As a player and coach of an undefeated team this is a hard fact to accept. However, some days, the scores of the game do not reflect the events that took place on the field. This was one of those days.
We arrived at the field a man short, not an ideal situation for a game against a tough adversary. Not only were we short one player, we also were lacking several of our key players due to injury or job relocations. But the show must go on.
We took to the field and though no one said it, we all knew what everyone was thinking. The average player on their team was the size of our biggest player, Jose. Jose weighs in around 220 lbs and our average player weighs in about 180. Speed and solid defense were our only chance.
The Yaguares (for inexplicable reasons they spelled it wrong…) scored first by swinging the ball to the outside man thus exploiting the advantage of their numbers. Their forwards (the bigger guys on a rugby team) really dominated the game. So, as a counter measure, we decided to only attack with our backs (smaller guys) and play to our only strength.
15 minutes or so in to the game our full back, Dinamita, damaged a ligament in his knee and had to retire. Now we are down two players. We continued to play tough, getting hammered every time we got the ball. But we pressed on.
Just before the half ended, another player, Jonathan or “Crash”, took a knee to the jaw (fractured in 2 places). Once the referee realized there was a player down he whistled the half over.
Thirteen of us were left standing. Though I did not want to “throw in the towel” as a player, as a coach I had too. With only 13 people there was no feasible way we could win, but more importantly I did not want to have any more of our players hurt for the sake of pride.
The rest of the team agreed with the decision and so it was made. At halftime we forfeited the rest of the match with the final score being 15-6 in favor of the Yaguares.
I was prepared to give a speech in the post game huddle about holding our heads high and being proud of how we played. But when I looked around the circle I saw nothing but smiles on the faces of my comrades. They already were proud of themselves and their teammates. We all agreed that this was the best game we had all played, even though we had lost. We then counted to 3 and gave a good cheer for our team. AGUILAS!!!
As we disbanded I looked to the other team’s huddle and heard something that caught me and the rest of my team by surprise. They cheered Aguilas, our team’s name.
That is what rugby is all about. Win or lose, it is truly about how you play the game.
We stuck around to watch the next game and then afterwards all the teams headed out together to get food and beer, as is the tradition of the sport.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Boobies and other cool stuff
To say the least, the last week was very eventfull!
The Peace Corps project for the home of the eldery is now fully funded! Thanks to everyone for your love and support for this great project in a rough economy. The group I am working with to implement the project is equally as eager as I am to begin once the funds are transfered.
Earlier in the week I was lucky enough to go to Isla de la Plata with some of my friends. What an amazing place! It is a small island off the coast of Puerto Lopez (Ecuador) and is part of the National Park of Machalilla. It is home to multiple species of birds, the most famous being the Blue-footed Booby.
This time of year is particularly good because Humpback whales migrate to the warm waters of the equator to breed. On the boat ride out to the Isla we were able to catch a few whales breaching, and even one feeding!
It is also a very special time on the Isla because the boobies are in the peak of their mating season. The male and female have very distinct and different calls, and the males even have a dance and a present to go along with the whole charade. The male will waddle and lift his legs to impress a female. And, as a sad attempt to prove that chivalry is in fact, not dead, he offers his inamorata the nearest twig as a token of his love. To me the male´s call sounded a bit like a little kid blowing on a Kazoo without knowing how to play it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYmzdvMoUUA
(copy and paste the link into your browswer) This video is not mine, but captures the same scene we saw.
The pictures below are mine
Another new experience for me on this trip was surfing. I was able to rent a board and get lessons for 2 hours for a rate of $25. Worth every penny! My instructor, Miguel, was a good teacher and could really explain to me what I needed to do to correct my mistakes.
Things I learned:
1. The general principles of how to surf
2. Swallowing large amounts of sea water leads to an upset stomach
3. Yes, it is possible to belly flop off of a surf board
4. Surfing (or drowning in style) is fun
Flyfishing, one more thing I can check off of my long list of things to do before I get too smart or too old to do them, whichever comes first. Flyfishing, as far as the list and reality go, is not dangerous. Similar to my surfing experience, I am by no means an expert; I learned much of the basics. However, it was much less painful and had tastier results than surfing. I did not catch anything on a fly rod, but reeled in a good sized Rainbow trout on a standard rod.
