like the last time. Our second bird was also victorious, the other bird lost a foot and its wing was hanging from its body. The stump of its leg kicked spasmodically as the blood pooled under it. The second rooster we fought that day was much easier to coax back into its box.
Papa Carl and Old Man Davis were happier than pigs in shit to have won and were debating on further matches. After a few more fights the men implored us to leave, a phone call had been received and apparently the Filipino was angry because of the match. Word was he had gathered his sticks and was coming. The fellow was a well known practitioner of Eskrima. We left that day, our fortunes determined by fate, the roosters, and those same knives.
Carl's little brown pickup was a Mazda that had seen better days. The paint had been scratched away by use and oxidated by the sun. Dust and mud caked the tires and its rear wheels were somewhat low from the load of crap he constantly hauled around. Topped by a white camper shell, no one could tell what was inside by looking through the scratched and encrusted tinted window. Standing against the cornfield, it imprinted an agricultural scene that will never leave my mind. A sweet and grassy aroma from white corn was light in the air as the dust cloud from our trip into the middle of the farm settled. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as the summer's wet heat made sweat drip from my brow, into my eyes and then down to soak my shirt even more. The cocks were restless and in anticipation they slowly sighed like a quiet siren singing to Death himself. The men's banter was just under the volume for speech to be understood. Sunlight shot the dust cloud through and through with diamonds. Each ray highlighted the spinning air as if each eddy was a dervish slowly descending from paradise. Farm life was never something I enjoyed but I could see its beauty in those small, quiet moments.
Up went the hatch to the camper and I pulled down the gate, pinched a finger in the latch and cursed ineptly. Each rooster had its own A-frame enclosure tacked together from plywood. We were only going to enter two into the ring, Old Man Davis had heard that some of the bettors had some high quality fighters with them and like any boxer knows: you win some, you lose some. According to modern science, many dinosaurs had feathers and birds are just an evolution of the more quickly developing species. This evolutionary lineage was not lost on me and their ferocity was astounding. The razor sharp blades strapped to their feet made them deadly. Training the birds had been long and hard work, this made them winners.
Every time the weather allowed in the spring or summer and if we had birds of the right age they sparred. Trimmed combs and wings made each rooster look streamlined as we strapped on a chicken's equivalent of a boxing glove to each foot. A friend of Carl's would usually help us when it was time to spar. Lucero would bring his little boy who was about my age to help. After strapping the "gloves" on to each cockerel the little brown boy and I faced each other in anticipation as we carefully released the birds and backed away. They fought in a flurry of feathers and dust. Screams escaped their craws and their necks were frilled out with feathers from top to bottom like metal Christmas trees. After a few minutes of the two birds abusing each other viciously, Lucero would grab them by the neck to stop the fighting. Carefully removing the "gloves" so we could return them to their respective rooster teepees was the scariest part of the process for Lucero's boy and me.
Today was different from those training sessions, instead of the "gloves" we had tied the knives to their feet. Those same knives were ordered special from magazine ads and were sharpened, polished, and stored in a place of honor. Those same knives made the blood bubble, the feathers fly, and the occasional head flop to the floor of the ring. Those same knives still shine in my mind's eye whenever I think of a blade well made. I can easily recall the anticipation I felt every time I would sneak into Papa Carl's spare bedroom to look at those same knives.
The men there called to me as I slowly brought the enclosures to the ring. They would speak to each other en Español and the only reason I knew they were talking about me was because of the words cuarto, poquito and guero. My father was Mexican but you never would have known it. My Germanic heritage showed through, every summer gave me the same appearance: sunburned bright red with blue and silver eyes shining through the red. Since he left when I was very young I only picked up whatever Spanish I knew from the other kids in town. The hubbub died down as the birds were matched up.
Carl conferred with Old Man Davis. Old Man Davis was nearly senile but he stood up straight as a rod and hooked his thumbs through his overalls as if this were the most entertaining thing he had done in a long time. A huge smile overtook his face as he recognized some of the men in the circle. The two old men leaned in toward each other. Papa Carl had to adjust his crutches to get closer to Old Man Davis. Finally they made their bets.
Betting always turned out the same in these circles. Everyone wanted to know how Carl would bet. Some bet in line with his opinions and others bet against him as a matter of spite. He wasn't known as the premiere rooster breeder in the region for nothing. I knew our match was coming up shortly. I watched the first two fights before I went behind the shed to stare off into the sky and tried to attain a state of no-mind. When Papa finally bellowed out my name I ran back to the ring, ignorant of how much time had passed.
I picked up the first enclosure and opened it slowly. The Filipino man across the circle was only slightly taller than my prepubescent self. He stared fiery hate into my eyes and cursed under his breath in Tagalog. I removed the hood from our bird almost simultaneously as he did. Both his bird and the one in my hands were pulling for the fight. Once the count was finished we released both roosters and backed out of the ring quickly. Feathers and blood already lay in the dust all around the ring, there were scratches on the ground where they had launched themselves at each other. The two birds for this fight were well matched.
Still the brunt of the Pinoy's hateful gaze, he would occasionally flick his eyes back to the ring. Jumping, clawing, pecking, screaming, a flopping carcass that didn't know its own demise and at last, it was over. "Look at your chicken's head Flip! It's limped over to the right and it ain't ever coming back up. Just like your tiny dick ya shit licker," Papa Carl continued to bellow his victory in ever ebullient torrents of filth for a few minutes until the short islander cleaned up his bird and left altogether. Looking back, that gaze during the fight was probably directed at Papa. I saw the money change hands and Carl handed me one of his sticks as he shoved a wad of cash into his sweatpants pocket. The second fight was coming any moment and I was ready to go home. Stuffing the winning rooster back into his box was always a matter of agility and avoiding those same knives. Blood from the match was all over my hands and pants by the time I got the first cock contained.
Our second fight was with a Mexican fellow's bird, he was a friend of Lucero's and greeted us warmly. My grandfather understood him easily enough and let out a "bway-nose dee-ass" in his thick Arkansas accent. I looked at the man's son, a few years older than me, he was more nervous than a Chihuahua on coke. The two birds played out their danza de espada much like the last time. Our second bird was also victorious, the other bird lost a foot and its wing was hanging from its body. The stump of its leg kicked spasmodically as the blood pooled under it. The second rooster we fought that day was much easier to coax back into its box.
Papa Carl and Old Man Davis were happier than pigs in shit to have won and were debating on further matches. After a few more fights the men implored us to leave, a phone call had been received and apparently the Filipino was angry because of the match. Word was he had gathered his sticks and was coming. The fellow was a well known practitioner of Eskrima. We left that day, our fortunes determined by fate, the roosters, and those same knives.
