Cockpit visit instills lessons in politics for young observer (Sabong News)
Author
BusinessMirror
Date
JULY 21 2019
THE sounds emanating from a cockpit in Batangas brought a sense of haste to Edgardo Manalo and Reynaldo Perez.
Manalo, 56, absent-mindedly fingers the
yellow P500 bill in the right pocket of his jeans, worn out and tattered from
years of working in construction sites. Perez, 34, notices Manalo’s mannerism
and pulls out five P100 bills, crumpled from being handled by strangers’ hands.
Their money represented a day’s labor in a
construction site two days ago.
Their shadows disappear as they enter the
cockpit. They pay the full P100 entrance fee to a man manning the till since
they didn’t bring a rooster to register in the game, which could have cut the
fee to half.
Their bodies are immediately hit by the heat
and the sound of about 5,000 men shouting all at the same time. It’s a Sunday
and, hence, the cockpit is full.
According to Manalo, a short man with
shoulders bulging with muscles, the owner invites many cock breeders from
different towns. Hence, the wooden rafters are filled to the brim.
Perez, a tall bald man with prominent
cheekbone and a sunny aura, leads Manalo towards the far right corner from the
entrance. He walks, broad shoulders swaying as if patrolling a turf, to a spot
five meters away from the ring.
THEY have a distant view of the arena but
Manalo said, in a Batangueno accent that seems to taunt a fight, it has always
been their spot.
They walk past men wearing gold rings and
gold chain necklaces—some say they’re fake, some say they’re real—sitting on
the first row. Perez leans towards his friend and, pointing to the first row,
tells him in Tagalog: “Mark my words, one day we will be sitting there.”
The first row of the arena is reserved for
big-time gamblers and cockfight aficionados. Their seats are cushioned and only
a few inches away from the glass-paneled ring. It’s also the most ventilated
spot in the cockpit.
Manalo and Perez dissolve in a pool of men
who, like them, have skins grew dark after working long hours under a scorching
sun. Nearly blocking their view is a man with a round belly jutting out from an
undersized blue t-shirt that, like the white towel draped on his right
shoulder, is damp with sweat.
Manalo arches his furrowed brows, making the
three deep lines chiseled on his forehead more pronounced, as he checks the
crowd he believes is composed of jeepney or tricycle drivers, stevedores or
farmers.
AFTER a brief survey, Perez whistles and
receives a glance from a “Kristo,” the bet-collector standing inside the pit; a
middle-aged man with linear physique and keen eyes. His voice is hoarse and
raspy. Perez said they are called “Kristo” because they always have their arms
spread while trumpeting the bets, thus resembling the statue of Jesus Christ in
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
Manalo said cockfighting is “laro ng maginoo”
or a gentleman’s game.
“If you say you have P1,000, you better have
the money to pay back if you lose,” he said in Tagalog. “Bets are cast man to
man and payback of the wager is only given after every game. You have to trust
the other person has the money and be gentleman enough to bet only on the
length of your limb.”
Perez cast his stakes early on. It’s the
53rd “sultada” (game of the day) and he bets on what they call a “mayahin,” or
a dark-legged rooster. Manalo’s eyes sweep the cocks lined up before his gaze
paused on the ‘mananari’ (the gaffers attaching the blade at a cock’s leg) and
resuming on the one fighting cock he believes would be a sure winner.
A minute before
the match, the cockpit dissolves into indistinct chatter.
The Kristos extend their arms to get the
bets, shouting “Meron! Wala!, “Posyam!” and “Lodyes!”
“Meron! Wala!” is a wager that refers to
equal bets. One will gain P 1,000 if one wins or pay back P1,000 if one loses.
“Po’siyam!” is a wager of “sampu-siyam.” One
gains P1,000 for a win but pays back P900 for a loss. For a “lodyes,” one gains
P1,250 for a win but pays back 1,000 for a loss.
Everyone is signaling to someone, bargaining
with each other before nodding their heads in agreement on the bet. Everyone is
shouting; filling the cockpit with noise that, surprisingly, doesn’t descend
into chaos.
