I took the much needed break from training to heal from all of the small bumps and bruises associated with full time Muay Thai training. My feet and shins were sore from impact, my knuckles were raw from the bag work, and my face had various aches and pains for obvious reasons but I never sustained an injury that forced me to take some time off—until now.
My first day back fell on a Tuesday, the day we work on our clinch. This is the position where the fighters lock together. In classical boxing, the referee breaks up the clinch but in Muay Thai, this is a time to throw elbows, inside knees and attempts to throw the opponent are made. Knowing how to clinch properly is critical to having a successful fight—or at least critical to avoid eating an unforgiving elbow.
I am more comfortable in the clinch position than I am in mid-range. My long frame and wrestling background have provided me with a fairly strong understanding of leverage, balance and positioning.
The drill was simple. There are four fighters. One fighter gets into the center of the ring and clinches with a second fighter for one three minute round. After the three-minute round, the second fighter leaves and a third fighter begins to grapple with the first fighter. Once a fighter has been through all three opponents, the circuit is complete and the next fighter has to work through the clinch gauntlet.
Though all of the other fighters were proficient at Muay Thai, they had little clinch experience and I was able to throw them around. It felt good to be back at the camp and having some validation that the training paid off.
Since the head trainer, Moo, knew me, he selected me first to clinch in the ring. He chose a second vet and directed him to begin clinching with me. Entering the clinch inorganically is always awkward. The usual preceding feeling-out-process during the first and second round enables both opponents to judge the other’s ability—to test the water.
I lapsed back into my wrestling and threw my right hand over the back of my opponent’s neck and grabbed his right elbow with my left hand. We worked our inside hooks, trying to gain a dominant position. We traded knees to the ribs, stomach and thighs. Soon I noticed that my opponent was on the tips of his toes trying to reach for my neck. His hips weren’t in line and his feet were nearly touching. I dropped my hands to the middle of his back, lowered my hips and exploded upwards with a twist to his weaker leg and threw him like a doll.
The other training partners, of various weights (all heaver than me) had the exact same weakness, so I continued to exploit it. The moment my training partner’s balance was off, I took them off their feet. I ignored their knees entirely.
In the last round, I tried the same maneuver, lower the hands, drop the hips and explode upwards with a twist. Only this time something in my side popped. The pain was excruciating and I dropped to the canvas to catch my breath.
I tried to become analytical and pinpoint the pain. Moo ran over to me and picked me up and started to rub my ribcage with his thumb. He was rubbing too high, the pain was lower, in my floating ribs; although I didn’t correct him because I didn’t want him pressing on my injury.
I tried to analyze gain. I hurt my ribs before, I broke three of them several years ago and it took almost 6 months for me to not know they were there at every moment. But that was break and left me bedridden for 3 days gasping for air. This was not a break. The resistance was akin to accidentally uprooting a vine with your foot while walking through the woods. Except for the pain, it would have been an almost peaceful feeling.
I left the ring and stretched.
* * * *
The most frustrating part of the injury is that I don’t feel injured. I feel swollen with muscle. My cardio is through the roof. Nothing aches. And my will is back! But every time I turn something in my rib clicks and I drop to the ground in pain.
I’ll give it a few days.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Back In Training!
As many of you have aptly noted, my will to stay in Phuket and train was weakening. Egged on by a need to see more than my training camp whilst halfway around the world and a group of rowdy fighters, I took a week and went to Koh Pangang for the infamous Full Moon Party to let off a little steam.
I was hesitant to get involved in the debauchery but I was overwhelmed and eventually submersed myself. I countered any vulnerability I felt from the ten to twenty thousand person beach rave “not being my scene” by convincing myself it was just a social experiment.
Needless to say, the night started like this:
And ended like this:
Everything in between is a little hazy—but fantastically so.
The experience wasn’t entirely an exercise in hedonism. There was a wonderfully spiritual element to it and a view that I could watch forever:
And I learned that European bathing suits leave European bathing suit tans.
