This is a nasty, vicious and brilliant book. I never thought I'd read a book about any bloodsport, but don't be under any illusion, there is a LOT of cockfighting in Cockfighter. A lot of horrible, bloody, cruel detail. This isn't gloried in, it's written in a matter of fact, 'that's just the way it is' way. But it is there, in spades. You have been warned!

The protagonist is, like many Charles Willeford leads, not a hugely sympathetic character. Driven by ambition, selfish, self-reliant and with a self-imposed code of morality, he's a hard man who's hard to like, but occasionally, easy to admire. When he is cruel, and believe me, he is, it's without relish or enjoyment, but a purely pragmatic cruelty, to achieve his self-imposed mission. His muteness (which in the style of the character, I won't speak much of), and more accurately the reasons for his muteness, speak volumes about him. It's at the heart of the book, and it's a neat trick.

This book opened a window on a world that I thought had vanished a hundred or so years ago – not in living memory. It's wonderfully evocative. It's a great read. I'll let my score of four stars stand, although I feel like a hypocrite for not giving it five, but I felt I had to dock it something for the subject matter. Though, of course, it wouldn't have been the same book without it.

Problematic fave

Willeford’s Frank Mansfield takes a vow of silence until he wins the Cockfighter of the Year award. “Cockfighter” takes you into the often brutal codified world of southern cockfighting with a cast of stubborn southern gentlemen, tough cockfighters, ladies, gamblers, cheaters and thieves. Willeford’s book is a veritable instructional manual for the sport set inside a compelling story full of history and interesting details and heroism - sometimes stupid heroism. It’s obvious that Willeford spent a considerable amount of time touring the cockpits of Florida and Georgia to get such a detailed account.

It seems with each Willeford title I encounter, I find a new way to express the genre; this time as:

Pulp vocation.

I've seen the film version years ago, and it set an impression of a story in the class of Roger Corman's production of "Box Car Bertha." That is, a lost in time South, hicks, and cons. Given my new impression (and confirming my opinion that movie adaptations of novels should always be seen before the reading so as to not deflate the reading's memory) I should revisit Warren Oates as silent Frank, Harry Dean Stanton as Jack Burke, and this time enjoy how Willeford plays out the pivotal role of Ed Middleton.

My inspiration of rebranding this with vocation comes from Willeford's sympathetic treatment of Frank's fire of passion, and his steely commitment in a sport that only makes the police beat column of newspapers today.