The last cockfighter tells all

The best food for fighting roosters are sardines. Sardines are high in protein and calcium, which is great for a strong body.
Best food for fighting roosters

A person I’ll name Clyde received his first four-cock derby on a cool spring Saturday at a spot referred to as The Milk Dairy in Tickfaw down in Tangipahoa Parish., La. Then he drove again dwelling to Mississippi. He unloaded “830,” “Red Wire,” “836” and “Mr. Big Stuff” from the again of his Dodge and put them of their pens. A fifth hen, “The Experiment,” had traveled to the derby however true to his identify he didn’t make it again. This stuff occur.

Clyde was alone and it was after midnight. Nonetheless, a celebration was so as.

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For greater than 5 years he had been breeding, coaching and conditioning roosters. This was his first derby win. A fifth of Jack Daniels was opened and a radio was tuned to a traditional rock station. Then Clyde put a tape in a camcorder and walked by the darkness from his trailer to his rooster pens. As a single bulb hanging from the ceiling lit the room, he started videotaping “Mr. Big Stuff.” The cock had received the fourth combat of the day’s derby and sealed the victory. He took a wound or two – there was a contemporary, quarter-size gash on his head – however was alert, trying again on the camcorder’s lens with the short, temporary actions chickens make.

With the camcorder on his shoulder, Clyde, excessive on whiskey and his first win, started speaking.

“Yes sir. It’s, hell, way after midnight. We fought today and I want y’all to know that Mr. Big Stuff was the man. He was the man. I got all the other roosters put up. I’m telling ya. Mr. Big Stuff. Oh God. I love it. I love it. God what a thrill today was. Mr. Big Stuff. Four and oh. Won the derby. I floated all the way home. Mr. Big Stuff. I love it. Time for me to go to bed. I want y’all to know – Mr. Big Stuff.”

The following morning, as roosters crowed and dew was contemporary, Clyde carried his camcorder out within the yard once more and sat on a chair in entrance of it. Loxy climbed onto his lap. Aside from the chickens she was his solely companion and he scratched her head and informed her she was a very good canine. Then he straightened up, shook off the hangover and informed of his roosters’ performances within the derby.

“The first rooster they called up was 830. 830 had a tough time. Hurt his leg pretty bad in the main pit. Leg’s still hurt pretty bad. But the fight went like 40 minutes. Never really was behind but the fight was in doubt for a good while. But he held out – stayed on that rooster, stayed on that rooster, stayed on that rooster. Finally killed him. Then they called up Red Wire. Red Wire came out, his usual dominating self. Just – boom, boom, boom. Back and forth. Pitting’s over with. We pumped. They called up 836. Hey, it was a rooster fight. They both come to fight. After about the third pitting, had him knocked down. Finished him off in the drag. Not very long later, called up Mr. Big Stuff. He come out, knocked the rooster down after about four pittings in the main pit. Stayed on him, stayed on him. Four and oh. Won the derby.”

At this level Clyde doubled over on the waist. It was elation washing over. When he composed himself, and rose up once more in his chair, he completed the story by a smile.

“Hey it was wonderful. It was wonderful … just couldn’t be no better. We set up there with our friends … just couldn’t be happier with the roosters. Excellent roosters. Just, it was just – could have been the biggest thrill of my life. Probably as excited as I have ever been. Bunch of our buddies were there … but anyway. It was cool. I’m going to cut this off now. Our first four-cock win. It was great.”

Clyde made that video in the course of the ultimate spring of the twentieth century, when cockfighting was nonetheless authorized in just a few states and recollections had been preserved on VHS tapes. He leaned again on a sofa in his dwelling not too long ago and watched it once more. As his barely drunk and youthful model described the win he nudged ahead, eyes on the TV, and stated, “That pumps me up right there.”

Cockfighting is an historic sport. However its intricacies are laborious to know. Males be taught them not from books however from hanging round pits, largely listening after which watching who they discuss to. It started in Asia. The Greeks wrote about respecting the need of gamecocks. In America there’s a story cockfighters inform: “Honest” Abe Lincoln’s nickname got here not from a courtroom however a rooster pit, the place as a referee he earned a status for equity. And irrespective of whether it is true. Within the south, the place cockfighting held robust for generations, cockers take it as truth. They carry the historical past alongside.

Cockers see extra, by the blood to one thing pure and noble that few others perceive.

