Honeymoon at the Cockfights: How Cockfighting Became My Sports Betting Gateway Drug (Archive)
I got married back in the ’90s, although the exact date escapes me because I try not to dwell on my mistakes. Nevertheless, my new bride and I went on a lavish two-week honeymoon that we could not afford, but fortunately my newly minted father-in-law could. So, I took his little girl on a whirlwind vacation split between Aruba and Puerto Rico where we could enter limbo contests during the day and do the horizontal mambo at night. Paradise.
While in Aruba, I spent more time at the casino chatting with my new amigo, Javier, who also happened to be the pit boss, than with my lovely, little, wife – much more. That’s when she decided that when we left One Happy Island and arrived in Puerto Rico for the second half of our honeymoon we would be joined at the hip. Wherever she went, I went and wherever I went, well, I didn’t get that liberty so there’s no need to pretend.
Once there, and at her behest, we took tours of the island. Yes, multiple tours, one of which took us to a remote part of the island where a dilapidated prison sat.
All the while, the casino beckoned but, alas, I could not follow my heart. Yet, there she sat, my true love, unflinching, waiting for me and knowing that at some point I would visit her with arms wide open and a wallet to boot. And after five days tethered to my shiny new ball and chain, I got my chance. It was Sunday morning, Easter Sunday as a matter of fact, and my paramour realized six days of me constantly at her side was enough and decided she would spend the day at the pool while I could be left to my own devices. The one caveat was that I was to meet her at 7:00 PM in the lobby because we had front row tickets to see an old comedian in the twilight of his career, Alan King.
The Plot Thickens
Eager to take advantage of my newfound freedom, I dressed in a pastel shirt and white pants so I would be able to meet my wife and go to the show without having to make a pit stop to my hotel room and get dressed. I wanted to savor every moment with my fellow degenerates, wherever that might take me.After several hours of getting nowhere at the blackjack table and pulling a slot or two with a middle-aged woman sitting next to me smoking one of those long, skinny, cigarettes I decided to get an umbrella drink at the hotel bar. It was shortly after 11:00 in the morning and I was the only one there. Much to my surprise, I found the conversation with the bartender as good as the pineapple/coconut libation in front of me.
The more I drank, the more we became acquainted and soon enough, I inquired about cockfighting on the island. I had never seen an actual cockfight and never debated the morality of such, especially four hours into a lovely liquid lunch with my new bestie. Apparently, he was the right man to talk to because before you know it, he was done with his lunch shift and we were off to a place called Club Gallistic
It was roughly 4:00 PM when we arrived at what looked like a theater in the round that wound up about six or seven rows. Below a cockfight was already in the works.
On My Way To Becoming a Sports Betting Savant
My bartender bro knew a guy who knew a guy and we were as close to the action as you could possibly be without being in the ring itself. It became apparent that there were no parimutuel windows to bet on the fights but rather the spectators would bet with each other in the stands. Never one to shy away from a wager, my bartender buddy asked me if he could bet $20 on the “red” chicken (each gamecock is fitted with colored wraps on their ankles to distinguish them) which meant I, by default, had the “blue” chicken. When word got around that I was taking even money on what I later found out was a mismatch, I had plenty of new friends ambling over to me to get down on red.
By the time the fight began, I had well over $200 worth of wagers, all on the same red chicken. I was beginning to realize that people were looking at me like a human pinata stuffed with cash and everyone wanted a whack. Lo and behold, the red chicken met with a grisly ending, the underdog (or is that undercock?) won and I was getting paid by the bartender who had become the designated escrow holder. The money was counted slowly, very slowly, by my new BFF and he wasn’t nearly as jovial as he had been earlier. And neither were the others who made their play on a sure-fire cock that talked the talk but couldn’t walk the walk. The natives were restless and they wanted a double or nothing wager with the pastel gringo.
Not for the Faint of Heart
The next match was particularly bloody and we were close to the action. I guess you could say we had a bird’s-eye view if you will pardon the pun. The bets were bigger this time and my reputation as a clueless de facto bookmaker grew. The first big favorite to go down was an outlier in their eyes, an aberration that wouldn’t be duplicated, at least not in consecutive matches. Now they were getting what should have been a -300 proposition at even money, and it seemed the whole joint caught wind of the mark in the stands, and that mark was me.
When the second match began, nearly a thousand dollars had been bet on the favorite with me at even money. I wanted to give the boys an opportunity to make their money back and we could all part ways as amigos. I hadn’t anticipated the additional influx of money but others had picked up the scent and wanted a piece of the action. Who was I to turn down a bet? After all, I didn’t realize until someone whispered in my ear right before the second match began that the locals had oodles of information on the fighting birds and money lines evened up the betting action, just the same way bookmakers use them on every sporting event.
After a grotesquely fierce battle, the second consecutive favorite went down for the count and now things were getting serious. My bartender friend, holding the dough, paid me even slower this time, nearly a G-note, as I nervously scanned my immediate surroundings. As the last bill fell into my hot little hands, I knew there was another match right around the corner, and this time the bets would be even bigger and there would be more of them.
After collecting my money and reading the temperature of the crowd around me, I could only think of one thing to say, “Cerveza, amigos!” That broke the tension and as I ascended the stairs to the concession stands to get a tray full of cold brews, I turned and gave a big thumbs up to my not-so-adoring fans. As I disappeared into the crowd, I quickly walked right by the beer vendor and found a stairwell leading to an exit. I caught a cab sitting outside the stadium and never looked back.
When I returned to the hotel it was 7:15 and my new bride was pacing the lobby floor. As I hurried towards her and mustered my biggest smile, her countenance morphed from one of disdain to confusion. “What in God’s name happened to your pants?” was her question. I looked down, noticed the bottom of my crisp white pants had been spattered with blood from the afternoon’s ghoulish activities, and replied, “I’m a chick magnet, what can I say?”
And the rest, ladies and gentlemen, was history. I had a newfound thrill: wagering on events. I then spent the next several years learning how to bet on sports, how to compare betting odds like those offered for free by Bookmakers Review, and becoming a headache for sportsbook risk managers to deal with. I’ll always have a fond recollection of my honeymoon, and how cock fighting in a roundabout way helped me become an NFL sports betting aficionado.