When considering sports of the world, some might be overlooked. There are those that endanger the participant, and there are those that are simply illegal. Generally speaking, neither of these quibbles have concerned me. Nevertheless, there are things I have not seen.
I was south of the border on some business, not long ago. Most likely I shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have been doing that particular business. Besides, I hate dust. And I hate the shitty rental cars you get down there, and the fact that everything costs something.
There was a town, San Pablo Batista. I was there with Marco, who is Italian. Marco was in on things, but not a real player. He spent most of the time in the hotel bar. One afternoon I get back and Marco is already up in the room, which is unusual. He says that he's tired of watching my back, that he took a little detour today and ran into some Mexicans, which, in Mexico, is not hard to do. Apparently these guys had put Marco onto something. Marco imitates them, poorly, making a show of describing what the guys had told him.
“Eeeet eees something to see,” says Marco.
“God, Marco, is that really necessary?” I protest vainly, meaning his parody act, but he is already deeper into it.
“The feesh, Senor,” he says, grinning haphazardly,” you haf to see theeem!”
By now I'm actually angry with the stupid shit, but it develops that he’s maybe found something for us to do tonight that is nearly free, not to mention wouldn’t likely get us sick. It turns out that the guys he's talking about are local heroes---I know who a couple of them are. By and large, they're all right. I sign up. And no, it isn’t legal activity. By now, I guess you have figured out that issue would not bother me.
Riding in Mexico at dusk is like riding in a dim red bowl filled with dirt. I’m in this jacked-up Suburban with Marco, two guys named Miguel, the driver, whose name doesn’t seem to matter, and a guy named Leo with a huge, black walrus mustache and a big cardboard box on his lap. The Suburban is bouncing like it’s going to come out of the ruts, and I’m not sure, which is not unusual, that there’s really something under it that could properly be called a road. Exhaust is billowing out the back in the true, third-world manner, but after a while I see that there are one or two other vehicles---pickups, I think---following us at a distance. There’s no one in front; it doesn’t look like there’d ever been anyone in front of us, it’s so barren. Finally, the light is going, we crest a hill, and there’s a hollow in front of us, cleared out from the cactus and scrub, washed in yellow electric light, and encasing a low, rectangular building of corrugated metal with some sort of addition on the back. By now I can hear Leo’s box sloshing, which surprises me. Leo is the guy that Marco likes to imitate, and every once in a while he says something, which is odd, because it sounds like Leo imitating Marco imitating Leo. Because I heard Marco do his thing first.
What Leo says now is,” thees ees Rancho Esteban.”
I say, “Steve’s Ranch, eh, Leo?”
“Thees ees where Diego plays!” said Leo proudly.
I hadn’t known it before, but I knew it then. Diego was in the box.
We get inside, and to do this we have to pass a bunch of lookouts at various points, all with weaponry. There are low stands set up inside, and they spread out to the back, which is open to the outside, covered there by a sheet metal portico. The yellow bulbs are in here too, and the central pit is a fifteen-by-fifteen square sunk maybe two feet into the earth. All it is, is dirt, grey and dry. The stands are almost full, and no one seems to have shaved today. I appreciate the fact that no one seems to care that I’m there. Money is already changing hands.
Now, most civilized societies have brutal ways of relieving stress. In some of these festivities actual humans get to pummel one another, but there are many popular activities involving the ritualistic, sadistic practice of pitting animals against one another for the humans’ enjoyment. Dogs, fighting cocks, even pigs, alligators, and such. As far as I know, Steve’s Ranch outside of San Pablo Batista is the world’s only Mexican fish-fighting venue.
I position myself between Marco and Miguel #2, watching the men (they are all men) wedging themselves into the remaining seats, the others standing about, all in a general state of controlled frenzy. Most are somehow getting themselves liquored up, talking, sweating. A little guy in a red Polo shirt gets down in the center of the square, yells out some stuff, then two other guys come out from under the stands at the rear, each with a box. It’s really getting loud now, and the tension is thick. I’ve been to some cockfights, here, in Mexico, and in Oklahoma years ago. It’s not the same thing. The cockfight is exciting, there’s the tension, the yelling, the smells. But not the evil. This thing feels evil. And as those two fellows open their boxes, it hits you like a wave, although even now I can't tell you what that means, or why it felt that way.
When those two big catfish hit the dirt, though, it just feels wrong. And the way they go after each other is probably the most animal thing I’m ever going to see. Blood is drawn quickly. The fish writhe, twist, get the position they wanted, then they go in for it. It is amazing how they cover the entire square footage of that dirt pen in the course of their battle, actually raising a dust cloud in the yellow light that hangs above them while they fight, and the men yell. After a minute one fish has a big gash in its side and they pull the other fish off of it. Both go back into the boxes, which hold small aquariums, the keeper of the loser fish kneeling over the box in a corner, worrying over the fish, while the other collects his money and several shots of mescal.
Over the course of the evening a whole series of matches take place, and, finally, it is Diego’s turn. Leo has been down at pit-side, prepping him, for some time. Several men come up from time to time and peer into the box, then clap Leo on the back or laugh and point at the other box, on the opposite side, where Leo’s opponent obviously rests. The bets go down, the place grows strangely hushed, then the two fish are released. These fish are enormous. These fish have teeth that you can see. These are the fish most of the men have come to see. And these fish are unbelievably savage. But as the fish begin their stalking movements in the dirt, the electric lights above them seem to swell and ebb rhythmically. No one seems to notice at first, but slowly the gradual pulsing becomes impossible to ignore, and, looking outside beyond the metal overhang, the sky could be seen to be turning from black to a dark green, then acquiring a phosphorescent sheen that sweeps into the fighting arena itself. Suddenly a bllinding flash of pure white light sears the vision of everyone present amidst attendent shouts and screams. I almost topple backwards off the low grandstand, rocked by the sudden bolts of several of the men. I get off my perch and crouch low in the dirt nearby, watching the center of the arena as the fish seem to be enlarging, enlarging, and actually rising into the air above, the two of them twisting and gyrating in a large circle. Suddenly a green shaft of light rushes inside over them and seems to literally suck them out of the building. There's so much shouting and commotion that I'm not sure anyone else is seeing it, but, rushing outside, I can see the fish rising in a green column of luminescence, rising into a huge, rotating sphere studded with what otherwise would be Christmas tree lights. Over to my right, I see Leo gasping and sobbing all at the same time as the din is ceasing, to be replaced by a low, dull throbbing from above, and it becomes very quiet as Leo now looks up at what is obviously something that he shouldn't be seeing. Then Leo suddenly is encompassed by the green light and vanishes upward. All that is left is his pocketknife, now gleaming outside on the hard, packed earth, gleaming in the yellow light again now that the green light, and the throbbing, are suddenly gone. And so is....whatever that was.
The trip back is much quieter. I try to console Marco, but he is having none of it. He is drinking from a Modelo bottle filled with mescal and staring ahead into the night. All of the fish are gone, and so are our Mexican companions.
I know I’ve driven back accurately. I know I’ve made no mistake. But the town is gone. There is no San Pablo Batista. And it is raining, large drops, coming down slowly and steadily with large spaces between them. And I see two fish, standing, motionless, perhaps fifty yards away. They are looking at us, and one motions with a fin, drawing it slowly towards him, the raindrops plopping softly about him and on him, covering him slowly with moisture, causing his scales to glisten, green, in the dark, empty night.