Animal rights organizations have fought the game for years. Folks outdoors of cockfighting see it as deviant and inhumane for a cause. It’s brutal and rightfully referred to as a “blood sport.” However cockers see extra, by the blood to one thing pure and noble that few others perceive. A gamecock doesn’t combat to stay; he fights to kill.

Clyde’s brother, a retired navy man residing in New York Metropolis, requested him about cockfighting. He wished to know in regards to the sport and know his brother higher. To reply him, Clyde purchased that camcorder and a stack of Maxell tapes.

He often recorded himself at sundown and dawn. He favored the best way that appeared. Different occasions, a pal held the digicam and adopted Clyde round his sport farm as he pointed at roosters, talked about how he acquired them prepared and up to date performances. Digressions abound. Clyde is completely satisfied to share his ardour. Loxy, a mixed-breed with a yellow coat, makes many appearances.

He made about 20 tapes. Earlier than mailing every one off North he made himself a replica. When he constructed a home on his property and moved within the tapes stayed within the cell dwelling, the place they sat for a decade. Clyde acquired them out just a few weeks in the past.

“I don’t like going in there anymore,” he stated. “Full of snakes. I’ve seen more skins than snakes, but still. Look, when I went to get my antenna cord out of there that time, I had it kind of wrapped around some of them vents and all. And when I went up there to get it off, there was about a six-foot skin on the fucking roof. I’m going, ‘Are you kidding me? On the fucking roof man?’ But anyway.

“You raise chickens you going to run into a lot of snakes,” he stated. “Trust me on that.”

Clyde is tall, a lifelong bachelor with a beard in his early 60s. I think about him a pal. By commerce he’s a mechanic. He was sporting overalls the primary time we met. That was years in the past and I’ve by no means seen him put on the rest. Once we lived in the identical city and I noticed him loads, when he wasn’t turning a wrench or smearing grease on whiny joints, he stored his fingers in his pockets and slouched just a little. As a result of he wore glasses with lenses that darkened in daylight and all the time a cap, it was laborious to know what he appeared like. He moved intentionally. Strangers can really feel uncomfortable round males like that and say an excessive amount of to fill issues in. However Clyde by no means appeared the sort to fret about coloring in silences. His pores and skin match nicely and he usually stored quiet, solely talking when he had one thing to say. He chewed Pink Man tobacco.

He additionally fought roosters. Mutual mates informed me that. I by no means introduced it up. It isn’t a factor non-cockers deliver as much as cockers. However a protracted whereas had handed since we noticed one another frequently and I made a decision to ask.

Over the phone, he paused. It appeared like he swallowed one thing earlier than answering. “I think you’d be opening up a can of worms.”

He was speaking about legislation hassle. The game is now unlawful throughout america and hardly tolerated. He loosened after I informed him I wouldn’t use his actual identify. We set a time to speak.

The instructions: off the two-lane freeway onto gravel, grasp a proper after passing underneath two energy strains. The driveway twisted by a pine forest. There was mud. When Clyde’s place got here into view on the sting of a clearing he was waving from the porch. There was extra grey in his beard however he largely appeared how I remembered. Overalls, a flannel shirt, Echo-brand cap and people glasses. His eyes had been nonetheless laborious to see.

Within the discipline in entrance of his dwelling he greeted me with a handshake and a real smile. I informed him how a lot I envied his dwelling, which is surrounded by woods and 10 minutes from the closest city. He had requested me to deliver a VCR – he doesn’t have one anymore – and I pulled one from the backseat. Strolling to his porch he informed me to watch out of a gap, hidden by leaves, on the backside of the steps. Then he opened his door, lit a Pall Mall and commenced telling how he was an 18-year-old with $2 in his pocket the primary time he attended a cockfight.

Cockfighting was unlawful in Mississippi however the penalties had been delicate and in some locations the legislation appeared the opposite manner. His greatest pal took him to The Pony Ranch, a spot on the Gulf Coast with a roof, bleachers and concessions.

“We got drunk as shit,” he stated, “as we did during most things back then.”

The playing pulled him in first. Two males named Henry and Wayne fought roosters that day. Wayne’s was a Whitehackle with energy. Henry’s was a Hatch with velocity. Clyde’s pal knew Wayne, so Clyde put his cash on the Whitehackle and after a combat that lasted an hour and a half, it received.

“Then I had $4 in my pocket,” Clyde stated. “Been hooked ever since.”