I did not just go and rent some fishing gear, I learned from some real fishing experts. Several expats here in Cuenca started the Cuenca Flyshing Club. All of the members are extremely nice and willing to help any newbies get into the sport. Kent, one of the founders, was the one who showed me how to handle the fly rod. It is much more elegant than regular reel fishing. Watching a good fly fisherman is like watching a great painter paint. There is a relaxing beauty to the dance of the weighted line as it flies in front of, and behind the angler.
After the sun had set it was time to drink a nice homebrewed beer and cook our catch. Gutting the fish was a new experience for Joey, Michael and I. while doing it, I was unsure of how to pull out the guts once the incision was made. Michael explained to me what he did and I had an aha moment! I located the gills and pulled. Ta-da! As it turns out, it is pretty easy thing to do once you know what you are doing.
Here are a few shots of Cuenca!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Old
The following story is not a recent one, but I wanted to share it anyways.
Growing up in a non-hunting part of Pennsylvania was an interesting start to life for me. In my home town owning a gun is almost considered a crime in the eyes of some. Not to mention hunting and harvesting game are activities that should never, under any circumstance ever, never ever ever be done. But remember, it is ok to buy poultry that lived in a tiny cage, fed steroids and then packaged and put on the shelves of the local grocery store.
On the other hand I also grew up listening to my grandfather’s tales of hunting elk, whitetail and muleys in Wyoming and the mountains of Colorado. His stories kept me on the edge of my seat as a kid and are always a camp fire favorite for a few of my friends.
At the age of 18, in my first year of college and after years of shooting shotguns with my father, we decided it was time I made some hunting stories of my own and we booked my very first hunt. Pheasant.
Pheasants originated in Asia and were first introduced to the US in the 1800s. Ringneck Pheasants, like the ones on the hunt, can now be found across the globe due to their readiness to breed in captivity and the fact they can adapt to numerous climates.
The male Pheasant, also known as a rooster, is larger and far more colorful than its female counterpart. He sports a long tail that when fully matured nearly doubles the length of his body. His head is primarily dark green with bright red around the eyes and beak. The body is a combination of browns and brilliant shades of gold.
An unfortunate sports accident a few weeks before the fall hunt had blown out my ACL and meniscus of my right knee. I was absolutely heartbroken, thinking I was going to have to miss my first hunt and wait six months after the surgery before it would be possible to go on another hunt.
But we Schrecks are stubborn people.
I got the surgery done and a week later I hopped on my crutches and we went off to the hunt. Being on crutches complicates even the simplest of tasks, so I knew I was in for a challenge. Nevertheless, I was not going to let anything stand in the way.
Our guide Robby and his German shorthaired pointer, Doc, were sympathetic of my situation because one of his other dogs had knocked him over several years ago and blown out his knee. The instant I heard that I knew that there was no better guide in the world for me!
The plan was for me, my father and Robby (who carried my 12 gauge over and under) to follow Doc and wait for him to go on point. The rainy weather had made an absolute mess of the fields and my crutches sank several inches into the mud with every step and the holes they left would instantly fill up with the left over ground water. This made my progress somewhat slower than our hyper active bird dog hot on a scent.
Apart from the poor ground conditions, the scenery was a picturesque mid-November day at the M and M Hunting Preserve in New Jersey. Beautiful blue and grey clouds covered the late fall sun, only allowing the occasional rays to shine through. All the trees had shed their leaves for the inevitable approaching winter and the cold air nipped at our bare faces in a refreshing way.
This is what I had envisioned for the hunt.
Doc soon had a bird cornered at the end of a waist high plot of corn stubble and went on a picture-perfect point, like the kind you would see in the old Winchester posters. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I crutched with all my strength to catch up to the others at the point. Robby traded me the shotgun for the crutches and I snapped the breach of the Browning ULTRA XS shut with two shells loaded. I completely forgot the state of my leg and assumed my shooting stance which had become second nature.
Time came to an utter stand still as I watched the tip of Doc’s muzzle for where the bird would burst out of the brush. Doc held the point for a solid minute before I arrived, a very impressive feat. He never flinched until he heard the call.
“Flush’em!”
The racket a rooster pheasant makes as he beats his wings to get out of thick brush is quite a thing! I let him fly for bit, watching this beautiful creature in motion before I swung over him and squeezed the trigger. First shot, first bird! What a feeling!