But really, who thinks to put on sunscreen before going out at 11PM?
But now I’m back at the camp and revving up for a fight that should take place in fewer than three weeks. It was my original intention to have a single fight but I have since learned that fighting is as much a learning experience as the training itself.
Sparring, although helpful, doesn’t have the same type of practical application that bare-bones throwin’-down does. So I’ve petitioned for fights as soon as the trainers think I’m ready. And I’ll fight whoever they put in front of me.
I was hesitant to get involved in the debauchery but I was overwhelmed and eventually submersed myself. I countered any vulnerability I felt from the ten to twenty thousand person beach rave “not being my scene” by convincing myself it was just a social experiment.
Needless to say, the night started like this:
And ended like this:
Everything in between is a little hazy—but fantastically so.The experience wasn’t entirely an exercise in hedonism. There was a wonderfully spiritual element to it and a view that I could watch forever:
And I learned that European bathing suits leave European bathing suit tans.
But really, who thinks to put on sunscreen before going out at 11PM?
But now I’m back at the camp and revving up for a fight that should take place in fewer than three weeks. It was my original intention to have a single fight but I have since learned that fighting is as much a learning experience as the training itself.
Sparring, although helpful, doesn’t have the same type of practical application that bare-bones throwin’-down does. So I’ve petitioned for fights as soon as the trainers think I’m ready. And I’ll fight whoever they put in front of me.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Riots in Thailand?
Just posting from the vacation to let everyone know that all is well here. There's some political unrest in Bangkok but it's not as bad as the news reports it to be. I am completely unaffected by it. Still traveling and avoiding Bangkok.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Never Trust a Promoter
It’s fun to watch the people you train with fight. You know how they move, how hard they hit, their weak points. You know how they deal with you, bobbing and parrying blows. You know what it feels like when one of your training partners finds that opening and the top of his glove catches you flush on your lower jaw.
And you want to see how well they’ll do against strangers in the ring.
Part of the fascination lies in the inevitable reflection of your own abilities. If your training partner does well, then you feel as if you have accomplished something too—whether this be a sense that you helped your partner get to this level or a more self-promotional thought, “If he can take this dude, then so could I.”
But it’s fun to watch a training partner fight even if he doesn’t do so well. The experience is akin to watching a TV drama of questionable merit and sitting through the whole episode just to see a friend who happens to be an extra in the background. Sometimes you’ll even find yourself cheering at the television and recommending the show to other friends based solely on the cameo.
During a fight night, there are two people in the ring at a time. And for the five-three minute rounds, all of the attention from the spectators is on them. And justifiably or not, you feel like you’re a part if that.
So it’s especially difficult to watch a training partner get put into the ring with someone who’s well out of his league.
The Ballad of Scottish Jack:
We were the second group from the camp to arrive at the stadium. Although transportation is never fully arranged beforehand, there always seem to be enough tuk-tuks, pickups and motorbikes to get around. We separated from the first group because we heard of a Muay Thai gear shop on Bangla road that would negotiate for cheaper ticket prices.
Our masterful haggling skills only got us free transportation from the shop to the location of the fight, Patong Stadium. They call it a stadium but it’s more of a dilapidated warehouse. Oppressive husks of masonry projects long abandoned stood like fractured sentinels, willing us to keep moving down the muddy road. The further we traveled, the more light the orphaned buildings seemed to absorb until the plywood shacks with corrugated tin roofs wedged gently between the cement structures were nearly impossible to see.
There was no discernable parking lot and the road didn’t open up as much as the stadium seemed to spill out of the darkness. But this was less a stadium by traditional Western standards and more a building that emerged by piling supplies in a heap and burrowing underneath. Albeit a large pile of supplies that could hold a boxing ring and a few hundred spectators.
