I once attended a cock fight in Honduras. Many men waited for the cock-fighting circus to arrive. Eager owners gave rigorous training to their best roosters all year. People respected those owners, who were known for their prime fighting cocks.
On the small, seasoned patio where the event was held, one corner awaited the arrival of the cocks’ cages. Inside roosters insulted each other with their songs. While the fighting roosters screamed their cock-a-doodle songs, people moved onto the patio, the home of the humble man who offered to build the fight ring and host the event.
The ring was built in the center of his patio. Surrounding it were wooden stools and chairs he made. The ring consisted of long strips of plywood around a circular frame. The floor was covered with sawdust, chips of cedar, and a dusting of pine.
In the corner opposite the roosters sat the humble man’s wife, a passive woman, similar to many who lived in the village. She stood behind a wooden counter selling oranges, tropical fruit, and beer. The fanatic cock fighters drank so much beer, it seemed the event would never start.
When the beer was finally consumed and the cock fighters were all drunk, they lay on the floor. I imagined they were dead, because they lay without a word. Even the roosters were asleep. The only ones awake were the humble owner’s wife and me.
She seemed angry, as if she were thinking, The motherfucker! The fucking guy offers to host the event, builds a ring, gets drunk with his cock-fighting friends, and then forgets the whole thing!
Grabbing an empty beer bottle, she slammed it against the six-foot concrete wall behind her. At the sound of the bottle exploding, the men woke up like killer bees snapping out of their daily work in the hive when someone hit it with a rock.
Immediately, her husband got into the center of the ring and said, “Beinvenidos sean todos los galleros que se encuentran aqui presente. Mucha suerte, y que empieze la pelea de gallos! Hijos de puta!”
The cock fighters cheered loudly, and two jumped into the ring carrying roosters. They shook hands and let the roosters see each other. The birds, instantly ready to fight, were beautiful, more elegant than eagles.
The men in the ring signaled each other and tossed their birds into the air, as the audience cheered. In the corner where the cages waited, the roosters seemed to meditate on the crowd’s noise, but they were totally quiet.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze. We all sat motionless, our mouths open, staring at the birds in the air. They seemed to float three or four feet above the center of the ring, stabbing at each other. When they connected and disconnected, sharp spurs pierced each other’s bodies.
For a few moments, they battled in the air, then one landed on the floor head first, almost dead, spitting blood. Scarlet red stained the yellow sawdust covering the floor.
The victor glided down to the floor with elegance and grace, creating gusts of wind by flapping his wings and sending sawdust everywhere in a cloud that blocked all visibility. The crowd was totally silent, as the victor folded his wings and sang his victory song. The cocks in the cages added their voices to the chaos.
The audience returned to normal. The host’s wife just received another keg of beer, and all the men formed a line in front of the wooden counter. I found a homemade stool and sat on it, knowing it would be awhile before the next match began.
Illustrations by Crystal Garcia.