Without any hesitation Doc was on the bird and before I could stop shaking from excitement Doc brought the bird back and placed it gently in the hands of his master. Who, in turn, handed me my first bird. I could feel the warmth of the bird through my gloves and his distinct scent filled my nose. If you have never seen a pheasant up close you must add it to your list. These are in my opinion the prettiest of all birds.
M and M Hunting Preserve works extremely hard to make sure the birds have plenty of natural habitats on the preserve and maintains them to perfection. They are a true model of sustainable hunting.
After the hunt we brined one of the pheasants with sautéed onions, white wine and a few spices. Then we let it marinate for a few hours before roasting it. What a fantastic way to end the day!
So, despite being on crutches I went on my first hunt with my father and it could not have been any better! Now I have my own hunting story (and hopefully many more!) to tell my grandchildren someday.
Growing up in a non-hunting part of Pennsylvania was an interesting start to life for me. In my home town owning a gun is almost considered a crime in the eyes of some. Not to mention hunting and harvesting game are activities that should never, under any circumstance ever, never ever ever be done. But remember, it is ok to buy poultry that lived in a tiny cage, fed steroids and then packaged and put on the shelves of the local grocery store.
On the other hand I also grew up listening to my grandfather’s tales of hunting elk, whitetail and muleys in Wyoming and the mountains of Colorado. His stories kept me on the edge of my seat as a kid and are always a camp fire favorite for a few of my friends.
At the age of 18, in my first year of college and after years of shooting shotguns with my father, we decided it was time I made some hunting stories of my own and we booked my very first hunt. Pheasant.
Pheasants originated in Asia and were first introduced to the US in the 1800s. Ringneck Pheasants, like the ones on the hunt, can now be found across the globe due to their readiness to breed in captivity and the fact they can adapt to numerous climates.
The male Pheasant, also known as a rooster, is larger and far more colorful than its female counterpart. He sports a long tail that when fully matured nearly doubles the length of his body. His head is primarily dark green with bright red around the eyes and beak. The body is a combination of browns and brilliant shades of gold.
An unfortunate sports accident a few weeks before the fall hunt had blown out my ACL and meniscus of my right knee. I was absolutely heartbroken, thinking I was going to have to miss my first hunt and wait six months after the surgery before it would be possible to go on another hunt.
But we Schrecks are stubborn people.
I got the surgery done and a week later I hopped on my crutches and we went off to the hunt. Being on crutches complicates even the simplest of tasks, so I knew I was in for a challenge. Nevertheless, I was not going to let anything stand in the way.
Our guide Robby and his German shorthaired pointer, Doc, were sympathetic of my situation because one of his other dogs had knocked him over several years ago and blown out his knee. The instant I heard that I knew that there was no better guide in the world for me!
The plan was for me, my father and Robby (who carried my 12 gauge over and under) to follow Doc and wait for him to go on point. The rainy weather had made an absolute mess of the fields and my crutches sank several inches into the mud with every step and the holes they left would instantly fill up with the left over ground water. This made my progress somewhat slower than our hyper active bird dog hot on a scent.
Apart from the poor ground conditions, the scenery was a picturesque mid-November day at the M and M Hunting Preserve in New Jersey. Beautiful blue and grey clouds covered the late fall sun, only allowing the occasional rays to shine through. All the trees had shed their leaves for the inevitable approaching winter and the cold air nipped at our bare faces in a refreshing way.
This is what I had envisioned for the hunt.
Doc soon had a bird cornered at the end of a waist high plot of corn stubble and went on a picture-perfect point, like the kind you would see in the old Winchester posters. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I crutched with all my strength to catch up to the others at the point. Robby traded me the shotgun for the crutches and I snapped the breach of the Browning ULTRA XS shut with two shells loaded. I completely forgot the state of my leg and assumed my shooting stance which had become second nature.
Time came to an utter stand still as I watched the tip of Doc’s muzzle for where the bird would burst out of the brush. Doc held the point for a solid minute before I arrived, a very impressive feat. He never flinched until he heard the call.
“Flush’em!”
The racket a rooster pheasant makes as he beats his wings to get out of thick brush is quite a thing! I let him fly for bit, watching this beautiful creature in motion before I swung over him and squeezed the trigger. First shot, first bird! What a feeling!
