To Become a Champion

by PATRICK MICHALAK

I close my eyes and begin my prayer, the world around me collapsing into nothingness.  All that remains are my thoughts, my words to the Father.

Amen.  I open my eyes, and reality hits me like a hard right hand.

I am back.  I can hear the crowd cheering, waiting, anticipating my arrival.  I can feel them, feel their energy.  They shout for me.  They shout against me.  I take in a deep breath of the sweaty locker room air.  It must be a hundred and five outside.  It’s warmer in here.  I wipe away the salty perspiration burning my eyes.

"Michael, it’s time.”

I nod and silently make my way to the door.  I walk out, followed closely by my trainer, my manager, and a several other members of my entourage.

“This is no problem tonight, Michael.  No problem.”

My manager knows to say nothing more.  I appreciate that.  He used to be a fighter himself.  He understands.  The time to talk is over.  I am already concentrating on the fight.

We walk through the audience of belligerent locals as we make our way to the ring.  I can feel the slaps on my back as and the wishes of good luck, but I do not respond.  I walk with my head down to the ring.  My trainer takes my robe, and I jump down into the ring.

The “ring” is a fifteen by fifteen square pit, dug into the hard clay floor in the basement of the Roadhouse Bar.  We are not afforded any luxuries or amenities.  There are no ropes or mats.  There are no gloves.  There is no ring announcer.  This is raw, pure.  You don’t come here for money; you come for the love of the fight.

I stare into my opponent’s dark, black eyes from across the ring.  They are as cold as my own.  This worries me, but I do not let it show.  We do not fight to the death here.  We fight until there is a winner.  But every time you step in the ring, you never know.  There is always the chance.

“Michael, you know the rules.”

I nod to the ref, and return my eyes to my opponents.

“Ok, then.  I want a good, clean fight.  I will throw you out if we have a problem, ok?  Good, now the fight starts as soon as he’s let out.”

My eyes are locked on my opponent’s, staring at me like tiny pieces of onyx.  I can see his confidence.  He has been strutting around like he is the cock of the walk.  But I have seen others with confidence.  And like those before him, he will be defeated.

This is my life.  I am a cock fighter.  I fight chickens in a large square pit in the ground in the basement of a bar.

And I do not lose.

The owner of the bird, a man called Sanchez, unlatches the cage, and the bird struts out.  I have gone up against Sanchez’s birds before, and they are very good.  His cocks are always very big, and the battle is always very long and hard.

I run my hand over the long scar on my cheek.

Tijuana.  1994.  I was a kid, trying for my big break in the Mecca of cock fighting.  I was a big draw: apparently the only man to enter the sport as a fighter in history.  I had trained the birds for a while, but I could never find my champion.  I became frustrated waiting for the perfect cock: One with good speed, power, instinct, who was willing to learn to fight.

The idea hit me while sparring with one of my birds in my backyard.  I knew that I had what it took, the fire, burning inside my soul.  I had always had the talent, but all this time I had been wasting it, attempting to impart it into my cocks.  It became clear what I had to do.  I sold the birds I had left to a local farmer, and made my move to Tijuana.

It was my first professional match, and I was going up against one of Sanchez’s prize birds.  I swear he weighed fifty pounds if he weighted one.  It was the biggest cock I had ever seen.  My only memories of the actual match are of a violent thundercloud of feathers, claws, and beak raining down an unrelenting fury of pain and agony.  I awoke a day later, sprawled out next to the dumpster in the back of the building.  They had taken my money, my watch, and my dignity, and left me with my shame and a long jagged scar on my face from the bird to remember them by.

Many of the local papers wrote me off.  They figured the physical and mental abuse would have been enough to finish my career.  But they were wrong.  The loss only added fuel to my fire, my desire to become a champion.  Since that day, I have beaten a countless number of cocks, and have built up a reputation as the best (and to my knowledge only) human cock fighter.

Tonight it was time to show my old friend just how far I had come.

I look up to Sanchez, and back to his bird. We have begun to circle the ring, each of us never losing focus of the other. We are dancing a delicate ballet, each waiting to see who will take the lead.  It is an intricate game of chess going on in our minds.  But there is no board in this game.  Instead, there is a large square hole in the ground, surrounded by a thick mass of sweaty, bloodthirsty fans screaming.  There are no pieces, but rather a man and a chicken prepared to fight each other, perhaps to the death.  There are no pawns or knights.  There is no king or queen.  No, wait.  I can be the king.  Yes.  That’s good.  In this chess metaphor, I am the king.  The bird is just a lowly pawn.