Tuk-Tuk drivers floated around like white blood cells attacking any group of foreigners they saw, chanting, “You need Tuk-Tuk?” “Where you go?” “Tuk-Tuk?” “Tuk-Tuk!” Even the driver who took us to Patong stadium offered us a tuk-tuk as we were walking through the entrance of the only reason any foreigner would ever be in this part of town to watch the beginning of the very event we just paid the driver to see.
I put on my measured air of pleasant aloofness and handed my ticket to the counter who abruptly grabbed my bicep before waving me through. The secondary practice ring was pressed against the entrance wall, creating a bottleneck. We elbowed our way through, past the flaps of canvas and discarded turnbuckles. The building smelled less like a gym and more like a sweaty garden shed where teenagers would sneak away to smoke, drink and urinate on the walls.
But there was a ring surrounded by seats and a concession shanty. A group of older Thai men huddled to the left clutching their man-purses, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly. The fighters from the camp congregated cattycorner to the bathrooms, but next to the massage mats. We didn’t see Jack with them.
Over dinner we were joking about wanting to skip the fight because of the inclement weather but we went to support Jack. We’d trained with him for the last month and a half, through his exhibition bout with Jordan and through his eighteenth birthday. As we made our way to the ringside seats that the first group secured, Jack came out of the bathroom. He greeted us with a smile and followed us to the seats.
He was still wearing a t-shirt and jeans despite the second of ten fights taking place in the ring. Jack was to fight sixth.
“How are you feeling jack?”
“Alright, I guess. I wanna be out there.” He spoke quickly and motioned to the ring with his eyes. Jack shuffled his feet and said, “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.” But it sounded like “Yeh. Oim rredy. Less git thes uver wih.” Jack’s Highland accent is always a source of amusement at the camp.
“You’re going to kill him Jack,” someone shouted in support. He evaded the comment by smiling sheepishly and wandering away with an awkward wave.
We turned our concentration back to the fights in the ring. The 13-year-olds who looked like nine-year-olds were evenly matched, trading elbows to the head and knees to the ribs. Like many of the bouts between younger competitors, this would come to a decision. Unfortunately some of the peewee fights end in a knockout—no kid should be knocked out in a ring before growing pubic hair.
The rest of the fights passed well enough but there was no emotional resonance, no reason for us to really engage with the fighters. Jack kept popping into the seats in various stages of readiness.
Jack perched on the arm of my seat still wearing jeans but his shirt was gone.
An Aussie knocked out a fat tuk-tuk driver masquerading as a Muay Thai fighter.
Jack was now in Muay Thai shorts.
A trainer from the camp dispatched a lesser opponent in the third round.
Jack’s hands were taped and his body was fully lubricated with what smelled like Vic’s Vapor Rub.
Two Thai’s exchange points for five rounds—blue corner wins.
Jack was working the pads with one of the trainers.
The fight before Jack’s was tense. One of the fighters was a Thai trainer who had previously taught at the camp. He was tall and lean and he hit things like he wanted to kill them. I wanted to know why he left, but there’s a stigma about abandoning camps. At best you’re seen as a ship-jumper, at worst a traitor.
The ex-trainer nimbly jumped into the ring and removed his robe. He walked to the four turnbuckles and bowed at each of them, then moved to the center to perform the traditional Wai Kru Ram pre-fight dance for the crowd. His opponent joined him. The Thai music blared, sounding very much like Asian bagpipes. Maybe I was thinking about Jack too much.
Though the ex-trainer’s opponent was shorter, he was more thickly muscled. He had the kind of body that looked like he could roll down the stairs of an escalator and giggle about it. Since the ex-trainer had my build, I was still convinced he would win.
One of the old men with the man purses must have noticed how I studied the fighters and he walked up to me, “Which corner you take?”
I turned away from the ring to look at the old man, “I like tall-skinny. Red corner.”
“OK. I take blue. 200 Baht. You like?” His hand dived into his man purse and revealed a roll of bills.
