Talking cock

January 3, 2009

I grew up around chickens. I don’t mean the cowards, I’m referring to Col. Sanders’ favorite pet, the one with feathers and go clucking at the first sign of trouble.

My father was a hobbyist breeder and very passionate about roosters, so much that he refused to eat any of the chicken that we brought home from cockfights (hey, each battle has its spoils, some get women or gold but we got dressed and muscled cocks instead). Since my father’s fighting cocks were quite good, every Sunday was a feast since we always get Tinolang manok for dinner aside from the two liters of Coke. Growing up poor, those things were a luxury.

Mornings and afternoons were torture. I was assigned the task of feeding the cocks and the hens at 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. on the dot. Failure to do so earned me a licking. All the cocks insisted on being the top dog of the coop and fight whoever (dog, cat, me) entered that godforsaken, turd-infested (they’re not called fowl for nothing) box. The hostility magnified during breeding period when the cock was all juiced up from pent-up horniness, like the Tasmanian Devil on crack, and any shin or leg was fair game.

And man, you couldn’t believe how some cocks got Kung Fu down pat. If you were lucky, you get only a few welts or scratches but there were cases when my leg was pockmarked by sharp talons and beaks. Though we weren’t really told to not kick or pummel them to death, it was common understanding that a boy always runs away when confronted by a cock. That maxim holds true on both literal and figurative sense. Unless the boy likes cocks and that’s just gay.

As a kid, I did my assignment begrudgingly. I wasn’t passionate about chickens. In fact, I thought the only thing they were good for was when they were covered in barbeque sauce. But when I discovered gambling, cockfighting opened a whole new world for me. Good thing my father was such a sport about his sons gambling. My father was never a heavy gambler. I think he gets more kick of his cocks winning only because it’s a testament to his methods; just like how gambling was a testament to my madness.

It took me years to rid that vice but last New Year’s Day, I went to my first cockfight in years. All the usual suspects were there, the Kristos, bookies, wasted bums, liquors, the adrenaline rush, and even the enterprising man who rents out the metal spurs (also called gaffes or tari in visayan) for a few pesos, and it’s like I never left. It’s amazing how they put up the cockpit that fast when it was just a few months back when authorities raided the placed and booked a few gamblers.

My father brought along one gamecock. So in keeping with the new year, I wagered P500. I thought that was just enough to scratch a nagging itch but not too much to nag at my conscience for falling off the wagon. As luck would have it, the fight was a draw. I wouldn’t have mind losing the money, anything but a draw. I got my P500 back but I was still pissed off. When I handed that money to my father, I already written that off as a lost asset since I learned a long time ago that adopting that mindset helped take the sting off losing. To scratch another itch, the P500 never had a chance. We spent it all on food.