Each fight lasts from 10 seconds to 15
seconds. But in that short time, the anxiety level intensifies as the stakes
are high. Eyes are glued on the ring; faces of hardened men painted with worry
with some growing pale or flushed as cocks exchange kicks. The man in front of
Manalo and Perez stands every time the cock he bet on delivers a blow but sits
again when the opponent lands one.
After each “sultada,” the tension dies down
as quickly as it rose after a cock is declared dead or dying; to be thrown on a
pile of losers.
AS time passes by, the air inside turns hazy
and sticky. The place is wrapped by the smell of sweat, warm breath and
metallic smell of blood from the dead or dying cocks.
An announcer calls for a break after half of
the scheduled fights are accomplished. Politicians making rounds in town walk
inside the ring, each arrival announced over loudspeakers, which also play
respective campaign jingles.
People like Manalo and Perez count their
winnings or losses, oblivious to the parade of politicians spilling promises.
One after the other, the congresswoman running for the 4th District of Batangas
together with the town candidates introduced themselves and enumerated their
plans. But, the men just took a quick look and sit down again. None of them
really paid attention.
Like other bettors, they weigh whether to
stay and try their luck in the other fights or go home. Some troop to the exit,
either keeping their streak of luck for the next “sabong” or rejecting the
chance of leaving with nary a centavo for fare.
FROM P500, Perez now had P3,000 while
Manalo, P2,500. Pleased with their earnings, they were able to breathe easy and
head for the exit. A politician continued to sell her image as pro-development,
pro-poor and pro-change leader.
Perez said he might just be able to bring
home a kilo of beef for stew at dinner. Manalo said he now has money to pay for
his eldest son’s graduation fee.
But a gambler is a gambler: the two men
returns to their spot inside the cockpit.
“Kagaya kasi manok, tandang eh mahirap sadya
gang parang isang kahig isang tuka, totoong pasasalamat na la’ang at may
sabong,” Manalo said. [Like the cocks, the chickens, we scrape by for a living.
We’re thankful there’re cockfights.]
For fathers like Manalo and Perez, a
cockfight is an alternative source of livelihood to make ends meet. Placing
their bets has always been a careful estimate; seldom for fun or entertainment.
In every game, there’s always a silent prayer to win because their din of
thought is to provide for the family.
ROOSTERS crow in the first light of dawn and
men like Manalo and Perez get up early in the morning. Roosters scratch the
ground all day while Manalo and Perez risk breaking their backs carrying sacks
of gravel and cement from daylight to dusk. After seeing their calloused hands
and weary shoulders from everyday toil, no one can say they’re lazy.
The truth is, there’s just really never
enough money for us to get by, Manalo said.
They’re thankful they have jobs in the
construction but they said it’s only good until the end of summer. They’re not
gainfully employed and they have no job security so they have no choice but to
rely on immediate source of money.
Inside the cockpit, they’re convinced
there’s a “Kristo” that can save them.
“Mantakin mo’t basa na sa pawis ang iyong
brief sa paghahalo ng semento bago’y P500 lang makukuha mo sa maghapon. Eh dito
sa simburyo mabilis laang,” Perez said. [Imagine your underwear is soaked in
sweat mixing cement all day only to get P500. Here in the cockpit, you earn
money faster.]
After the break, all the remaining matches
finished in a matter of minutes. It’s a tiring 15 second-cycle of chatter,
nervous whispers and betting on cocks. In the end, Manalo stopped after P1,800
in earnings while Perez was unfortunately left with only P400.
IT’S past eight in the evening and two men
exit the cockpit for a ride back home. They’re waiting in a nearby shed, which
was adorned with posters of vote-seekers.
Two men entered and left the cockpit at the
same time but anyone can tell only one is eager to get home.
Perez leans on the lone lamppost, which
wraps him and a portion of the road near the bus stop in dim yellow. He
absent-mindedly fingers the cash in the right pocket of his jeans, which is now
almost white with daily use. He shakes his head, maybe cursing himself for that
last bet that saw his winnings disappear.
However, Perez said he will return to the
cockpit to attempt to recoup the money he lost. Perhaps, he will finally be
able to bring home a kilo of meat.
The sad truth is, their uncertain faith on the cockpit
appeals more real than the dashing promises any politician could give them.