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Journal North: Home | Sports | Opinion | Obits | Entertainment
Sunday, January 21, 2007
As N.M. Reconsiders Cockfighting Ban, Fans Defend Its Merits
By Russell Max Simon
Copyright © 2007 Albuquerque Journal; Journal Staff Writer
If Gov. Bill Richardson, animal rights activists and some legislators have their way, events like the "Pancho Villa" cockfighting derby held this month just north of Hobbs will soon be part of New Mexico's past.
About 400 people attended the cockfighting marathon— six hours worth— on Jan. 12 at Tommy's Game Fowl Farm.
If cockfighting is banned, some said, the sport will go underground.
"The Legislature can turn thousands of us into criminals, but they can't stop cockfighting," said Jack Cairnes, a former Washington state senator who moved to New Mexico because the fights remain legal here.
HOBBS— In a smoke-filled warehouse with bins of dead and bloodied roosters and surrounded by a crowd of 400 people, Vincent Flores struggled desperately to keep his bird in the fight.
Click for more photographs of the recent cockfighting derby near Hobbs
Flores, one of dozens of "cockers" who put their birds to the test during a recent cockfighting derby at Tommy's Game Fowl Farm, had already blown up once at the pony-tailed cowboy who was handling the other rooster.
Don Bible, the referee and owner of the farm, had shouted "Handle!" and both men lunged for their roosters. Flores cussed and accused the cowboy of shoving his rooster out of the way.
When a spectator with money riding on the outcome criticized one of Bible's calls, Bible growled back: "I've refereed more sons of (expletive) than you've seen!"
Flores nursed his rooster, waiting for Bible to shout "Pit," the command for both handlers to place their roosters back into fighting position.
Flores blew and sucked on the rooster's face, a technique meant to keep the rooster alert— like splashing water on a boxer's face between rounds. He stroked the bird's bloodied feathers.
Bible shouted the command, and Flores whirled back toward the center of the pit and set the rooster down to continue the fight.
One spectator leaned into his friend and said, "That rooster's dead, he just don't know it yet."
Gaff fights— where roosters battle with short, hook-like spikes attached to both feet— are untimed and can drag on as the roosters test each other's will to continue.
Flores' bird appeared to be hanging on with a sort of irrational determination. The other rooster was clearly less injured and less tired, but somehow it couldn't manage to deal a fatal blow.
After more than half an hour, Bible ended the fight and declared Flores the loser— his rooster had refused to fight three times, running away when the other bird attacked.
Such scenes may soon be a thing of the past in New Mexico. The Legislature is again considering a ban on cockfights, which are legal in parts of the state.
This time Gov. Bill Richardson has weighed in on the side of those who consider them cruel and an embarrassment to the state. Louisiana is the only other state where cockfighting remains legal.
'Demonize the minority'
Cockfighters are well-aware their sport is under siege.
Al Lavallee is the Hobbs farm's pit manager. Dressed in grungy jeans, backwards cap and a jacket with a rooster on the back, he dismisses polls showing overwhelming support for a ban:
"We were warned when this democracy was formed; we were warned that one day the tyranny of the majority might demonize the minority."
Bible claims Abraham Lincoln got the nickname "Honest Abe" not through his politics, but as a result of his fairness in refereeing cockfights. Most accounts say the nickname came from his days as a clerk.
Bible then launches into a dialogue about how "this country was freed by cockfighters." The concession stand to his right is selling T-shirts with the faces of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, and Andrew Jackson, all hovering over a rooster.
Many cockfighters at the Hobbs event weren't critical of Richardson, saying he's been good for New Mexico and that his decision to support a ban may have been made out of political necessity. Others were angry, unleashing a torrent of cuss words and accusing the governor of stabbing the cockfighting community in the back for political gain.
On the way into the pit, cockfighters are required to pay a $25 membership fee to the New Mexico Game Fowl Association, which lobbies to keep the sport legal.
Many cockfighters gave simple reasons for loving the sport: the fun, the gambling. Others spoke about the fulfillment that comes from raising and attending to the roosters.
"This is not a lazy man's sport," says Claudia Castillo, a 21-year-old cafeteria worker from Lubbock, Texas. "It's something you have to love in your heart to be able to do it.
Castillo and her father, Joseph, are well known at Tommy's Game Fowl Farm. Claudia has been coming since she was a toddler, and Joseph is as ardent a lover of the sport. His son is currently serving as a Marine in Iraq.
Joseph Castillo urges critics to see a fight before passing judgment.
Bible likes to brag that his grandson, 24-year-old Bennie Bible, is a sixth-generation cockfighter. The pit itself is a family operation— Bible's daughter Tammy runs the door and rules over the pit's speaker system with high-pitched announcements.
"If they take it away from us, it's like taking something away that they pass on to our kids for their lives," said Manuel Munoz, who added that his daughters love the sport.
Munoz and dozens of others were busy preparing their roosters to fight as the Friday night fights approached. Most were from Texas. Some were Hobbs natives.
Crossing state lines
Transporting roosters across state lines for the purpose of fighting them is against federal law.
Asked about the law, one cockfighter who had brought his roosters from Texas said it was OK so long as he didn't also transport the roosters' weapons.