Without any hesitation Doc was on the bird and before I could stop shaking from excitement Doc brought the bird back and placed it gently in the hands of his master. Who, in turn, handed me my first bird. I could feel the warmth of the bird through my gloves and his distinct scent filled my nose. If you have never seen a pheasant up close you must add it to your list. These are in my opinion the prettiest of all birds.
M and M Hunting Preserve works extremely hard to make sure the birds have plenty of natural habitats on the preserve and maintains them to perfection. They are a true model of sustainable hunting.
After the hunt we brined one of the pheasants with sautéed onions, white wine and a few spices. Then we let it marinate for a few hours before roasting it. What a fantastic way to end the day!
So, despite being on crutches I went on my first hunt with my father and it could not have been any better! Now I have my own hunting story (and hopefully many more!) to tell my grandchildren someday.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Videos!!!
So, I figured it is time to do some more videos!
Nothing is killed in these editions, sort of...
Copy and paste the links below into your browswer and enjoy! (send to friends too! I want to earn those theoretical YouTube dollars)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7GGSHtqeks&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWnbitBO8YQ
Nothing is killed in these editions, sort of...
Copy and paste the links below into your browswer and enjoy! (send to friends too! I want to earn those theoretical YouTube dollars)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7GGSHtqeks&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWnbitBO8YQ
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Insert Title, Not Foriegn Object
In which the author expresses his frustration with the barrier of language, being a gringo and feeling the need to scream, curse and throw heavy things at breakable things
The following is a translated conversation that is had weekly with the lady who owns the tienda next to my house.
“hi, I would like to return these (beer) bottles and buy two more beers.”
“What?¨
“I would like to buy two beers, please”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Through gritted teeth and a feigned smile “beer (I point to empty bottles I am returning). Cold beer, those bottles in the fridge?”
Long pause “Ohhhh, Beer. Haha, yeah how many.”
Folks, if there is one word I know how to pronounce in Spanish it is beer. I have never had any other problems buying stuff from this lady, the only problems occur when I try to buy beer. I swear she does it just to mess with me. Imagine if an employee did that to a certain client every Monday morning at Starbucks.
Caffeine Fiend Beats Sarcastic Employee With Espresso Machine
Not saying I would beat a tienda lady for messing with me and my happy hour. [Legal department insisted that I add that sentence] But seriously, when its 5’o’clock on a Friday and I bring empty bottles, they just need to be replaced. Go ahead and mess with me when I am trying to by yogurt or a banana, but don’t fuck with my beer. Comprende?
The aforementioned story inspired my latest creation, Coffee Porter. A nice dark beer mixed with a very strong batch of organic Ecuadorian coffee. Yeah, it’s good.
I recently purchased the Lord of The Rings trilogy on DVD for $4.50 [legally]. There is nothing like getting through the first 2 disks and then looking forward all day to completing the set with a nice home brewed beer after work only to find that the third disk is just another copy of the second one. There is no curse in Elvish, Entish or Spanish to express this feeling.
But I digress, life is good.
Remember those cute white chickens I had? Well we did BYODC (bring your own dead chicken) at the local rotisserie chicken place and then had a nice take out dinner. Kind of like Boston Market, right?
The following is a translated conversation that is had weekly with the lady who owns the tienda next to my house.
“hi, I would like to return these (beer) bottles and buy two more beers.”
“What?¨
“I would like to buy two beers, please”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Through gritted teeth and a feigned smile “beer (I point to empty bottles I am returning). Cold beer, those bottles in the fridge?”
Long pause “Ohhhh, Beer. Haha, yeah how many.”
Folks, if there is one word I know how to pronounce in Spanish it is beer. I have never had any other problems buying stuff from this lady, the only problems occur when I try to buy beer. I swear she does it just to mess with me. Imagine if an employee did that to a certain client every Monday morning at Starbucks.
Caffeine Fiend Beats Sarcastic Employee With Espresso Machine
Not saying I would beat a tienda lady for messing with me and my happy hour. [Legal department insisted that I add that sentence] But seriously, when its 5’o’clock on a Friday and I bring empty bottles, they just need to be replaced. Go ahead and mess with me when I am trying to by yogurt or a banana, but don’t fuck with my beer. Comprende?
