When Amado arrived with his father at the cockfighting derby in some Texan forest somewhere, he was eager to stake the life of his prized pet rooster Dionysus and win glory with blood. He was twelve. He came across the bird in question, Dionysus, when he was six, snatched the bird from the mother hen, nursed and fed and grew him with all the love a new father could. Dionysus’s feathers changed through the seasons of maturity from a powdery yellow to a muddy brown and finally to an all-consuming blackness. As awkward Amado was in his pre-pubescence, none of this showed in his pet, whose virility mastered all other roosters in his father’s cages.
At the derby, as his father prepped the roosters, he had trouble selecting which rooster would go first. He held them in his arms. They clucked with a bridled wildness, so well-groomed and active and proud. After handling a couple, Amado’s father held Dionysus. Dionysus clamped his sharp beak on his forearm. “Ah, bruto,” Amado’s father cried.
“Give him to me,” ordered Amado. “You don’t know how to take care of him,” said Amado.
“Is that so?” said his father, who then drank a sip of tequila he brought along with the tools of bloody murder and medical-aid kits. “Well,” began his father, “we are next and the man we are fighting has good gallos. All purebloods. Killers every single one of them.”
“How do you know?” asked Amado.
“I’ve fought him before. I threw three, four gallos at him, and every single one was killed. I’ve learned. But this is how this business goes. I think I’ll start with this one Hatch.” The top of the pinewood box, which held the carefully selected roosters for their death day, scribbled in black Sharpie, had their weight and breed.
“No,” said Amado. “Here, take Dionysus.” He handed the bird back to his father. “If we need a victory, Dionysus will take us there.”
His father smiled and drank the rest of his pour of tequila with his free hand. “That is the spirit.”
ROUND ONE
Amado held onto the rails of the gate dividing the fighting cocks and trainers inside from the onlookers outside the circle. A mound of sand was poured by the derby coordinator. Fresh blood painted the ground cold with death and sprinkled with feathers from birds long gone. That hellish circle focused the energies of so many money-hungry bettors and callous fanatics, killing their passion which each ended battle and renewing their interest with an assembly of unsuspecting birds. Inside the circle, an anonymous trainer handled Dionysus, still stately and regal and nice looking. Amado studied how the stranger moved and prepped his beautiful pet, growing less anxious for it, seemed the man knew what he was doing. Over on the other side, Amado noticed the owner of the bird Dionysus was to fight. “Damn, he’s fat,” said Amado to himself. “Cowboy ties and snake-skin boots? Disgusting.” However, the owner’s bird, handled by another nameless, faceless trainer, seemed a menace: The combining impression of deeply-seeded auburn and long, thick yellowish legs and a scimitar for a beak yelled, te chingo tu madre compadre. Amado grew worried seeing such a specimen, a possible compact, roving mercenary for Farmer’s Pride.
Amado saw his dad shove a hefty stack of money into the hands of a bettor. Various men around him did the same. Someone in the crowd blew a whistle three times to signal the first fight of the derby was to commence. Beer bellies pressed all around Amado, causing him discomfort, but the boy held onto the rails of the gate, focusing on Dionysus with total yearning of his soul.
The trainers in the pit came together for a moment, causing each rooster to lock eyes on each other and warm their battlements of chest, thighs, and wings. The trainers separated like it was a ballet, dropped their respective roosters— one the color of midnight and the other that of autumn—stepped three feet backwards and watched, just as the rest of the throngs of people, to see the end result of the bloody competition.
Dionysus leaped into the air and crashed down upon the head of the adversary. The scythe attached by wrapped, moist string caught blood out of a wing before Dionysus hopped again onto shifting ground. The enemy shook off the loss of blood and leapt and flapped its wings with full force and struck its beak; Dionysus mirrored his enemy. Their bodies conjoined for a moment, commingling blackness, brownness, and tinges of green and yellow in a heap of feathery death before separating again. No damage was meted or taken. The two united once more, piercing beak and beak at the sides of the neck, compressing the muscles of the neck, threatening to shear them away completely. Dionysus pulled away as did his enemy; each grabbed their bearings. Dionysus stumbled a bit.
