XIII.
Cock-Fighting, the National Sport of the Philippines
Training of the Birds—Mains by Electric Light—Aristocracy Patrons of the Arena—Chinese “Book-makers”—Filipino Touts—Flower Girls—The “Pit”—The Strike of the Game Birds—The Crucial Moment—Game to the Last—Honest Sport.
The national sport of the natives of the Philippine Islands is cock-fighting. From infancy the Filipino takes to this line of sport, as a duck takes to water, and he early acquires the art of heeling and training the bird which is sooner or later to increase his wealth or perhaps send him back to the drudgery of the rice-fields, where he must eke out an existence and little by little accumulate sufficient to back another favorite chanticleer in his efforts to recover from his sorrowful state of depression, as a Filipino will bet all on his favorite game-bird.
The enthusiasm these people manifest around the pit during a main is akin to that of the Spaniards and Mexicans during a bull-fight. For weeks before a battle the bird is dieted, his claws and beak are manicured, feathers cropped, and plume trimmed. Its weight requires either increasing or diminishing, as the case may be, and it is handled with the care of the tots in a baby incubator.
Every village or barrio in the Philippines has its cockpit, the most pretentious of these being found in the villages of Caloocán and San Pedro Macati, surrounding the city of Manila. Here, in a large well-ventilated arena, can be found gathered together night after night, not only a motley crowd of peasants from the rice-fields of the interior, but the up-to-date business people of the “Escolta” and the aristocracy of the old walled city, whose gorgeous victorias before sundown roll gracefully along the Luneta, to the music of the Constabulary Band. These mains are conducted under the glare of electricity with the same success as by the light of day. Chinese, who are born gamblers, occupy a large percentage of the space given for seating capacity; these people very methodically run a book in which odds are given on certain birds before they appear to the public gaze. They are quartered together and gamble only among themselves. There is also the house “book-maker,” who takes all bets but places no odds. The small fry, or the Filipinos whose pesos and pesetas are limited, bet among themselves, either man holding the stakes.
The pests of the American race-track known as touts and rail-birds are also in evidence here. One of these will approach you asking which is your favorite bird, invariably telling you he has a sure thing and that to bet any other way would be “mucho malo.” You bet on his advice, and he leaves you, meets another easy mark, and tells him to bet just the opposite to the way he advised you. This fellow is a sure winner, as one of the birds must win and his nightly rake-off is a stout roll.
The price of admission is una peseta, or ten cents (gold). Near the entrance to the “pit” is a bamboo stand where cigars, cigarettes, and ice-cold bottles of San Miguel’s salvaeso are sold. Flower-girls are everywhere in evidence, with their trays of palm-leaf fans, wreaths, and fragrant nosegays. An old Filipino woman chewing betel-nut and smoking a black cigar struts around selling cocoanut candy, the very appearance of which is enough to spread the cholera.
As the time approaches for the main, an old bald-headed veteran of the cocking main enters the screened pit, which is about the size of a “Marquis of Queensberry” prize-ring, and announces the beginning of the evening’s performance; he is loudly cheered by the gamesters of the arena. This is followed by the entrance of the owners with their birds.
The noise, which up to this time has been violent, here breaks into a paroxysm of tumultuous disorder. Each spectator is yelling for his favorite bird, which he designates by its color; this singsong chatter, being a jumble of the Spanish, Tagalog, and Chinese tongues, runs like this: Color row, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, blanco, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, negro, negro, negro, focho, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong. This is grand music for mutes and boiler-makers! The spurs, unlike the sharp-pointed gaff’s used on American game-cocks, are small steel blades shaped like a razor and honed to an extreme degree of keenness. After the spurs are fastened on and each Filipino is satisfied with the ire of his bird, they are pitted, the owners leave the pit, and the battle is waged; not in accordance with Dr. Clark’s rules of the United States, however, as cock-fighting was in vogue in the Philippines for ages before the discovery of America.
As the battle is waged, each bird seems conscious of the dire effects of the fatal blade of its adversary; they strut, crouch, and spar, each with eyes intent on the slightest move of the other. “Mucho bueno combati este negro,” shouts the Filipino as the red fowl narrowly escapes a lunge from the spur of the black. “Negro, negro, buena negro minok,” shout the backers of the black fowl, which, unlike in the case of the opponents in a prize-fight, the applause tends to intimidate, rather than inspire courage in the feathery tribe. “Spearo poco tiempo,” exclaims the red fowl’s admirer. “Caramba spearo,” cries the follower of the black with vehemence; “poco tiempo, este negro, murto este outro minok, tiene mucho jinero fora compra chow fora pickinniny, no mas traubaho.” This mixture of Igorrote and Tagalog translated means, “There will be a hot time in one nippa shack if the black bird wins.”
“Aha!” is uttered in crescendo. They have struck; feathers fly over the pit, and blood flows from the red fowl; they strike again, the red bird limps, and is seen to run, followed by the black, which is bleeding profusely from a gash hidden by its feathers; this brings forth tremendous cheers, which, however, die down as the crucial moment is observed. “Can it come back?” Both are weakening; the red game turns, with that blind spontaneity and instinct animated by fear; they crouch and strike together; a spur has reached the vital spot; the black swoons, its vital functions have ceased, and the battle is at an end. As the red fowl is proclaimed the winner, it is seen to sink, game to the last second; with its life it has paid the price of the victory.
“They are dead game chickens,” remarks a soldier as they are carried from the pit. Bets are now paid off, and the pit is sprinkled with fresh sand, new wagers are laid, and the main continues.
Cock-fighting in the Philippines is honest sport; there is no such thing as throwing the game as in a prize-fight, or pulling a horse as in racing. The fowls are usually so evenly matched that there is little of advantage in either one, from which to choose a preference, the book-makers in almost every case relying on their good fortune.
These mains are the most popular sport in the islands, and, in consequence of the honest methods of the promoters in conducting them, have been carried on for ages without cessation or municipal interference, such as is sometimes waged against bull-fighting, horse-racing, and prize-fighting in other countries.
The very atmosphere of the Philippines attracts you to these large nippa and bamboo arenas, and it seems you involuntarily follow the procession here as you would the race-track following in New Orleans or the daily crowd that gather to witness “Cuban pelota” in Havana. It is the antique axiom exemplified: “When in Rome do as the Romans do.”