And this is checkmate.

I crouch down, and grab a handful of dusty clay from the bottom of the pit, and rub it back and forth in my hands.  As we continue to cautiously circle the ring,  I suddenly launch the dust at the chicken’s face, and as becomes disoriented in the dust cloud, I jump across the ring, and punt the bird into the wall.  Feathers fly everywhere as the bird rebounds off of the edge of the pit.  He retaliates flying off the ground enough to reach my face and pummel it with its wings.  The bird is surprisingly quick, and the counterattack knocks me off balance and onto the ground.  My hands slip on the dusty clay floor as I frantically try to get up.  I am stuck, helpless on my back in the middle of the ring.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” the bird screams.  I bury my face in my arms as the bird ruthlessly pecks and scratches.  I know I am no match for the cock on the ground.  I must get back up.  I grab hold of one of the bird’s legs and pull it out from under him.  I am able to hold the bird upside down by the leg as I get back to my feet.  I parade it around the ring, listening to the crowd roar as I hold it up to them.  I make my way over to Sanchez’s corner.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo?  More like ‘Cock-a-doodle-DON’T!” I taunt.  I grab the bird by the neck, and begin to choke the chicken.  The bird is much stronger than I have imagined, and it still has much fight left.  The bird is flapping its wings, inching it’s razor sharp beak closer and closer to my face.  The seconds seem eternal as the bird forces itself toward me, with its superior strength and endurance.  With a mighty peck, the bird lands a direct hit on my eye, and is set free as I bury my face in my hands and retreat to my corner.

The bird is angry.  I should not have taunted him, not this early in the match.  And I am paying for my mistake.  I am being chased in circles around the ring.  He’s playing with me.  I can feel myself getting dizzier and losing stamina with every lap around the ring.  Each time I look back I can see, through my tears, the merciless eyes of the chicken as he continues to give chase.

I realize the mistake I have made.  I did not respect the cock.  I had the early advantage, but my pride got in the way.  And now, as I run away, crying, desperately trying to get away from this horrible bird, I know there is only one thing to do.  I jump up and grab hold of the top of the pit.  As I pull myself up, the crowd begins to boo and curse me, and the referee runs over to pry my hands lose.

“Get back in there!  Fight’s not over yet, God-dammit!"

“No!  You gotta get me outta here!  This bird is crazy!  You gotta help me!  Help meeeeee!"

My voice follows me down as my hands are forced from the ledge, and I fall back into the pit, like a demon descending to hell.  The bird helps cushion my fall as I hit the floor.  We are both stunned, but I fear the chicken will regain it bearings quickly.  The ring feels like it is spinning as I frantically look about for the bird.  I can see him stumbling around a few feet away from me.  Our eyes meet for a moment.

The cheers of the crowd, the spinning of the ring, the bird hobbling toward me all seem to move in slow motion.  I very slowly prop myself up on one elbow, and look up to find I am face to face with the bird.  I stare into its eyes, watching, waiting.  I do not even breathe.  The crowd is frozen as well.  They are silent in anticipation.  My next move could very well be my last.  I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

With my last bit of strength, my arm fires out like a bolt of lightning.  I grab the bird, and...

We embrace.  I begin to cry like a little girl, and I can see little chicken tears streaming from my opponent’s eyes, and flowing like a beautiful waterfall down its beak and into its feathers.  The crowd’s voice unites as one as they sing Bob Marley’s “One Love”.

The chicken and I, we were not enemies.  We never had been.  We were just two people who had been through a war.  Well, the chicken is not a person.  He is a chicken.  But we were both creatures on God’s green earth, sons of Mother Nature.  And it took a mighty battle to make us realize we had no reason to fight.

We held each other long into the morning, rocking back and forth to the tranquil reggae rhythms of the crowd.  That was my last match as a cock fighter.  I cannot lie, I do miss fighting chickens.  But I have gained so much more.  That night I made a bond stronger than any I’ve ever known.  The chicken and I are currently sharing a studio apartment in L.A.  We are struggling to find acting work, but we’ve both never been happier.

Sometimes at night when I’m alone, I’ll look up into the cloud of smog where the stars should be, and I’ll think back to that fateful night and the lesson we learned.  In cockfighting, there will always be a champion bird (or man).  But, in life, there is only one way to become a winner: to love yourself and those around you, and treat them with the respect and kindness that you would like to be treated with.  For that, my friends, is the way, the only way, to become a true champion.