In the midst of the crowd, Amado cried for Dionysus to push himself. Men around him cried, “Dale, dale—rompe el cabron.” Dionysus’s thighs pumped; they kicked into his enemy’s chest, flattening it, contracting the soul with every bang and thump. Pounded, that auburn bird, contending for the same pride as Dionysus and Amado behind him and Amado’s father behind him, slashed Dionysus’s beak; the blade, making a reaper’s tool out of their claws, entangled with the crucial feathers of Dionysus’s wings. The trainers untied the cluster of birds and reset the match. In the second round, Dionysus immediately attacked his enemy at an angle and punctured his enemy’s thighs. Trying to escape, the auburn rooster pitifully strained underneath Dionysus’s weight, pressed against the scratching sand harshening his already doomed fate. Heaving and heaving, the enemy issued one last breath and finally darkness closed its eyes. When the trainers separated the two, the enemy’s handler cleared the sand from the bird’s eyes and proclaimed the match over.
“Yes! Yes!” cried Amado. He gripped the rails harder as he jumped up and down, bouncing with joy and glee. Some men in his proximity cheered as well; others hung their heads in loss. Amado smiled enormously. He went to find his father. As he did this, he kept his eyes on Dionysus, watching them take off his fighter’s wraps and blades and blowing air into his beak to ensure he stayed alive; some blood was lost.
After the exchange of money, Amado’s father handed him Dionysus, who did not require immediate medical attention, for his cuts were shallow and his bruises only demanded rest. Amado held onto Dionysus greedily, hoping to keep him alive forever now. “You won,” he told the bird. “You won your match. Now you don’t have to fight ever again. You did so well, and I am proud of you.” Amado hugged the bird; Dionysus remained stoic.
Amado’s father celebrated with quite a few drinks. The bottle of tequila was drained quickly before a second appeared. Although he shared libations, Amado’s father drank most of the tequila. “Let’s keep this going. I’m feeling lucky today.”
ROUND TWO
While Amado tended to Dionysus, feeding and blanketing the unaware rooster, his father continued participating in the cockfights. With such liquid courage, Amado’s father submitted his fighters in quick succession. His Albany, Roundhead, and two Hatch breeds won their matches without the same grace and skill as Dionysus displayed, but they won ultimately. Amado’s father flipped through his bills recklessly, showing off for everyone to see. His face was flush with redness from the victories and the drinking. “I’m the best out here,” he announced to anyone willing to hear. “Last time I came here, no one wanted to fight me.” He hiccupped. “Someone said, ‘He’s an amateur and didn’t have any gallos worthy of fighting.’ But where are they now? Where? I’m here.” He pointed at the ground and stomped his boot on the soft earth. “You see me. I can’t lose. Who wants to fight? I can keep going all day!”
Finally, seeing how indisposed the man was, the cowboy-tied individual, whose rooster Dionysus defeated earlier, stepped forward. “I’ll take that request.” The hearty man, taller than everyone at the derby, heaving a big belly, laughed. “I know you haven’t brought more than five roosters. But if you still want to fight, let’s fight. I’ve been saving my best for last. Who are you sending out to that pit? Yourself? Hell, you’re already struggling to stand up.” Everyone laughed.
Amado’s father placed a hand on his chest as if he was egregiously offended. “I have my best for last too.” Amado’s father looked around. He spotted Amado holding Dionysus and signaled him to come over. Startled, Amado hurried over to his father’s side. His father ripped Dionysus out of his hand and said, “I have him right here. He’ll beat anybody. I know it.” Amado’s face flashed with panic and worry. “Apá, Dionysus already fought and he’s tired.”
“Huh,” answered his father. “Me vale madre. Whose gallo is it?”
“He’s mine,” replied Amado. “I took care of him.”
Amado’s father refocused himself. “Escúcheme, este pinche gallo, yo compre su alimento. Yo compre la gallina que hecho y nos dio Dioniso o cualquier nombre estupido que le pusistes.”
Shaking, Amado replied, “I don’t care if you bought his food. I fed him every day. He grew strong because of me.”
