For those just now joining the story, it began here.

Success!

My wife and I set out around 11:00 to find the Coliseo. Under the advisement of our neighbor we made a beeline to this rusty old shack that doubled as a bar and restaurant (as if there’s only one like that, in PR, right?) called El Verde, and asked for the old man. The old man of note was working the line grill making fried plantains and pollo tacos, and he happily ambled over to take our question. His English was broken at first, but as soon as we pointed up the mountain and asked for directions to El Coliseo it seemed to improve tremendously.

We received very simple instructions for how to get to the cockfights, thanked the fellow, and we were off. A broken paved road led to a dusty dirt road, Things began to look a little grim, but also a lot familiar, so we proceeded on. Soon enough, we turned on to a single lane road choked with cars on both sides and men holding strange bags pregnant with wiggling cargo. We inched past an enormous Escalade and there it was, El Coliseo Dona Joaquina, a block of salmon-hued concrete. Almost as impressive as just finding the joint again was that a spot opened up directly in front right as we arrived. Suerte!

The Joaquina was surrounded by all manner of men: Boys, teens, adults, old and utterly ancient; some were carrying their cocks in such bags, and just as many cradling their cocks in their arms. It was all very stimulating to say the least.

A sign outside declared that ringside seats were $20, second-ring seats were $15, and general admission was only $7. Fearing the potential for being splattered by blood, we asked for two second-ring seats. Interestingly, if we’d been fine with the general admission, Xtine would have attended for free; because women seldom attend these blood sports they are usually not charged, but since we wanted to be close to the action, them seats both cost money.

The entrance was in semi-keeping with Frank Lloyd Wright aesthetic, in that we had to kind of duck (humble ourselves) before emerging into the large, brightly lit lobby. To our immediate left was a bar operated by saucy chiquitas who all had muffintops hanging over their belts; straight ahead was a huge plasma screen monitor playing boxing videos, and to the right, a pool hall and a food kiosk serving all manner of fried whatnots. The area was clogged with men holding food, drink, and cocks.

One thing I noted at this time was that nearly every guy there under around 35 years old had immaculately groomed eyebrows. In the modern Puerto Rican culture, apparently it’s not at all gay to get waxed up pretty. Oddly, for a change, I was one of the hairiest dudes there.

First order of business was to get drinks; it was going to be a long and tense afternoon and the best defense against the stress was excessive quantities of rum. I stepped up to the bar, a barmaid asked me en Espanol what I wanted to drink; “uno cuba libre con lima”, I said. “Oh, a rum and coke?” she replied in perfect, accentless English. “Ah, yeah…with Diet Coke, please.”

We took our drinks into the hall opposite the arena, and there we found hundreds of glass-walled cages, each numbered and containing a gamecock apiece. They all seemed surprisingly calm, despite the roar of the crowd just outside of their pens. Here the hall was chocked with hopeful competitors, each holding either a bag with a rooster or just a loose rooster tucked neatly and calmly under their arms. I marveled at how serene each fowl was, considering the enormous energy and rage each would demonstrate later in the ring; I discovered later that they are extremely well-trained animals, who know to save their strength for the matches.

Almost all of the men waiting in line would be turned away; as it turned out, this was one of the busiest days at the Coliseo, an event sponsored by a local resort, and we would later enjoy the celebrity appearance of a local boy made good – the champion boxer Felix “Tito” Trinidad was en route, and there were already no less than 60 cockfights scheduled for the afternoon/evening. Regular events usually totaled only 40 or 50 fights.

We made our way through the crowd and climbed the stairs into the arena itself. Garish tones of blue and red prevailed, punctuated by white trim —all very in keeping with the patriotic theme of the Puerto Rican flag. Five tiers of seats rose above the oblong ring; we’d be very close indeed, and I wondered if we shouldn’t have chosen seats just a little further away. My vegetarian wife was brave enough just agreeing to attend, but if she got even the slightest bit splattered, that would be the cue to leave.

As it turned out we were just fine, but barely so; blood did fly in great quantities.

A few more cuba libres and the arena began to fill up. We took our seats and watched the judge take his place, barking announcements into his microphone as the first entries arrived. A plaque noting the entries’ names and weights was put into the slot above the Plexiglas holding cage, the timer set to fifteen minutes. Two young men strode around the ring, each one bearing a cock.