At most rooster derbies males – cockers, gamblers and people passing time – encompass a predominant pit, the place every combat begins. Cockers maintain roosters from behind, squeezing their breasts tight. To let one get away can harm. Cockers have sliced fingers. They “bill up” their roosters earlier than a combat – take them of their arms, lean towards each other and get the roosters nose to nose. This creates rigidity.

“A game rooster has two goals in life,” Clyde stated. “Fuck every hen. Kill every other rooster. That’s it.”

After billing up their roosters cockers hoist them towards each other, forwards and backwards, like two livid pendulums, till the referee decides they’re prepared. Then the cockers step again behind a cornmeal line and allow them to go.

Fights occur in bursts, within the air, when the 2 birds meet. Wings flap, legs carry and swipes are taken. There are gaffs – toothpick-thin, razor sharp metallic knives about two inches lengthy – mounted over the spurs on their legs. They intention for the opposite’s chest. If one hasn’t been killed inside a half-hour or so, the combat is moved to the “drag,” a aspect space, so one other twin can start in the principle pit.

Males within the crowd place bets with each other earlier than every combat, hollering out their odds and ready for takers. There’s often a scoreboard the place everybody can see a cocker’s report that day. If 50 males enter a four-cock derby there may very well be a whole lot of bets. Clyde often took a pocket book and if a person he guess wore a cowboy hat, then Clyde would write “cowboy” beside the quantity wagered. He wished to verify he may determine who he wanted to settle up with.

Most had been sincere. “Rooster fighters ain’t the upper echelon of society,” he stated. “Shit I shouldn’t say that. Most of ‘em just ignorant. There were some good guys.”

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For 20 years Clyde went to derbies as a spectator and gambler. Winning $300 was success. Losing that much was disaster. Sometimes he and his friends pooled their money to place bigger bets. They called their collective money “the cow.”

There was a Mississippi place called The Piney Woods that was hard to get to if it rained. Birds Of A Feather and The Milk Dairy were both in Louisiana. Christy’s Pony Ranch was on the coast and there have been so many different locations with no names in any respect.

Someplace in there Clyde moved to Texas for a job. However on weekends, from December by late spring, the season for cockfighting, when the birds weren’t molting and will combat, he would drive again to Louisiana and meet mates close to Lafayette. They might keep on the Vacation Inn and go to fights and afterward go eat and drink.

Sitting on his sofa beside the tapes he made for his brother Clyde remembered issues he had virtually forgotten. He informed story after story. He informed how he drank a lot at Uncle Elmer’s Crawfish Kitchen in Breaux Bridge, La., one night time that he needed to go sit in his automobile. His pal informed him that later that night he heard a younger man inform a sheriff’s deputy that some large, tall man sporting overalls was hanging out of a automobile within the car parking zone. The deputy, his pal reported, informed the younger man, “Hell. He’s most likely drunk. Go away ‘em alone.”

He told about going to a place in Mississippi and when he asked the owner what to do if the law came the owner said, “Then we just having a poultry show.” The law did come and a screaming cocker urged everyone not to run. “Shit,” Clyde said. “I hauled ass.” No one was arrested. Clyde, in fact, never got into any law trouble.

Eventually he bought some land in Mississippi, moved back home and within a few years had roosters of his own.

“I couldn’t increase ‘em in Houston,” he stated. “You hear how much noise they make. Neighbors complain about that crowing at daylight. But I had a place then, and finally got some pens built. I never bought a rooster. I never bought a rooster. Albert gave my buddy a rooster to give to me. See, Albert was fighting ‘em for Jimmy and Jimmy wasn’t there. He told Jimmy that the rooster won the fight but died. He had to say that ‘cause Jimmy didn’t want anybody to have any of his blood. Then my buddy gave me some hens and we started raising ‘em.”

At Clyde’s place I sat in a damaged recliner. A Jim Beam signal leaned towards a window. An “Obama? Yo momma!” bumper sticker was above one other. Between them a picket clock, fine-carved and painted like a crimson gamecock, hung from the wall. It had a cultured end and glistened, regardless of a layer of mud. If Clyde remembers proper it price about $70, got here from Oregon and he purchased it as a result of his pal had one which he all the time favored.

Buster, a Hatch, was his first gamecock.

“I don’t even remember what happened to Buster,” Clyde stated. Then he handed me a light and typed six-page feed tutorial somebody had given him. Eating regimen is vital. Roosters weigh about 5 kilos and should weigh inside two ounces of each other to combat. The creator of the tutorial suggests feeding cocks a mixture of oats, wheat, cut up peas, lengthy grain rice, corn, popcorn and barley from November to April. The opposite six months, whereas the birds molt, are the identical, minus the corn, plus sunflower seed.