The other gamecock breeder grew a heart. “Give the little boy his rooster back. Come on. He’s about to cry.” Others supported his plea.
Amado’s father said, “I worry about my son and you worry about losing this next match.” He then turned to his son. “You keep talking and I’ll throw you in the ring next.”
“But,” started Amado, “Dionysus already fought. He deserves rest.” “Well, he already rested with you. Did he not?”
Amado, petrified and uneased, remained silent.
“Let’s fight,” announced his father to all the good people of the derby. His opponent shrugged and made his way to the circular pen.
Amado pulled his body to see the match. Feeling small and powerless, Amado didn’t bother asking for the men to make room for him. He crawled through to ringside and then used the rails to rise up. He saw them, preparing Dionysus again. Gone was the proudness and fierceness competition stewed within the rooster. The dark feathers had a sheen of greyness that aged him. Whereas Dionysus before appeared polished and newly minted, this gamecock seemed tired and uninterested.
Off on the sideline, Amado’s father shook hands with his opponent. Then they separated to stand behind their roosters just outside the border. The trainers were careful with the legs of the roosters, already modified with just whetted blades. The fight was about to begin.
In a rush, Dionysus, of a graying blackness, and a spotted, white rooster drove at each other head on: Their collision of feathers, claws, and beaks vibrated throughout the close atmosphere. After this, Dionysus shook. He remained in one spot, looking flustered. The spotted-white rooster closed in on his enemy and kicked at Dionysus’s head, barely missing Dionysus’s wrinkled throat. Dionysus walked off, circling back. The two missed each other through the air, turned and stared down each other, their raised hackles showing the soft, vulnerable skin of their necks.
Amado closed his eyes, causing laughter in the men around him able to notice. When he opened his eyes, Dionysus lay in a bloody mess, crimson seeping from a wound to his throat. His limbs were separated from one another like the sacrificial victim of an aged drama. The spotted-white rooster flapped its wings in winningness. The claps and cries and cheers pushed air underneath the rooster’s wings and pumped its chest. The match was over. There was a winner and a loser. Amado cried, covering his face with his hands, hoping the world he could not see would be erased once he mustered the courage to see it again.
ROUND THREE
After the fight, Amado’s father drank with purpose. He and his son and the surviving roosters had to be dropped off by a friend who lived about the same area as the pair. Amado’s father slept off the liquor the entire drive home; he had to be carried into the house and carefully laid on the bed babyishly.
Amado sat in the dining room, dejected and forlorn. Fixing dinner, Amado’s mother cooked soup and flipped chicken breast in milk and coating as tortillas warmed over the stove. She did not ask Amado how he was for a while. Finally, she asked, “How much did your father lose this time?”
Breaking his silence, Amado answered monotonously, “He won a lot in the beginning.”
“Well, how much did he lose in the end?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it’s not about gallos, you’re useless.” She left her work in the kitchen and snuck into the bedroom where Amado’s father lay unconscious. She picked his pockets and returned to the kitchen. In front of Amado, she counted the money. “There is enough for rent and that’s about it. Great. Perfect.” She then hid the money in a jar sitting on top of the fridge and continued her work at the stove.
Amado began to tear. “What’s with you?” asked his mother. Amado then burst in tears. “Here we go again,” said his mother. “What is it now?”
“Dionysus,” said Amado, unable to breathe, “he died.” Amado then laid his head on top of the dining table. He cried into his arms, unspooling his heart.
“Am I raising a girl?” asked his mother. “Go to your room and shower and come eat. I will not have this now. Him drunk and you crying over stupid birds.” Amado eased out of his chair and started walking slowly to his room. His mother continued, “If you don’t hurry, you don’t eat. I’m here all day and no one cries for me!”
As he cried, making his way to his room, Amado remembered when his father and mother argued and he sat grooming Dionysus alone in his room, unable to hear them and their anger and their pity.
Giovanni Rojas teaches at a public high school in Dallas, TX. He lives with his wife, a fellow teacher. He was on the editing staff for Reunion: The Dallas Review at the University of Texas at Dallas for their 2018 issue. “The Derby” marks his first foray into creative writing.
