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talemated。
Unlike most American sportsmen； the cockfighting fan has an overwhelming tendency to bee an active participant。 There is no such thing as a passive interest in cockfighting。 Beginning as a casual onlooker； a man soon finds the action of two game…cocks battling to the death a fascinating spectacle。 He either likes it or he doesn't。 If he doesn't like it； he doesn't return to watch another fight。 If he does like it； he accepts； sooner or later； everything about the sport…the good with the bad。
As the fan gradually learns to tell one game strain from another； he admires the vain beauty of a game rooster。 Admiration leads to the desire to possess one of these beautiful creatures for his very own； and pride of ownership leads to the pitting of his pet against another gamecock。 Whether he wins or loses； once the fan has got as far as pitting； he is as hooked as a ghetto mainliner。
Of course； not every beginner embraces the sport like Omar Baradinsky…to the point of quitting a thirty…fivethousand dollar…a…year position； and leaving wife； family and friends to raise and fight gamecocks in Florida。 The majority of fans are content to participate on a smaller scale…as a handler； perhaps； or as an owner of one or two gamecocks； or as a lowly assistant holding a bird for a handler while he lashes on the heels。 Many spectators； unfortunately； are interested in the gambling aspects of cockfighting to the exclusion of everything else。 But even gamblers must learn a lot of information about game fowl to win consistently。 Whether he wins or loses； the gambler still has the satisfaction of knowing that a cockfight cannot be fixed； and not another sport in the United States will give him as fair a chance for his money。
Omar Baradinsky； however； had gone all the way； caught up in the sport at the dangerous age of fifty； the age when a man begins to wonder just what in the hell has he got out of his life so far； anyway？ Omar was still as bewildered by his decision to enter full…time cockfighting now as he had been when he started。
〃I can't really explain it； Frank；〃 he had told me one idle morning； after we got to know each other fairly well； right after he had first moved to Florida。 〃I had done a better than average job on one of my smaller advertising accounts； and the owner invited me to his home in Saratoga Springs for a weekend。 Smelling a little bonus money in the deal； you see； something my firm wouldn't know anything about； I accepted and drove to this fellow's place early on a Saturday morning。
〃Just as I anticipated； he presented me with a bonus check for a thousand clams。 And we sat around his swimming pool all afternoon…which was empty by the way… drinking Scotch and water and talking business。 Out of nothing； he asked me if I'd like to see a cockfight that night。
〃'Cockfight！' I said。 'They're illegal； aren't they？' 'Sure； they are！' he laughed。 'But so was sleeping with that blonde you fixed me up with in New York。 If you've never seen a cockfight； I think you might get a kick out of it。'
〃So I went to my first cockfight。 I'll never forget it； Frank。 The sight of those beautiful roosters fighting to the death； the gameness； even when mortally wounded； was an exciting； unforgettable experience。 Before the evening was over； I knew that that's what I wanted to do with my life： breed and fight game fowl。 It was infantile； crazy maybe； I don't know。 My wife thought I'd lost my mind and wouldn't even listen to my reasons。 Probably because I couldn't give her any； not valid reasons。 I wanted to do it and that was my sole reason！
〃I was fed up to the teeth with advertising； and I had saved enough money to quit。 I was only fifty； and although my future still glimmered on Madison Avenue； I didn't really need any more money than I already had。 Still； I played it pretty cagy with the firm。 I made a secret deal with one of the other vice…presidents to feed him my accounts in return for supporting my resignation on the grounds of ill health。 That way； I picked up twenty…five thousand dollars in severance pay。 I sold my apartment house and set up a trust fund for my wife to take care of her needs in New York。 Besides； she has money of her own。 Her father was a proctologist； and he left her plenty when he died。 And for the first time in my life； I'm happy； really happy。 Funny； isn't it？〃
This was Omar Baradinsky； who owned a game farm only three miles away from mine。 So far； he hadn't prospered in his adopted profession； but he was breaking even by selling trios and stags to other cockers。 His gamecocks usually lost when he fought them in the southern pits。 He must have been hard enough to succeed in the business world； but the stubborn streak of tenderness in his makeup didn't give him enough discipline to make Aces out of his pit fowl。 He overfed them； and he didn't work them hard enough to last。
Turning away from the poem； Omar turned his huge brown orbs on me and jerked a thumb at the wall。
〃Did you write that； Frank？〃
I shook my head and pulled out a chair for him to sit down。
〃Then what about your new cock； Icky？ If that chicken wasn't bred purely for color I've never seen one。〃
I shrugged。 Icky had been bred for color； certainly； but from a pure game strain； and his conformation was ideal for fighting。 In a few days I'd see whether he could fight or not when I gave him a workout with sparring muffs in my training pit。
〃Anyway； I like the looks of those Mellhorn Blacks； and especially your two Middleton Grays。〃
So did I。 Buford； my part…time Negro helper； had gone downtown to the depot with me the night before when I picked up my shipment of Mellhorn Blacks。 After helping me put the dozen cocks away in their separate stalls in the cockhouse； he had driven by Omar's place and told him about them。 Omar had arrived early that morning for a look at the Mellhoms and a long admiring examination of Icky。 Buford had undoubtedly given Icky a big buildup； but Omar hadn't been impressed until he saw the cock for himself。