What roosters eat in the course of the week earlier than a combat is most vital. That is “point feed” and each cocker has an opinion on what’s greatest. Some, for instance, say sardines. Others crimson beans. Clyde laughed.

“That’s bullshit,” he stated. “One guy says this, the other that. Well, like me and my buddy used to say, the guy who says you got to feed ‘em red beans on Tuesday is saying that because all he’s got to eat on Tuesday is red beans.”

A number of the tapes wouldn’t play. Mud and the passing of time had ruined ribbons. One which labored outlined Clyde’s level feed of boiled egg whites, corn and white rice. Within the video he’s in his chair at dawn speaking about how laborious it’s to get a rooster’s weight loss program proper the day of a derby. As he talks, over his shoulders, Loxy crosses a discipline.

“You see, he can’t be full of food,” he stated. “You can imagine, you don’t want to eat a big ole plate of spaghetti and wrestle somebody. But if you ain’t ate nothing, you ain’t got no strength. So it was a fine line from when he comes to the pit and he was empty, and when he had enough and still felt good. If he got too far along without no food, he would ‘go over,’ as we called it. You’d weigh ‘em at seven in the morning and if they fought ‘em at two or three in the afternoon, they probably lost another ounce ‘cause they probably shit. See, if they shit and they got big, green globs in it, that means they still got a lot of food. When it gets down to about the size of a nickel, white, not milky, but like gravy – when their shit is like that, oh he’s ready. He’s perfect.”

However feed solely takes a rooster thus far. Success is within the bloodline.

“We used to say that 90 percent of conditioning starts with a good rooster. You can’t win the Kentucky Derby with a mule. If you don’t have a good rooster, one that can cut, and that will stay if he gets hurt, you whistling in the wind. You can’t do shit,” Clyde stated. Then, quoting a well-known breeder, Clyde stated a rooster should have “‘the unquenchable desire to kill.’ It don’t matter if both his legs, both his wings, one of his eyes – that motherfucker still trying to hurt that other rooster.”

Ducking and working are indicators of dangerous blood. If a rooster geese throughout a combat it’s like “signing a death warrant,” Clyde stated. “Quickest way to get killed.” Working as a substitute of preventing at a derby is even worse. “That’s horrible. People laugh at you,” he stated.

A cocker has to get rid of dangerous blood from his sport farm. When Clyde suffered a sequence of derby losses and suspected dangerous blood, he would have what he referred to as “great purges.” He and a pal would spend half a day strolling the farm, “cranking” chickens – holding their heads whereas whipping their our bodies in a round movement till their necks break. The stays had been left in woods midway between Clyde’s dwelling and the closest paved highway.

He distinguished bloodlines by punching holes within the webbed toes of bitties, or infants, with a particular sample.

“What you do, or what I’d do, you bought these bitties born. You understand the momma and you understand the daddy … and I’ve a toe punch is what they name it – just a bit spherical punch. And also you’d punch of their toes. After which once they all acquired turned out and combined collectively … whenever you go to catch ‘em, you would look at their toes and know who they were. And if you find a good breed line, you try to do it again.”

He carefully documented each birth and parentage in a notebook. His spelling is strong. His handwriting is simple.

Snakes, foxes, weasels, wild cats and raccoons killing bitties could be a problem. Hawks, too. On one tape Clyde showed me he is sitting in his yard, mid-afternoon, talking about a win, when roosters start crowing frantically and Clyde looks up to the sky.

“Oooh,” he said. “I’m afraid that was an enormous ole hawk that flew over. Oooh I hope not … see with them little bitties working unfastened, we don’t want a hawk within the air.”

Loxy typically ate bitties.

“Only disagreement we ever had,” Clyde stated. “She knew she wasn’t supposed to do it but she did it anyway. Couldn’t help it.”

When a bittie reaches the age of 1, it turns into generally known as a stag. When a stag’s spurs are longer than a nickel’s width, he’s a rooster, prepared for pittings, however earlier than Clyde took a rooster to a derby he would combat him as a stag. This started in regards to the time a rooster named Noah died.