“I’m in.” I handed two 100 Baht bills to the old man.
The first two rounds in a Muay Thai fight are never scored. This gives the fighters a chance to test one another out. They find their range. They gauge their opponents’ speed and power. They work on positioning. Unless one of the fighters feels he can get a quick KO.
The ex-trainer planted his front leg and threw his right foot into his opponent’s solar plexus, throwing him into the ropes. As the opponent bounced off, the ex-trainer had prepared a barrage of punches, elbows and knees designed to overwhelm the opponent. A right hook transitioned into an elbow, low kicks kept the opponent off balance and the knees to the body sapped the opponent’s strength.
And then I blinked.
The ex-trainer was felled by a flash of—something. His knees were straight and his arms made no move to brace for the blow of the canvas. His head bounced on the mat like a half-deflated basketball, ejecting his mouth guard in a thick red spray. Blood bubbled from is mouth. I just lost 200 Baht.
I don’t know whether Jack was watching the fight or if he was concentrating on having his first ever Muay Thai bout, but he showed no outward signs of being phased by the KO. He approached the ring, flanked by the entourage of corner men, cut men and flag bearers. He beat his 8oz gloves together and hopped from foot to foot.
Jack’s opponent was already in the ring. He was taller than Jack yet somehow more muscled. He barely moved his body but watched every movement Jack made. Jack avoided eye contact. But Jack almost always avoids eye contact.
The announcer read the fighter’s statistics off in garbled English. I was able to gather that Jack’s opponent was from France, or Sweden, and had fought before. It also sounded like tall, muscled French/Swede has a belt of some sort. Could I have heard that right?
I did not hear the announcer explain that this is Jack’s first ever Muay Thai bout; or that he’s 18; or that he’s been training for only a month and a half. It could have been the announcer’s poor English.
The tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) French/Swede ignored the Wai Kru and stood in the corner. Sweat was rolling down his shaved head. His neck was arched like a vultures and his abs seemed to be breathing independently. His arms would have been at his sides but his lats pushed them away.
Fully clothed, Jack looks plump. At 18 years of age, baby fat still clings to him but he has a deep chest and thick legs built from years of playing Shinty. Jack had even proudly announced that he made the Scottish national shinty team and would not allow his mood soured by our pointing out that Scotland is the only country that plays shinty. Jack still won’t tell us whom the Scottish National Shinty Team competes against.
Jack’s Wai Kru seemed to drag on while the tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s determination was growing. By the time Jack finished, the tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s bloodlust was peaking. Jack still hadn’t made eye contact and wandered back to his corner and spoke briefly with his trainers.
“Ready?” the referee called.
“GET HIM JACK.” came a reply from the audience.
The competitors moved to the center of the ring and touched gloves. The determined, tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede bounced twice and attacked Jack with a flurry of kicks, and punches, hitting al of the levels of Jack’s body. Jack pretended that the blows left him unaffected—maybe if he pretended, it would somehow be true.
Jack received two sharp kicks to his lead leg and ate a right hook behind his left ear. He crumpled straight down, like all of the bones from his body had been removed at once. But he was awake before he hit the mat and sprung back up the moment his head hit his own knees. He looked around to check where he was but a few jabs reminded him before he could process it for himself. He was in a Muay Thai ring, being pummeled.
All of the supporters who came out to see Jack fight were screaming our throats hoarse for Jack to hang in there. By the time the first round ended, Jack had been knocked down twice and had been struck with dozens of shin kicks to the thigh. He limped to his corner and winced with pain.
While his corner men iced him down, the fighters from the camp tried to come to terms with the obvious mismatch. What is Jack doing? Why’s he fighting this guy? Who possibly thought this would be an even match?
The bell rang for the second round and Jack bounded to the center of the ring. He was rewarded for his exuberance with a flurry of punches to the head, another dozen kicks to the thigh and a referee stoppage.
