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After the sparring period； the cocks were allowed to rest for fifteen minutes； and then we washed them with warm soapy water。 To help relieve soreness； I rubbed their legs down gently with a sponge dipped in rubbing alcohol。 When the birds were all washed and rubbed down； they were placed in separate sun coops for twenty minutes。 There was a roosting pole in each sun coop； and if the cocks were still active enough to have a fine old time jumping up to the pole and then down again with animated eagerness； I made a note to increase their runs and flirting for the next day。
The drying…off period gave Omar and me enough time to have a coffee break。
Before we returned the cocks to the cockhouse for the day； each bird was given two flies。 Two daily flies not only bring out the aggressive spirit of a gamecock； they get him used to the idea that the best way to reach his opponent is to use his wings and fly to him。 For the fly； Omar held out one of the cocks with his arm extended； with the tail of the bird facing me。 I held the flying cock on the ground until Omar was ready； and then I'd let him go。 When I released his tail he would take to the air； but before he could reach the bird Omar was holding out toward him； Omar would twist slightly to one side； causing the flying bird to extend himself to fly higher。 After a few days of flying； a mature cock could rise eight or ten feet into the air from a standing position。 If a cock could remember that he knew how to fly this well； it could save his life when pitted。
The flies pleted the morning conditioning。 A record sheet was kept on a clipboard beside each coop； and I filled in the cock's weight； number of runs； flirts； flies； and made a note of his color。 The well…conditioned cock has a dark red face and b。 When the color turns pinkish something is wrong。 In the space for ments I jotted down any observed weaknesses； or changes to be made in the diet due to gains or losses that were unexpected。
Like people； every gamecock has to be handled a little differently。 A chicken's brain is about the size of a BB； but within those tiny brains there is an infinite variety of character and personality traits。 I've seen personalities that ranged from lassitude to zealousness； from anarchy to obedience； from friendliness to indifference。 Luckily； a chicken can't count。 If they could count； they would have resented the daily raising of the number of flirts and runs we gave them。
A gamecock is the most stupid creature on earth and； paradoxically； the most intelligent fighter。
When my chart notations were pleted； I dropped a canvas cover over the slatted doorway of each coop； and the darkness kept the birds quiet until it was time for the evening training periods。
The other cocks； not under conditioning； were fed； watered； examined and weighed； and I was through for the morning。 Omar and I would then play chess until time for lunch。 When Buford was around； I drove to Omar's farm for lunch； and inspected his gamecocks before returning home。 If Buford failed to drop by； I would cook either a potful of canned beef stew or pork and beans and fix a pan of hoecakes。
〃How e you've never gotten married； Frank？〃 Omar asked me one day； as he looked unhappily at his heaping platter of hot pork and beans。 〃By God； if I didn't eat something else besides stew or beans every day； I'd marry the first woman who came along！〃
Omar was so used to my silence by now that he answered his own questions。 〃I don't suppose many women would want to marry a professional cockfighter； though。 Most of the women I've known want their husband home every night； whether they like him or not； just so they can have somebody to plain to。 But canned beans…ugh！〃
In the afternoon； after Omar went home； I took a walk with one of my gamecocks that wasn't undergoing conditioning。 When taken out of their runs； some of the cocks would follow me around。 They liked attention； but they also hoped that I would drop a grain of corn on the ground now and then。 And sometimes I did。
Mary Bondwell either fixed supper for us at four thirty at Omar's farm； or we drove into Ocala for a steak or barbecued ribs。 By five thirty； we were ready to start the conditioning all over again…the feeding； weighing； flies； flirts； runs and recording。 Not many game strains can stand up to the hard conditioning I give them； but my two cocks…the Mellhorn and the Gray…came along fast； and Icky thrived on it。 Omar's Roundheads had a tough time for the first three days； but as soon as their excess fat disappeared； they came up nicely。
At night； to get our gamecocks used to lights and noise； because they would be fighting at night later on in the season； I turned on the overhead lights of the cockpit； and played sound…effects records on a portable phonograph。 The records weren't loud enough to suit Omar。 He charged around the outside of the pit； shouting out bets at the top of his voice；
〃Hey！ Who'll give me an eight to ten！ I got a blinker here； half dead already！ Who'll lay twenty to ten！〃
He then accepted preposterous bets in a mincing falsetto； managing to make enough noise for a major cockpit。 It was ical to watch his wild antics； charging around the pit； flopping his big bare arms loosely； his black beard glistening under the lights。 I could never picture Omar in a homburg and gray flannel suit walking down Madison Avenue。 He fitted in with a cocker's life as though he had been born to it。
After only a few nights of noise and lights； every one of the cocks could stand quietly and patiently in the center of the pit； and pay no mind either to the records or Omar。
And of course； we had a bottle every night； either gin or bourbon； and we passed it back and forth。 Omar would tell me stories about New York； the advertising business； or anecdotes about radio and television people he had known。
Quite suddenly he would stop relating a story in midsentence…〃Frank； do you want to know something？ You and I； you big； dumb； silent son…of…a…bitch； we've got the best life in the entire world！ I wouldn't trade my life now if I was given every filter…tip account in the United States and fifty percent of the stock！〃
He would reach for the bottle； take a healthy swig and pass it to me。
〃I know you're tired of listening to me ramble on。 Why don't you get out that electronic monster of yours and play us something？〃
I had rigged an extension cord from the shack； and I would play for an hour or so； sitting on the bench beside the lighted cockpit。 I never played songs； I more or less played with the guitar instead； trying out chord progressions； or attempting to express a mood of some kind。 Omar never said whether he liked my music or not； but he listened attentively。
One night Buford drove over with a big pot of greens his wife had cooked for me。 Omar told Buford to get his enamel cup from the hook above the faucet where he kept it； and then filled it with whiskey。 Before Buford had finished the cupful of whiskey he got mellow and sang for us…old…time blues and field hollers。 When he held a note long enough for me to catch it； I would hit the corresponding chord on my guitar。 I might have been a