Once in Hobbs, owners busy themselves preparing for a fight. Though many take great pride in pampering their birds with all-natural feed and fruit as they are being raised, most do not feed their rooster on the day of a derby.
The idea is to make them strong and healthy for their lives and then light and nimble for the fight.
A common comment was that gamecocks are the healthiest, most beautiful roosters in the country.
"A gamecock is taken better care of than your old lady," Bible says.
Proponents add that farmers kill ill-treated poultry en masse for food consumption.
Lofton Lunceford, a welder from Abilene, Texas, said cockfighters have "great love" for their roosters, a peculiar dynamic in a sport in which owners eventually send their birds to certain death.
Some cockfighters, Lunceford included, said they have a particular disgust for dog fighting, even though animal rights activists often compare that illegal practice to cockfighting. Lunceford said a dog must be trained to kill through beating and other maltreatment.
"You can teach a dog to love you, and you can love a dog. You can't teach a chicken to love you, and a chicken is going to fight anyway," Lunceford says.
Knives added
That fighting is in a rooster's nature is central to the defense of the cockfighting tradition.
Knives and hooks that are attached to the roosters' feet, they say, are just a more effective substitute for the birds' spurs— the long, spike-like nails roosters normally use for fighting.
"The good Lord made these roosters, and the good Lord don't make mistakes," said Marty Harmon, a tall, heavy-set Southerner with a Confederate flag decorating his rooster keep.
One cockfighter argued that attaching knives to the rooster's feet made for a more humane fight because it allowed the roosters to kill each other more quickly— although there remain fights like Vincent Flores' marathon battle.
It appears from watching a match that roosters are born fighters. They dodge, feign, leap, and attack with a precision obscured only by their constantly fluttering feathers.
And the roosters are beautiful. Their feathers are soft and composed of rich colors— reds, oranges and yellows.
But the first fight of the night ended in a bloody mess.
One rooster sustained a bad knife wound within 10 seconds, and the fight soon ended with his death. His handler picked up the bird, limp, in one hand, and extended the other, practically covered in blood, to shake his opponent's hand.
In another fight, a rooster looked dead with its head keeled over, but it continued to fight anyway, wings flapping. The handler had brazenly made two bets on his rooster before the fight— one for $20 and another for $100.
Money changes hands, and a new round of betting begins.
Castillo shouts for $20 on the rooster closest to him, and a 10-year-old kid a few seats down accepts with a nod. "A nod is your word," Castillo says.
The cockfighting is legal, but the gambling isn't.
A sign prohibiting gambling is posted on the wall, but Bible doesn't appear to enforce it: "More money changes hands at your average country club than it does here," he said.
Drinking also is not allowed in the pit.
"No alcohol" is spray-painted on walls, but Castillo and others keep flasks or small bottles in their coat pockets, discretely mixing whisky with Pepsi from the concession stand.
Fans cheer for roosters on which they have bets, but the crowd generally is less rowdy than at most sporting events.
Many of the children on hand appear bored after the first few fights. Some play hand-held video games in the stands.
The adults chat among themselves, creating a low din throughout most of the warehouse. When cocks are walked into the pits to fight, an outburst of betting and cheering usually occurs. But if the fight is long— and many are— the crowd settles into a monotonous tallying of counts, rests, and rounds of frenzied, tired attacks.
About 2:30 a.m., after six hours of fights, the derby is showing signs of winding down.
Enough roosters have lost that owners are being eliminated from a shot at the prize money, which could total as much as $40,000— one of the bigger pots of the year.
Bible's work is mostly done for the night, and he's finishing off a pack of cigarettes near the door.
"We're no trouble to anyone," he says.
Ending with death
During some fights the birds' injuries are noticeable, but most of the time it's hard to tell how much blood has spilled because of the roosters' dark red feathers.
Occasionally a rooster will show a hard limp or a slashed stomach; yet it will continue fighting, cowering and ducking more than charging.
Eventually, one bird falls and doesn't get up.
Handlers are then given a chance to pick up the birds, rest them, then put them back on the dirt for another round.
Sometimes the injured bird unleashes another attack, but eventually it dies from its injuries or collapses from exhaustion.
Only then is the fight declared over.
It's that moment— just before final collapse— that Lavallee praised during an initial phone interview:
"These birds, for all of us, it's a nurturing process, but there's also something about putting it all on the line, down to the last breath, and I think that's in the human spirit ... When those birds are out there doing it, the people watching it respect that, they admire that."
If the cockers admire the bird one moment, they discard them the next.
Defeated, dead birds are thrown into wooden crates behind the stands. A victorious bird is often rushed out of the pit so that the handler can tend to its wounds.
As the night wears on, the piles of dead birds grow. Some roosters thrown into crates are still alive— their injuries are too much for the handler to repair, and he gives up on trying to sew a gash or stop bleeding.
There, in the crates among dead fowl, dying roosters are left to breathe their last.
Bible estimates 200 roosters have been killed by the end of the night.
The next morning he will take them to the dump, along with all the other trash.
Click for more photographs of the recent cockfighting derby near Hobbs here