“Noah ducked a lot,” Clyde stated. “I knew he ducked. We fought him down at Birds Of A Feather. Naturally, he got killed. As we was leaving the pit I said to my buddy, ‘Ole ducking Noah.’ And my buddy said, ‘Next time we have a fucking rooster we know’s going to duck, why don’t we save that $50 and just kill him our self.’“

So Clyde would fight stags on his farm. Sometimes he would take them to another cocker’s yard and see what they could do.

“I was a firm believer in seeing a rooster cut before the money come out,” he stated. “I didn’t like to fight roosters that hadn’t been fought … that was kind of unheard of. But that’s how I found out who could cook.”

Journal entry from ‘99:

Losers had been often cranked.

Clyde informed a couple of stag that ran. He was about to crank him when his buddy talked him out of it.

“I told him, ‘But that rooster’s a donkey. Let’s go ahead and kill him now.’ He wouldn’t let me. I said, ‘Well I’m gonna put a little piece of red wire around his leg. He ever acts like that again, he’s gone.’“

That rooster shook his running habit, won a few fights and earned his name, “Red Wire.”

Till his roosters received a combat or possibly separated themselves from the remaining by a robust persona, they had been identified by a numbered band tied round their legs. Clyde purchased a roll of 100 of those bands. They occurred to be 800s. He tied them round stags’ legs as they matured. With every identify got here a historical past, a narrative.

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From a ‘01 journal entry:

There are bloody barrels and piles of dead roosters at derbies and 835, presumed dead, was tossed in a pile. Less than an hour later Clyde walked by and glanced at a heap of dead chickens. There was 835, alive and alert, standing in the pile.

The journal explains:

835 became Bad Eye and, Clyde said, “All my roosters that were ever any good came from Bad Eye.”

Derbies were on Saturdays. This was “pudding time,” Clyde said. I didn’t perceive what that meant. “The proof is in the pudding time,” he defined. “On Saturdays it was pudding time.”

He often fought at The Milk Dairy. He selected which roosters made the journey by watching them shut. He appeared for energetic cocks, ones clucking and pacing, as a result of a listless, stagnant cock was “not feeling it.” A caged hen often made the journey “to get the boys worked up,” Clyde stated. He would load up and drive his Dodge pickup down on Friday evenings.

“I always thought it was quite an advantage that my roosters didn’t have to travel that morning,” he stated. “‘Cause you got to get ‘em up before daylight, carry ‘em. If you’re driving two or three hours, that’s not good. I’d go down and attempt to get there proper at their regular time to go to mattress on Friday night time. Put ‘em in their stalls, put a lock on the door, and me and my buddy would go and eat a Chinese buffet.”

About five years after Buster and the hens came Clyde began having success. It took a while to figure out his point feed. “I killed some good roosters not feeding ‘em enough,” he said. But he got it right, bred a solid bloodline and won that first derby. He won others during the next five or six years, stacked a few trophies and earned a minor reputation. At the places he took his roosters, regulars knew his name.

But he only kept a small farm, usually between 10 and 20 roosters ready to fight. He did not have time for more. He had a fulltime mechanics job and could only condition roosters in evenings and on weekends.

Cockers with larger operations, one with hundreds of roosters, fed their families by conditioning and breeding roosters. It was a fulltime job for them. They made a good living and were assured good finishes at derbies.

“Pete-O was one of the guys up there name’s,” Clyde stated. “We was sitting up in the stands. He had three or four entries every time and somebody, looking at the scoreboard, said, ‘Pete-O, how you come down here and go 14 and oh in your first 14 fights?’ Ole Pete-O said, ‘Well, you got to step in a lot of chicken shit.’“

In the long run, he never made money. That’s not what he was after.

It was a pastime for Clyde. Winning a four-cock derby – $100 entry fee and four roosters to fight – meant taking in about $900. In the long run, he never made money. That’s not what he was after.

Clyde let cockfighting go when things began pulling apart.

It began with Hurricane Katrina. On that Monday morning Clyde watched from a window as a handful of his roosters, loose after their pens were blown away, fought in the rain and the wind. With no gaffs on their spurs they sparred a while, their feet in mud as the hurricane tore the South apart. Only a few died. But things were not the same.

Then the friends who had always helped slipped away – moves and marriages – and cockfighting began feeling more like work than fun.

The final straw came in ‘07, when Louisiana voted to outlaw the sport. Cockfighting was illegal in every state then, a felony some places, and after 15 years, Clyde quit.

