Derby Day

What one boy learned about gamecocks, Mercurochrome, and keeping his mouth shut for decades one Saturday afternoon in 1980.

At five years old, I had already traveled to Europe. It is my earliest memory. I can still give play-by-plays of some of the incidents from this trip: licking the walls in the salt mine, my father being attacked by a swan in the black forest, pooping in the bushes outside of castle ruins.

It was Saturday, early fall in 1980, and I was at my grandparent's house for the day. My Grandma Irene was working in the garden pulling out dead plants and getting it ready for the next season. She was a WAC in WWII, a physician’s assistant to be exact. She got shit done. My Grandpa Ed wanted nothing to do with helping her or doing any kind of manual labor while not on the clock. He eagerly volunteered to take me off her hands for the day. My Grandpa was what you call a “Rounder” or a “Corker”. They both fit him depending on the day of the week, time of day, and how much he’d had to drink. Yes, my Grandpa was a drinker, and a fighter, and he really liked the ladies. But he LOVED the Bulldogs. He was a dog man from waaaaaay back. He had been known to set a dog down from time to time but he never ate off the backs of his dogs, and he couldn’t stand men that did. By 1980, he was all but a spectator. He’d help a young guy out with his “keep” here and there or he’d teach them “aftercare” - that was his specialty; and, I believe to this day, where my early interest in emergency medicine came from. He loved talking about his old dogs. They always brought a smile to his face and it would always lead to another story. He was also very proud of the fact that he never lost a dog during or after a fight. “You see, Boy, he punches holes in the other dog and I patch up the holes the other dog punches in him.”, explaining it the only way a five-year-old would understand. It was a different time when men appreciated gait and vigor, not in paid-to-play athletes, but in each other and themselves in everyday life. A time when the word “hero” meant someone who had done something truly heroic. A time when being called a coward was grounds for an assbeating.

The elusive trait that he and all men like him sought in a dog was called “gameness”. It was talked about with reverence and mysticism. At least, that’s how I remember it. There are many definitions for gameness, but I think an easy, non-flowery way to define it is “a willingness to fight no matter the odds, putting victory over self, resolute and unyielding.” Two men would make an agreement, agree on weight, price and forfeit money, set a date and that was that. It wasn’t about the gambling, at least not for my grandpa. He’d say, “Any fool can lay down a bet, and any asshole can pick a pony. If it was about the gambling, Boy, there’s at least a dozen ways to do it that have faster action, bigger payouts and less investment. It ain’t ever been about the money.”

Gameness in the American Pitbull Terrier was highly regarded and sought out but by no means was it guaranteed. “They’ll all quit on you Boy, some just way sooner than others.” Not to say there weren’t a lot of very game dogs out there, but if gameness was the be-all and end-all for you, then Brother, chickens was where you ended up. Gamecocks we’re game all day every day, 25/8/417 no questions asked. And this, friends, is how we arrive at Derby Day. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a gamecock up close or in person but they are a sight to behold! Not just their manicured plumage and cut combs, but their PRESENCE. There were several birds for sale before the derby began. The birds were tethered and on cable spools turned out on their sides. My mind remembers row after row but it was probably only two or three rows. Some moved a little bit back and forth but most just stood there. Like you would expect a living statue to be still in a park or a state fair. I knew they were alive but they just did not move. You could see a head twitch here or a feather ruffle there, but there was almost no movement at all. That wasn’t what stood out the most to me, though. What stood out was their power - just standing there. The ferocity, the strength, the badmotherfuckerness. I was five, I didn’t have the words but I damn sure recognized the strength I saw in them. Chest high, their feet grabbing purchase on the spool, necks slightly forward. Each one in their own ways saying “I dare you to test me”. At least that’s what I remember now. That Saturday, I heard them saying something else: “I dare you to PET me!” Now I had been told in no uncertain terms not to touch the pretty birds. But I just could not resist, I mean they were so still. Surely they would like to be petted? What animal doesn’t, right? “Gamecocks” is the short answer. As my Grandpa shot the shit with his friends, I wandered around looking for my new best friend to pet and maybe even hug, if I was lucky. Then I saw him: the biggest, reddest, toughest looking bird of them all standing there like a statue. He was the one. Maybe my Grandpa would even buy him for me. I had an image of me walking my chicken up the sidewalk much like the cartoon bulldog Spike from "Tom and Jerry". I’d love to tell you what happened next, but for the life of me I do not know. Neurologists say our young minds are able to shut out painful and traumatic experiences, that some early growth is so painful that we have keep no memory of it. The next thing I remember is being in the passenger seat of my Grandpa’s station wagon as he’s speeding home and hugging me to his side. I’m sitting side saddle and I have a white and red splotched towel wrapped around me. We get home and it’s straight in the front door and right to the bathroom. My Grandpa started cleaning me up and I was just scratched all to hell but nothing that required stitches. My face was saved from any marks as I was told I turned my head and urgently called for my Grandpa (Read: “screamed bloody murder”). My Grandpa retrieved a small, brown bottle. It had bright orange liquid in it and a glass applicator. It was called Mercurochrome. If you don’t know what that is, Google it. It was an antiseptic back in the day made of mercury... because that’s not poisonous... Anyway, it burns like hell and I remember my Grandpa smirking as I tried to blow on every spot he dabbed it on. He said, “Careful, you’re going to get lightheaded huffing and puffing like that. Especially with all the blood you’ve already lost.” I realize now as I write this that that’s the first time I remember someone busting my balls. He was full of firsts. We walked out of the bathroom and straight into my Grandma. My arm is virtually orange and there was no hiding that something out of the norm had happened. Without missing a beat, my Grandpa said, “I bet this little bastard he wouldn’t run through the rosebushes and I’ll be goddamned if he didn’t. Never shit a shitter.” My Grandma just shook her head. I’m positive she didn’t believe the story but she never mentioned it again. My mother never believed it either. “Why isn’t his face scratched? Why aren’t his shirt or pants snagged?” I’m sorry Linda, but we lied. That was 39 years ago and I’ve always kept our secret. Understand I only broke his confidence because I think the story is worth telling. I loved keeping our secret. It was a test at an early age. He never asked or told me to lie I just stuck to the story, just like OJ. I am sorry for lying to my mother but she and I had plenty of our secrets too, so I guess it all washes out. In the end that’s all we really have - I mean TRULY possess: our memories. So go make them. Make your secret pacts with your sons and daughters and grandkids. They will be the things they treasure most when you are gone. Use your time Brothers and Sisters. Make it count.