The aforementioned story inspired my latest creation, Coffee Porter. A nice dark beer mixed with a very strong batch of organic Ecuadorian coffee. Yeah, it’s good.
I recently purchased the Lord of The Rings trilogy on DVD for $4.50 [legally]. There is nothing like getting through the first 2 disks and then looking forward all day to completing the set with a nice home brewed beer after work only to find that the third disk is just another copy of the second one. There is no curse in Elvish, Entish or Spanish to express this feeling.
But I digress, life is good.
Remember those cute white chickens I had? Well we did BYODC (bring your own dead chicken) at the local rotisserie chicken place and then had a nice take out dinner. Kind of like Boston Market, right?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Life of Chicken
(with inserts from ¨Master¨)
Yesterday Master gave us an extra handful of feed and our favorite, Wheat Bread! He has done this before and we all fought hard to get our share and a little more. But the next day he took one of us away, we have not seen Breakfast since then. Maybe she got promoted?
Anyhow, Dinner and I are getting a little nervous because Master might take one of… Uh oh, here is here! Quick hide! (Chickens run to other side of 4X4 sized pen and bury their heads in their feathers)
Not me, not me!!! (Judging weight of chickens) Shoot, he picked me! Goodbye Dinner!
What is that grain sack for? Oh, you want me inside of it? I am not a big fan of this idea, but ok. Where are we going Master? I cluck. No response from him. I have often felt he does not understand me, we never understand him.
We seem to have stopped moving. Whose face is that looking in the bag? I guess this is my New Master. He seems nice, though he quite a bit shorter than Master, he will do. (gifted the chicken to a family in my town who has been very kind to me)
New Master’s house is a lot different and there are some strange looking animals here. They are big, pink and smell like our cage did when Master would forget to clean it for awhile. I am sharing a cage with this other Hen; she is not too friendly but is much nicer than that psychotic male bird next door. Who does he think he is making all that racket whenever it pleases him?
Well it is time for bed, goodnight strange new world.
Ugh, that stupid bird kept us up all night! What nerve.
Hooray, New Master is here with breakfast, yum! Aw, shoot, just dried corn? Master always gave us a good mixture, oh well, food is food. Bye, New Master and thanks!
Hey what the heck! The male bird snuck in our cage! Get out I scream from the other side of the cage. Oh no, he… he just killed the hen! No, you stay away from me you killer! He runs at me, but today is not my day to die. So I cover my head with my feathers and drop to the ground. Hahaha! I have bested the beast!
I think he is gone… Oh good, New Master came back and took him away. Good job New Master! I see the hen’s body next to me, poor girl. She never saw it coming. More food for me!
Oh hey New Master, what is that shinny thing you got there? Oh, we are going somewhere, ok as long as it is away from that male bird.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
'Til Death Do Us Part
A steal door with a large man behind it guards the arena. He looks through the speakeasy-style slot window and curtly pointed the way to the ticket booth. Because tonight is a major event general admission is $5, second row $15 and the ring side seats are $20. We opted for the $5 general admission; the arena is not big by any means so general admissions will suite our purpose just fine.
Clint (another PCV) pointed out that the air was not as smoky as he had imagined, I agreed. However, I did not know entirely what to expect.
First is the weigh-in for the initial round of fights. A long feather and shit stained table is where the men place their prized fighters to match up against a fighter of similar size and weight. Most of the fighters like to brag and boast to the other fighters and occasionally a pre-fight skirmish happens on the table. It is because of this that the fighters are faced towards their trainers and away from the others. Once a match is made they are then brought over to an official scale to weigh in.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to cock fighting.
First rule of cock fighting is, if you make a bet, you pay up if you lose without a protest. This is the word of the gallero. This is a term similar to caballero, which means gentlemen or cowboy and is a very respectful thing to call a man. Gallo is a rooster or cock, so a gallero is an honorable term for men who work with or raise fighting cocks. Now that you have an idea of how things are done and some terminology, let us move on.
Once the match-ups were decided, a purse was agreed upon between the two owners. The purses for tonight’s fight were in the range of $100 to $1,500. Though if the owners had wanted, the fight could be worth more.
