Each week, rooster fights happen. Men of all ages bring their favorite fighting roosters to this stadium, pay a fee to enter, put their rooster and their reputation on the line. These battles are to the death, and, to ensure that, roosters have a finger long barbed metal spike attached to one of their legs just before they are set on the ground in the stadium ring and their owner, and trainer, step back and leave the fight to fate. This stadium is filled this Sunday afternoon and is a series of intense moments broken by stretches of boredom. People stand on the seats, move as close to the cage as they can to see better, wave or nod at bet takers who are yelling at them, raising fingers, making eye contact, scratching their right ear. Vendors move through the crowd selling food, snacks, drinks and cigarettes. I have been told there are a few birds who are favorites but it is really impossible to tell which rooster will be ready to fight when it is time. The noise in the arena grows deafening as the two roosters start pecking at one another, jumping into the air with outstretched wings,striking out with their talons. The fights last most of the afternoon and emotions are live wires, as feathers float, in the air, in the cage. The best statistic to remember is that half of the roosters  come out of the war alive.  
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