For some women, Saturday is something to look forward to. It’s either because it’s their day with their girlfriends to go to brunch, indulge in some shopping or go to a vineyard for wine tasting.
For others, it’s date night – it’s the night she gets taken out by her partner for a great time – dinner, wine, music and swapping sotto voce sweet-nothings. Those are for the romantics of this era. I wish I was more of a romantic, but sadly, I am not.
I look forward to my Saturday night myself. However, for me, it is all about blood, punches, arm bars, kimuras, submissions and knockouts. It’s even more thrilling when it is a complete bloodbath. There’s the loud yelling and screaming and jumping off the couch all night long, hurling obscenities at the television like it had done something horrible to me. Sometimes I worry that my neighbors would call the cops on me. So, yes, Saturday night is UFC night in my household. That’s my thing. Best therapy ever. I mean, second to running.
It was year 2016 when I got introduced to the sports of mixed martial arts (MMA).
I was deployed and there was nothing else to do in the middle of the ocean except go to the gym after working hours or watch TV (everybody was glued watching whatever half-interesting channel they had it on).
One time I was late going to bed because I was surfing the net when I happened to glance at the one-eyed-god in the middle of the office. There were these two robust, half-naked men on TV, grappling around, punching each other, their faces were badly bruised and covered in blood. The shorter guy’s left leg was swollen and looked purple. He was trying to hide his limp, I guess for fear that his opponent would keep on attacking that part of his body. The taller guy had his eye almost shut, blood oozing out profusely while he was being hit incessantly by the short, stockier man. It was brutal. A slugfest! And as violent as it was, I was in awe of it all. I stood there, watching this madness – eyes twinkling like I just discovered the Candy factory; my mouth agape. I watched 4 more fights after. And from that night on, I was hooked! I would wake up at 4AM to catch fight nights on TV (while everybody else was playing bingo). That was my introduction to Connor McGregor, The Notorious. And that’s how I became the biggest UFC fanatic.
One of my friends, after watching the Poirier and Hooker fight, asked me as to what got me into this fascination with all things mixed martial arts. Why is it that I am not squeamish watching guys being beat to a bloody pulp - blood all over the octagon, broken noses, head and chin cuts, gouged eyes, what have you. What gives? And I had to think why indeed?
I had an aha moment! It goes back to my childhood years.
And here goes…
Have you heard of cockfighting? If you haven’t, well, you are missing something different in your life especially if you are from the Philippines.
Cockfighting is a blood sport between two roosters trained to fight to the death. With blades affixed to their talons they are coaxed and encouraged to aggressively attack each other in the middle of the cockpit. The spectators place bets between the two and they would fight until one of them dies or is critically injured. Yes, it is cruel and frowned upon, but back in the Philippines, cockfighting is legal and a way of life. It is an addiction to some, an all-time high for many.
At the risk of being ostracized by most of you, I have to tell you that my dad was a cockfighting aficionado. He frequented the town’s cockpit and he eventually owned his own roosters for fighting. He trained and groomed them attentively like an authentic rooster-raiser– he put time, money and effort into all of them. At one point in time, I was tremendously jealous of his roosters because I thought they were well-provided compared to us. After all, our national hero Jose Rizal, once pointed out that the typical Filipino loves his rooster more than he does his children. Touché, Dr.
On early mornings, I would see my dad across our house, under the shade of a big tree, surrounded by his cockfighting buddies, squatting awkwardly, cradling one of his best roosters; his mouth was moving rapidly, swishing water around like he’s trying to dislodge food between his teeth. After a few seconds, he would blow water on the rooster’s face. It looked like rain coming down on the poor bastard’s face. Up to this day, I still don’t understand the reasoning behind that entire exhibition. What was that for? Did it make the rooster a better fighter? I never found out. I never asked.
When my dad was at the peak of his cockfighting addiction, I asked him if I could go with him and make a few pesos by selling snacks to the spectators at the cockpit arena. He thought of it for a moment then gave me his permission. I was twelve at the time. And boy was I about to have the most unconventional and thrilling experience as a kid.
I tagged along with him that Sunday afternoon. My mom was not too happy about it, but I was convincing.
It was hot as hell outside. Wearing stone washed denim shorts, cropped white shirt and a red ball cap I borrowed from my older brother, I could feel sweat trickling down my back. We walked from the house to the cockpit. It was about 5 kilometers. My feet were dirty and covered with sand. I was soaked to the bone that I had to take off my ball cap so I could use it to fan myself to cool down. When we arrived at the arena, I sat next to my dad for a few minutes trying to have a feel of everything around me. My heart was thumping and it felt like it was about to burst out of my chest. At the same time, I was beaming with energy and curiosity. I was excited, nervous, thrilled, scared, and anxious. I had all kinds of emotions simultaneously roaring inside, ready to explode any minute. I surreptitiously looked at my dad and he must have sensed it because even though he was knee deep in cockfighting euphoria, he slightly turned around and smiled at me like he understood how I was feeling. He squeezed my hand then told me to start walking around so I could make money. I smiled back at him and went my own way.
My hands were wrapped around a long cardboard box containing of all kinds of goodies – candies, peanuts, crackers, chips, gum and cigarettes. Oh, and boiled eggs, not the infamous “balut”, for god’s sake!
The whole cockpit was roaring with excitement as it was announced that the fights were getting started soon. It kept getting louder and louder until I thought I couldn’t hear my own thoughts anymore. It was a symphony of clamoring voices overlapping against the theatrical and wild crowing of the roosters lined up outside the arena – waiting for their turn to dazzle everybody. I wondered if the roosters were scared. There was no telling. The saying “The eyes are the windows to the soul” does not work on roosters. Theirs were vacant.
I wasn’t sure how those men and women in the cockpit understood the betting. I couldn’t hear a thing. It was total pandemonium. I guess that’s the reason why there were a lot of hand signals going around. Apparently, the directions of the fingers signal different denominations. They all understood what the signals meant. Upward, downward, horizontal, etcetera. It was like doing the Macarena (which didn’t exist then!).
That day, I made 16 pesos. My dad made about a few hundreds. His rooster won! We jovially went home with the quick payoff including the opponent’s dead rooster – a celebratory dish my mom cooked for dinner. The table was filled with stories of the fight and how it went down – my dad was bragging about his rooster’s winning prowess.
I went to bed that night feeling older. I felt like I genuinely connected with my father, thanks to cockfighting.
I went to a few more fights after that Sunday. I even went without my dad. I was with another young vendor who used to live next to us. I sold more snacks and cigarettes and made made more money. I watched the fights under a bench where I was perched comfortably and it was still entertaining, but it wasn’t the same experience as the first time I had set foot in that cockpit and I reckon it was because I was with my father that very first time. That made it utterly special.
So, yes, that is my take on why I am so fascinated with cage-fighting sports.
It all goes back to that hot summer of ’87.
That’s when it all began.
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