Preparation for a fight takes some time. Before the birds are even brought to the arena or coliseum their feathers are trimmed in numerous styles. One commonality was that all of the fighters’ legs were completely shaved. Some sported grand tails up to a foot long with many feathers while others only had a few.
We watched over the shoulder of a gallero as he was preparing his bird for a fight. The spurs of the cocks are cut off (in advance and is only needed once in the life of a cock) and tape is put around the nub of the spur. Some kind of wax/glue is heated (in this case it was done by a candle) and the hot goo is applied to the tape/spur nub. Now a metal piece is applied to the glue. Once it is dry, more tape is applied to secure it. Next comes the artificial spur attachment. I had been told before coming here that they attach razor blades to the spurs; this is not the case, at least not here.
The gallero showed us his case of spurs; he had many of different sizes and material. Some were made of turtle shells and others were from the teeth of fish. They ranged from around a half inch to almost three inches. The fighters have to have equal length spurs. Fair is fair.
Once they are in place the bird is almost battle ready. Many of the trainers had different styles to warm up their fighters. Some would let them run around the arena keeping space between their fighter and the opponent. Others would hold the tail of the fighter while they trotted around on the floor and some just kept them in their arms stroking the plume while they negotiated side bets with the crowd.
The love, the pride and the respect for these animals is obvious even to outsiders.
Bets can be made at anytime with anyone who is willing. Some would shout out the color of the bird and the price they wanted to bet and a man might accept on the other side of the arena with a reply and that is it. The bet is set in stone. Occasionally we saw people up the stakes or make bets mid-fight.
Cock fighting is legal in Ecuador; dog fighting is not.
For tonight, the rules were as follows. A fight will last twelve minutes, unless one of the combatants dies, no longer fights or the owner throws in the towel. There is also a prize of $1,000 to the winner if the fight was over in 12 seconds.
The referee comes center arena to announce the big fight worth $1500. Bets are being made all around the room and I make a meager 5 dollar bet to a man sitting near me. My friend Jaime (Ecuadorian) gets up to buy a beer and is back within 30 seconds but the fight is already over. The arena was in an organized chaos of people exchanging stacks… stacks of bills to pay their debts. I forked over my dollars without complaint seeing as how I lost pennies compared to what the one man just lost. Such is the nature of the sport; it can be 12 minutes of ferocity on both sides or 30 seconds of utter domination.
As I write this, I find myself torn between two sides of an argument. On the one hand, I greatly enjoy watching these stunning creatures fight and the fluidity of their movements within the arena. And yet, from time to time a fight results in the death of one the contenders.
As the first round of fights came to an end, we made our way over to the weigh-in table. What we came across was a heartbreaking sight. The loser of one of the fights was face up on the table and breathing heavily while his owners stood next to him.
Some critics of the sport will say that fighting these animals can only be done by cruel and heartless men. These people have never seen a man watch helplessly as his prize fighter, his companion, fades to the next world. There was nothing but love and admiration as he stroked the plume of his dying friend. Some of these men have 5 cocks, while some might have 500. But there is no doubt that these animals are viewed with the equal, and if not more respect than most Americans have for their beloved four legged friends.
For some of these men, this is their livelihood and for others it is a very serious passion.
I remember one time in high school when my father came to a wrestling match of mine. I got pummeled and beaten for 2 rounds before being pinned, not scoring a single point. I felt embarrassed and ashamed and defeated. I do not think I fully understood the love a father has for a son until I saw my father’s face after that match. Something unexplainable was in his eyes, and I saw the same look in the eyes of this gallero as he looked on to his cock breathe his last few breathes. Not much was said at this time; you did not have to understand the language, even if there was something to be said. This was a sad affair and the visible truth to the ugly side of the sport.
The love, the pride and the respect for these animals is obvious even to outsiders.
Clint (another PCV) pointed out that the air was not as smoky as he had imagined, I agreed. However, I did not know entirely what to expect.
First is the weigh-in for the initial round of fights. A long feather and shit stained table is where the men place their prized fighters to match up against a fighter of similar size and weight. Most of the fighters like to brag and boast to the other fighters and occasionally a pre-fight skirmish happens on the table. It is because of this that the fighters are faced towards their trainers and away from the others. Once a match is made they are then brought over to an official scale to weigh in.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to cock fighting.