When the determined, tall, muscled, crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s hand was raised in victory, a belt was slung around his waist and additional accolades heaped on him—none of which were intelligible.
In a round and a half, Jack had been efficiently dispatched by a competitor well above his own skill level.
This was the first time I saw such a mismatch but it wouldn’t be the last.
And you want to see how well they’ll do against strangers in the ring.
Part of the fascination lies in the inevitable reflection of your own abilities. If your training partner does well, then you feel as if you have accomplished something too—whether this be a sense that you helped your partner get to this level or a more self-promotional thought, “If he can take this dude, then so could I.”
But it’s fun to watch a training partner fight even if he doesn’t do so well. The experience is akin to watching a TV drama of questionable merit and sitting through the whole episode just to see a friend who happens to be an extra in the background. Sometimes you’ll even find yourself cheering at the television and recommending the show to other friends based solely on the cameo.
During a fight night, there are two people in the ring at a time. And for the five-three minute rounds, all of the attention from the spectators is on them. And justifiably or not, you feel like you’re a part if that.
So it’s especially difficult to watch a training partner get put into the ring with someone who’s well out of his league.
The Ballad of Scottish Jack:
We were the second group from the camp to arrive at the stadium. Although transportation is never fully arranged beforehand, there always seem to be enough tuk-tuks, pickups and motorbikes to get around. We separated from the first group because we heard of a Muay Thai gear shop on Bangla road that would negotiate for cheaper ticket prices.
Our masterful haggling skills only got us free transportation from the shop to the location of the fight, Patong Stadium. They call it a stadium but it’s more of a dilapidated warehouse. Oppressive husks of masonry projects long abandoned stood like fractured sentinels, willing us to keep moving down the muddy road. The further we traveled, the more light the orphaned buildings seemed to absorb until the plywood shacks with corrugated tin roofs wedged gently between the cement structures were nearly impossible to see.
There was no discernable parking lot and the road didn’t open up as much as the stadium seemed to spill out of the darkness. But this was less a stadium by traditional Western standards and more a building that emerged by piling supplies in a heap and burrowing underneath. Albeit a large pile of supplies that could hold a boxing ring and a few hundred spectators.
Tuk-Tuk drivers floated around like white blood cells attacking any group of foreigners they saw, chanting, “You need Tuk-Tuk?” “Where you go?” “Tuk-Tuk?” “Tuk-Tuk!” Even the driver who took us to Patong stadium offered us a tuk-tuk as we were walking through the entrance of the only reason any foreigner would ever be in this part of town to watch the beginning of the very event we just paid the driver to see.
I put on my measured air of pleasant aloofness and handed my ticket to the counter who abruptly grabbed my bicep before waving me through. The secondary practice ring was pressed against the entrance wall, creating a bottleneck. We elbowed our way through, past the flaps of canvas and discarded turnbuckles. The building smelled less like a gym and more like a sweaty garden shed where teenagers would sneak away to smoke, drink and urinate on the walls.
But there was a ring surrounded by seats and a concession shanty. A group of older Thai men huddled to the left clutching their man-purses, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly. The fighters from the camp congregated cattycorner to the bathrooms, but next to the massage mats. We didn’t see Jack with them.
Over dinner we were joking about wanting to skip the fight because of the inclement weather but we went to support Jack. We’d trained with him for the last month and a half, through his exhibition bout with Jordan and through his eighteenth birthday. As we made our way to the ringside seats that the first group secured, Jack came out of the bathroom. He greeted us with a smile and followed us to the seats.
He was still wearing a t-shirt and jeans despite the second of ten fights taking place in the ring. Jack was to fight sixth.
“How are you feeling jack?”
“Alright, I guess. I wanna be out there.” He spoke quickly and motioned to the ring with his eyes. Jack shuffled his feet and said, “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.” But it sounded like “Yeh. Oim rredy. Less git thes uver wih.” Jack’s Highland accent is always a source of amusement at the camp.