It was cool the day I visited but warm sunlight came through Clyde’s windows and he offered me some chili. After he quit cockfighting he kept a few roosters and hens and enjoyed the eggs. Eventually, though, the ones vermin didn’t get he gave away.

One of the last things Clyde told me, between puffs from another Pall Mall, was the creation story.

“God was making the world and he took a break and he kind of disappeared. And the Devil came walking up, started messing with God’s stuff. And there was a rooster there and he knew that was wrong. So he went and tried to stop the Devil. Naturally, the Devil kicked his ass – snatched his head into a bloody mess. Well, ‘bout that time God came back, run the Devil off. He saw what the rooster had done and he picked him up. And he had all his different bowls and his makings and his ingredients and he took that water of courage, cleaned his bloody head. He took a little bit of nobleness, cleaned off his breast. That’s where the game rooster came from. He was bathed in courage, in nobleness. And he don’t quit.”

Males nonetheless pit roosters, possibly at locations Clyde as soon as knew, betting, swapping tales and shopping for good bloodlines, however what’s left of the game within the U.S. has gone underground. Cockers cherish their custom. They admire toughness and gamecocks, they are saying, had been born to combat.

There is no such thing as a guilt at a pit. “What I tell people is I had a friend who worked at a chicken processing plant and they had, hell, I don’t remember the number, something like 240,000 chickens a day show up. And don’t none of them go home,” Clyde stated. “These roosters out here have a chance to go home and live a long, fruitful life.” His voice was tough and assured. He coughed and shrugged his shoulders. “You know, maybe that’s just justifying it for myself. I don’t know. It is a blood sport. It ain’t for everybody.”

Now you may’t inform there was a sport farm on Clyde’s land. I seen houses being constructed close by. “They’ll put up a red light soon,” he stated with disgust. Twenty-five years in the past he had no neighbors. He’s dropping that solitude.

Loxy can be gone.

“I had her 14 years,” he stated. “Longest I ever had a dog. She just disappeared one day. I leave my doors open when the weather’s not too bad. She’d come in. I saw her that morning. But when I left for work I didn’t see her. I thought that odd. When I got home, she wasn’t here. I never saw her again.”

Then he drew himself up and checked out that gamecock hanging on his wall clicking out time. He quickly needed to be attending to work, however was in no hurry.

Clyde appeared to get pleasure from remembering his chickens, listening to his voice on the tapes talking their names out loud once more. Fairly Boy and Frostbite. Black Water, Blackie, Donald and Abe. A.M. and F.M. and B.A. and Moe. Brown Pink and Isis, Moses and Albert. Mopsy, Flopsy and Cotton Tail and naturally Pink Wire and the others. However he loved telling their tales extra. Most occasions rooster tales ends within the pits and Clyde didn’t flinch when he acquired to that half.

Mr. Large Stuff was totally different. The son of Dangerous Eye and F.M. had feathers the colour of freshly spilled blood and Clyde talked about him with uncommon fondness.

He earned his identify when he was younger, when a bunch of stags had been unfastened with a rooster within the yard. The stags all hid. Clyde stated as quickly as he put the rooster up, “this motherfucker comes walking out of the bushes like he’s grown eight inches. He was cock of the walk.” He turned Mr. Large Stuff.

His angle earned him that identify. What earned him a particular place in Clyde’s coronary heart was successful. He labored fast, ignored his personal accidents and received a string of fights. At derbies, roosters combat within the random order they’re referred to as. At two totally different derbies Mr. Large Stuff had his quantity referred to as for the “money fight” – the fourth and ultimate combat of a four-cock derby. Each occasions he despatched Clyde dwelling with the purse.

However gamecocks are all the time one loss from demise and one Saturday at The Milk Dairy Mr. Large Stuff misplaced. Clyde stated it was a very good combat.

“There ain’t a horse that can’t be rode, there ain’t a man that can’t be throwed,” he stated. “We met a hell of a rooster.”

When it ended Clyde dropped Mr. Large Stuff in a barrel with the opposite roosters who misplaced that day and drove dwelling. It’s simple to see him consuming whiskey and feeding Loxy at nighttime after he acquired again. However he doesn’t keep in mind what he did.

What he does keep in mind is getting up because the solar rose the following day, on Sunday morning. He went outdoors and lowered an American flag on a pole in his yard to half-staff and videotaped it for his brother and informed him about Mr. Large Stuff one final time.

That tape was beside him on his sofa as he spoke. It is without doubt one of the ones that now not performs.

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