First rule of cock fighting is, if you make a bet, you pay up if you lose without a protest. This is the word of the gallero. This is a term similar to caballero, which means gentlemen or cowboy and is a very respectful thing to call a man. Gallo is a rooster or cock, so a gallero is an honorable term for men who work with or raise fighting cocks. Now that you have an idea of how things are done and some terminology, let us move on.
Once the match-ups were decided, a purse was agreed upon between the two owners. The purses for tonight’s fight were in the range of $100 to $1,500. Though if the owners had wanted, the fight could be worth more.
Preparation for a fight takes some time. Before the birds are even brought to the arena or coliseum their feathers are trimmed in numerous styles. One commonality was that all of the fighters’ legs were completely shaved. Some sported grand tails up to a foot long with many feathers while others only had a few.
We watched over the shoulder of a gallero as he was preparing his bird for a fight. The spurs of the cocks are cut off (in advance and is only needed once in the life of a cock) and tape is put around the nub of the spur. Some kind of wax/glue is heated (in this case it was done by a candle) and the hot goo is applied to the tape/spur nub. Now a metal piece is applied to the glue. Once it is dry, more tape is applied to secure it. Next comes the artificial spur attachment. I had been told before coming here that they attach razor blades to the spurs; this is not the case, at least not here.
The gallero showed us his case of spurs; he had many of different sizes and material. Some were made of turtle shells and others were from the teeth of fish. They ranged from around a half inch to almost three inches. The fighters have to have equal length spurs. Fair is fair.
Once they are in place the bird is almost battle ready. Many of the trainers had different styles to warm up their fighters. Some would let them run around the arena keeping space between their fighter and the opponent. Others would hold the tail of the fighter while they trotted around on the floor and some just kept them in their arms stroking the plume while they negotiated side bets with the crowd.
The love, the pride and the respect for these animals is obvious even to outsiders.
Bets can be made at anytime with anyone who is willing. Some would shout out the color of the bird and the price they wanted to bet and a man might accept on the other side of the arena with a reply and that is it. The bet is set in stone. Occasionally we saw people up the stakes or make bets mid-fight.
Cock fighting is legal in Ecuador; dog fighting is not.
For tonight, the rules were as follows. A fight will last twelve minutes, unless one of the combatants dies, no longer fights or the owner throws in the towel. There is also a prize of $1,000 to the winner if the fight was over in 12 seconds.
The referee comes center arena to announce the big fight worth $1500. Bets are being made all around the room and I make a meager 5 dollar bet to a man sitting near me. My friend Jaime (Ecuadorian) gets up to buy a beer and is back within 30 seconds but the fight is already over. The arena was in an organized chaos of people exchanging stacks… stacks of bills to pay their debts. I forked over my dollars without complaint seeing as how I lost pennies compared to what the one man just lost. Such is the nature of the sport; it can be 12 minutes of ferocity on both sides or 30 seconds of utter domination.
As I write this, I find myself torn between two sides of an argument. On the one hand, I greatly enjoy watching these stunning creatures fight and the fluidity of their movements within the arena. And yet, from time to time a fight results in the death of one the contenders.
As the first round of fights came to an end, we made our way over to the weigh-in table. What we came across was a heartbreaking sight. The loser of one of the fights was face up on the table and breathing heavily while his owners stood next to him.
Some critics of the sport will say that fighting these animals can only be done by cruel and heartless men. These people have never seen a man watch helplessly as his prize fighter, his companion, fades to the next world. There was nothing but love and admiration as he stroked the plume of his dying friend. Some of these men have 5 cocks, while some might have 500. But there is no doubt that these animals are viewed with the equal, and if not more respect than most Americans have for their beloved four legged friends.
For some of these men, this is their livelihood and for others it is a very serious passion.
I remember one time in high school when my father came to a wrestling match of mine. I got pummeled and beaten for 2 rounds before being pinned, not scoring a single point. I felt embarrassed and ashamed and defeated. I do not think I fully understood the love a father has for a son until I saw my father’s face after that match. Something unexplainable was in his eyes, and I saw the same look in the eyes of this gallero as he looked on to his cock breathe his last few breathes. Not much was said at this time; you did not have to understand the language, even if there was something to be said. This was a sad affair and the visible truth to the ugly side of the sport.
The love, the pride and the respect for these animals is obvious even to outsiders.
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