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SOUTHERN CONFERENCE
Oct。 15…Greenville； Mississippi
Nov。 10…Tifton； Georgia
Nov 30…Plant City； Florida
Dec。 15…Chattanooga； Tennessee
Jan。 10…Bioxi； Mississippi
Jan。 28…Auburn； Alabama
Feb。 24 …Ocala； Florida
Mar。 15…16 …S。C。T。…Milledgeville； Georgia
I was already too late for Greenville； Mississippi。 The S。C。I was unlike other invitational mains and derbies； both in rules and gamecock standards。 When Senator Foxhall had organized the S。C。T。 back in the early thirties； his primary purpose had been to improve the breeds and gameness in southern cockfighting。 The hardest rule of the tourney was that all the cocks entered in the final round at Milledgeville had to be four…time winners。 A cock can win one or sometimes two fights with flashy flies in the first pitting； and some good luck。 But any cock that wins four in a row is dead game。 Luck simply doesn't stretch through four wins。 This single S。C。T。 rule； more than any other； had certainly raised breeding standards in the South； and it kept out undesirables and fly…by…night cockers looking for a fast dollar。 All the pit operators on the S。C。T。 circuit were checked from time to time by members of the mittee； and if their standards of operation dropped； they were dropped； in turn； by the senator。
Like the other big…time chicken men； I had fought cocks in the highly petitive six…day International Tournament in both Orlando and Saint Pete； and I intended to enter it again someday； but I preferred the more rigid policies of the S。C。T。 It was possible to enter the annual International Tournament by posting a preliminary two…hundred…dollar forfeit； which was lost if you didn't show up and pay the three…hundred…dollar balance。 The winning entries made big money at the International； but I could make just as much at S。C。T。 pits and at the final Miledgeville meet。 And the wins on the S。C。T。 circuit really meant something to me。
At that moment； however； I didn't feel like a big…time cockfighter。 I was at rock bottom and it was ironical to even think about fighting any cocks that season。 All I had in my wallet was eighteen dollars； plus some loose change in my pockets。 I owned a thirty…dollar guitar； a gaff case； a few clothes in a battered suitcase； and a lease on a farm。
Of course； the contents of my gaff case were worth a few hundred dollars； but I needed everything I had to fight cocks。 I sat down on the edge of my bed； and opened my gaff case to search for the last letter Doc Riordan had sent me。 I opened the letter； but before reading it again； I made a quick inventory of the gaff case to see if there was anything I could do without。 There wasn't。 I needed every item。
There were sixteen sets of gaffs； ranging from the short one…and…one…quarter…inch heels I preferred； up to a pair of three…inch Texas Twisters。 I even had a set of slashers a Puerto Rican breeder had given me one afternoon in San Juan。 With slashers； the bird is armed on one leg only。 I don't believe in fighting slashers for one simple reason。 When you fight slashers； the element of chance is too great； and the best cock doesn't always win。 With a wicked sharp blade on a cock's left leg； the poorest cock can sometimes get in a lucky hit。 Pointed gaffs； round from socket to point； are legitimate。 Once a cock's natural spur points have been sawed off； the hand…forged heels fitted over the half…inch stumps are a clean substitute for his God…given spurs； and they make for humane fighting。 Two cocks meeting anywhere in their natural state will fight to the death or until one of them runs away。 Steel spurs merely speed up the killing process； and a cock doesn't have to punish himself unnecessarily by bruising his natural spurs。
Of course； I had fought slashers when I was a soldier in the Philippines because I had to； and I knew how to fight them。 But I had never considered them altogether fair because of that slight element of chance。 Cockfighting is the only sport that can't be fixed； perhaps the only fair contest left in America。 A cock wouldn't throw a fight and couldn't if he knew how。
Every pair of my sixteen sets of heels was worth from twenty to thirty…five dollars； and I needed them all。 The correct length of heels is a mon argument； but what really determines the right length for any given cock is the way it fights。 And even though I favor short heels； like they use in the North； or 〃short…heel country〃 as the North is called； I would never handicap a cock by arming him with the wrong spurs out of vain； personal preference。 It is a crime not to arm a cock with the spurs which will allow him to fight his very best。
In addition to my heel sets I had a spur saw； with a dozen extra blades； moleskin heeling tape； blade polishers； gaff pointers； a set of artificial stubs for heeling slip…leg cocks； two pairs of dubbing shears； one curved and the other straight； and two new heeling outfits； each containing pads； tie strings and leather crosspieces。 There was also a brand new roll of Irish flax； waxed tie string； some assorted salves and a few gland stimulant capsules。 To anybody except a cocker； this collection of expensive equipment was worthless junk。 If I pawned the entire contents of my case； a pawnbroker wouldn't give me more than forty dollars for the lot。
For a few thoughtful moments I clicked the dubbing shears in my hand； and then picked up Doc's letter。 I'd been carrying It around in my case for more than three months。
Dear Frank；
I haven't written you for some time； but I wanted you to know your investment is as good as gold。 Don't be surprised if you get a stock split one of these days soon and double your eight hundred dollars。 Next time you get to Jax； drop in and see me and I'll give you the details。
Very truly yours；
Doc Riordon
To anyone who didn't know Doc Riordan； this letter would have sounded encouraging indeed。 But the letter was more than three months old and； unfortunately； I knew Doc too well。 I liked the man for what he was and respected him for what he was trying to be。 But unlike me； Doc lived with a big dream that was practically unattainable。 All I wanted to be was the best cockfighter who ever lived。 Doc； who had already reached his late fifties； wanted to be a big…time capitalist and financier。
He wasn't a real doctor； I knew that much。 He was a pharmacist； and a good one； and somewhere along the years he had added Doc to his name。 I had met him several years before at various Florida cockpits； and I had bought conditioning powder and ergot capsules from him when he still had his mail…order business。 Conditioning powder can be made up by any pharmacist who is given the formula； but Doc was dependable； well liked by cockers； and he had also invented a salve that was a quick healer for battered cocks。 However； there are a lot of businessmen who advertise the same types of items in the cocker journals。 There wasn't enough big money in cocker medical supplies for Doc； and he dropped out of the field。 However； he would stifi supply a few friends like myself when we wrote to him。
Some four years before； Doc had caught m