White trash memories; bloody spurs and feathers

When I was a child, my dad held chicken fights at our place. Sometimes a hundred or more people brought their best birds to do battle in the round plywood pits down in our woods. Cars and trucks with license plates from a half dozen states lined our long muddy drive. The smells of coffee and beer mingled in the damp morning air. Cigarette coarsened voices softly called out bets. The stern command of the referee to 'Pit 'em!' broke the fog muffled surrealism. Bright feathers and flashing steel spurs entangled with the thump and shuffle of feathers and wings. The men hollered out their encouragement and predictions, cursing and condemning and celebrating in turn. Blood scented steam rose from the damp panting birds, sharp and stimulating. During breaks, the handlers in the pits opened their mouths wide and laid them across the saddle feathers to breathe hot air on the bird. 'To make 'em mad,' Daddy said. Once, I saw a guy put his plug of chewing tobacco into the bird's vent. 'To make him mad,' I thought. Soon the sounds of mortal combat would slow, then stop. After that, only the rustle of money could be heard.