In the bright fluorescent lights of the ring we took our first good look at the combatants, and noticed that not only had their combs and wattles been clipped off, but their legs and lower torso had each been thoroughly plucked bare. The absence of the flesh around their heads was obvious—these appendages would be a liability in the fracas, easily pecked and clawed. But why the plucked legs; wouldn’t some feathers there provide a little extra defense? It turned out that all gamecocks these days have their leg feathers plucked so that they can be greased; slippery legs mean a better chance of deflecting blows and gouges.

Just above the feet of each bird, cockspurs had been attached. These 2” long spikes were extremely sharp, and occasionally they have been known to accidently wound the cock handlers, or even audience members when the birds wind up flying outside of the arena. People have actually been killed this way. Fortunately, during our stay in the Coliseo, the only injuries sustained by the spurs were to the cocks themselves.

The handlers put the cocks on the ring floor and ran them about—the first part of getting them into fight mode; then they would hold their necks close together, sensing their opponent and pecking at each other. The handlers separated them, and the judge entered the ring, holding a red rubber dummy cock, which he then batted into the face of each bird, the final ritual in angering the fighters. They were then placed into their pens, a black barrier between them.

All humans exited the ring. Men in the stands began to shout and wave dollars in their fists. Cries of “Azul!” and “Rojo!” filed the air, determining who was willing to wager on which animal. And then, the floorless pen was hoisted high above the ring, freeing the cocks from their containment. They stood motionless for a moment, sizing each other up, and then exploded into action.

Words fail to capture the lightning-fast attacks of claw and beak amidst the flurry of feathers. At times it was impossible to tell which bird had struck the other. One thing that prolonged exposure did reveal was that the primary assaults came from each cock’s beak, almost always directly upon the top of his opponent’s wee head. Sometimes this would stun the bird long enough for the cockspur to be most effectively implemented – an evil stab to the side of the throat in a sideways heel-first kick. It was like a special move in Mortal Kombat. Here is one particularly well-delivered blow.

Each cock’s owner stood rindside, barking and whistling, pounding the padded sides of the arena, seemingly sending commands to his bird, though logic demands that anything either owner might have done would be pointless; in the midst of the fray, with the entire house shouting and stomping, even if a chicken wasn’t completely distracted by a hard beak to the noggin, any messages must surely have been lost.

The first fight would end inside of five minutes; the losing cock collapsed under the attack of the victor, his blood-soaked head resting open-beaked on the floor while the nearly untouched winner stomped repeatedly upon his fallen rival’s neck. The judge called the match when it became obvious that there would be no more action, only continued injury. And as the owners came into the ring to retrieve their fighters, the victor, well trained, removed himself from his quarry…and damned if he didn’t appear to stand taller. It may just have been the adrenaline in my system, or probably the rum, but I swear that cock was strutting with a gleam of pride in his eye. The only thing in the fallen cock’s eye was blood and gore. His owner scooped up the product of months of training, took one quick inspection and carried him away foot first; his next performance sure to be within a cooking pot.

This is around the time I got hungry. And wicked as it may have been of me, I ordered a place of rice and peas with pan fried chicken breasts. Irony was never so delicious.

We stayed for at least fifteen or so similar fights, and there was not a repeat performance to the lot. One fight would last thirty seconds, another would last the full fifteen minutes; one would result in a draw, neither cock yeilding to the other, while another ended by both fighters backing away from each other, bloody and beaten. More often than not, though, there would be a winner, and a very obvious one at that.

My vegetarian bride seemed to wince through the first few fights, but then found her calm and took the entire experience in stride; this was a cultural odyssey into a dark practice, and she was purely there as a sociologist.

Many have by now asked me, so I’ll tell you—no, I did not make any wagers. It was partially that I speak so little Spanish, if there was any point of contention I wouldn’t know what to do or say. More pointedly, there was so much money being thrown around that I feared I’d lose my shirt and fast.

Plus, one elder, polished old fellow drenched in bling, who we had been calling the Mobster Guy, he was throwing around Benjamins like they were worthless. By round 15 he was piss drunk and climbing into the ring to rant and rave at Tito Trinidad, claiming that he’d lost ten thousand dollars on him. The crowd yelled. “El Borracho!” at him, cowing him back to his seat. A poor gringo like me just can’t compete with that.

All in all, it was a wonderful and totally bizarre afternoon, steeped in culture unavailable to me in the greater fifty states except in illegal backrooms and basements. I have learned that there are hundreds of such underground cockpits in the states, including many in New York City, known only by contestants and well-connected gamblers. A very large part of me now wants to find one. I’ve had good success finding one in a far off land, so who knows? This may not be my final post on the sport.