〃Tell me something； Frank； if you will；〃 Omar said； when he finished pouring some condensed milk into his coffee。 〃Did you get an invitation to the Southern Conference Tourney at Milledgeville？〃
In reply； I got up from the table； rummaged in the top drawer of my dresser until I found the invitation and the schedule for the S。C。 pit battles； and passed them to Omar。 He glanced at the forms； pulled on his shaggy beard a couple of times； and returned the papers。
〃I just don't understand you people down here；〃 he said。 〃It may be partly my fault； because I wrote Senator Foxhall a personal letter asking for an invitation and enclosed a two…hundred…dollar forfeit。 Three days later I got the check back in the mail and no invitation。 Not a damned word of explanation。 What in the hell's the matter with me？ I've got more than fifty birds under keep； and last season my showings hit fifty…fifty。 Maybe I'm not in the same class with the S。C。 regulars； but if I'm willing to lose my entry fee why should Senator Foxhall care？ And here you are…I saw the date on your invitation…you didn't own a single gamecock when you got that invite！ I'm not belittling your ability； Frank。 I know you're a top cocker and all that； but how did the senator know you'd be able to attend？ How did you receive an invitation without asking for one when I couldn't get one when I did？
〃I've never attended the Milledgevifie meet； and I want to go； even as a spectator。 But after fighting at all the other S。C。 pits this season； I'd be embarrassed to attend the tournament without an entry。 Do you know what I mean？〃
I knew what he meant； all right。 Omar had done the normal； logical thing； and the turndown had hurt his feelings。 Most of the U。S。 derbies and tourneys get their entries through fees。 The man who sends in a two… or threehundred…dollar forfeit either shows up or he loses his money。 A contract is returned to him by mail。 When the list is filled； no more entries are accepted。 I didn't really know why Omar had been turned down by Senator Foxhall。 It wasn't because he was a Pole or a New Yorker。
Members of the cockfighting fraternity are from all walks of life。 There are men like myself； from good southern families； sharecroppers； businessmen； loafers on the county relief rolls； Jews； and Holy Rollers。 If there is one single thing in the world； more than all the others； preserving the tradition of the sport of cocking for thousands of years； it's the spirit of democracy。 In a letter to General Lafayette； George Washington wrote； 〃It will be worth ing back to the United States； if only to be present at an election and a cocking main at which is displayed a spirit of anarchy and confusion； which no countryman of yours can understand。〃 I carried a clipping of this letter； which had been reprinted in a game fowl magazine； in my wallet。 I had told Mary Elizabeth once that George Washington and Alexander Hamilton had both been cockfighters during the colonial period； but she had been unimpressed。 Nonetheless； cockfighters are still the most democratic group of men in the United States。
But the Milledgeville Tourney was unlike other U。S。 meets。 Senator Foxhall had his own rules； and he made his own decisions about whom to invite。 I had earned my right to fight there； and I suppose the old man knew that I would be there if it was physically possible for me to be there。 Maybe he didn't think Omar was ready yet。 I didn't know。 Surely Omar's fifty…fifty showing didn't put him into the top cocker's class。 He stifi had a lot to learn about game fowl if he wanted to be a consistent winner。
I looked at Omar and smiled。 There wasn't any use to write a note for him telling him what I thought was the reason for his turndown。 His feelings would be hurt more than they were already。 By writing to the senator； he had made a grave error； a social error。 It was like calling a host of a party you were not invited to and asking point blank for an invitation！
I had finished my coffee； and I had work to do。 I got up from the table and clapped Omar on the shoulder。 Before leaving the shack； I took a can of lighter fluid off the dresser and slipped it into my hip pocket。 Omar sighed audibly and decided to follow me out。
When we got to the cockhouse； I removed the Mellhorn Blacks one at a time from their separate coops； showing off the good and bad points to Omar as well as I could before putting them back。 For a shipment of a dozen； they were a beautiful lot。 As Jake had promised in his letter； six were full brothers； a few months past staghood； and the other six were Aces； two to three years old； with one or more winning fights behind them。 Each cock was identifiable by its web…marking； and the cardboard record sheet of each bird had been enclosed in its shipping crate when Jake had expressed them down from North Carolina。 Before putting them away the night before； I had purged them with a mild plain…phosphate mixture； and they were feeling fine as a consequence。
As a conditioning bench； I used a foam…rubber double mattress stretched flat on a wooden； waist…high platform Buford and I had knocked together out of scrap lumber when I had first leased the farm。 I had one of the older Mellhorn cocks on the bench showing it to Omar。 The cock was a one…time winner； but he must have won by an accident。 His conformation was fair； but the bird was highstationed； with his spurs jutting out just below the knee joint。 He would miss as often as he hit。 A low…stationed cock would have greater leverage and fight best in long heels； but a high…stationed cock like this one would never make a first…class fighter。 Jake Mellhorn hadn't gypped me on the sale。 He was truly bred； and in small…time petition against strainers； the cock could often win。 It had weight in its favor and was close to the shake class； but the chicken couldn't really pete in S。C。 petition unless it got lucky。 Luck is not for the birds。 The element of chance must… be reduced to the minimum if a cocker wants to win the prize money。 In a six…entry derby； for instance； when the man winning the most fights takes home the purse put up by all the entries； the odd fight often provides the verdict。 I couldn't take a chance with this one。