“You’re going to kill him Jack,” someone shouted in support. He evaded the comment by smiling sheepishly and wandering away with an awkward wave.
We turned our concentration back to the fights in the ring. The 13-year-olds who looked like nine-year-olds were evenly matched, trading elbows to the head and knees to the ribs. Like many of the bouts between younger competitors, this would come to a decision. Unfortunately some of the peewee fights end in a knockout—no kid should be knocked out in a ring before growing pubic hair.
The rest of the fights passed well enough but there was no emotional resonance, no reason for us to really engage with the fighters. Jack kept popping into the seats in various stages of readiness.
Jack perched on the arm of my seat still wearing jeans but his shirt was gone.
An Aussie knocked out a fat tuk-tuk driver masquerading as a Muay Thai fighter.
Jack was now in Muay Thai shorts.
A trainer from the camp dispatched a lesser opponent in the third round.
Jack’s hands were taped and his body was fully lubricated with what smelled like Vic’s Vapor Rub.
Two Thai’s exchange points for five rounds—blue corner wins.
Jack was working the pads with one of the trainers.
The fight before Jack’s was tense. One of the fighters was a Thai trainer who had previously taught at the camp. He was tall and lean and he hit things like he wanted to kill them. I wanted to know why he left, but there’s a stigma about abandoning camps. At best you’re seen as a ship-jumper, at worst a traitor.
The ex-trainer nimbly jumped into the ring and removed his robe. He walked to the four turnbuckles and bowed at each of them, then moved to the center to perform the traditional Wai Kru Ram pre-fight dance for the crowd. His opponent joined him. The Thai music blared, sounding very much like Asian bagpipes. Maybe I was thinking about Jack too much.
Though the ex-trainer’s opponent was shorter, he was more thickly muscled. He had the kind of body that looked like he could roll down the stairs of an escalator and giggle about it. Since the ex-trainer had my build, I was still convinced he would win.
One of the old men with the man purses must have noticed how I studied the fighters and he walked up to me, “Which corner you take?”
I turned away from the ring to look at the old man, “I like tall-skinny. Red corner.”
“OK. I take blue. 200 Baht. You like?” His hand dived into his man purse and revealed a roll of bills.
“I’m in.” I handed two 100 Baht bills to the old man.
The first two rounds in a Muay Thai fight are never scored. This gives the fighters a chance to test one another out. They find their range. They gauge their opponents’ speed and power. They work on positioning. Unless one of the fighters feels he can get a quick KO.
The ex-trainer planted his front leg and threw his right foot into his opponent’s solar plexus, throwing him into the ropes. As the opponent bounced off, the ex-trainer had prepared a barrage of punches, elbows and knees designed to overwhelm the opponent. A right hook transitioned into an elbow, low kicks kept the opponent off balance and the knees to the body sapped the opponent’s strength.
And then I blinked.
The ex-trainer was felled by a flash of—something. His knees were straight and his arms made no move to brace for the blow of the canvas. His head bounced on the mat like a half-deflated basketball, ejecting his mouth guard in a thick red spray. Blood bubbled from is mouth. I just lost 200 Baht.
I don’t know whether Jack was watching the fight or if he was concentrating on having his first ever Muay Thai bout, but he showed no outward signs of being phased by the KO. He approached the ring, flanked by the entourage of corner men, cut men and flag bearers. He beat his 8oz gloves together and hopped from foot to foot.
Jack’s opponent was already in the ring. He was taller than Jack yet somehow more muscled. He barely moved his body but watched every movement Jack made. Jack avoided eye contact. But Jack almost always avoids eye contact.
The announcer read the fighter’s statistics off in garbled English. I was able to gather that Jack’s opponent was from France, or Sweden, and had fought before. It also sounded like tall, muscled French/Swede has a belt of some sort. Could I have heard that right?
I did not hear the announcer explain that this is Jack’s first ever Muay Thai bout; or that he’s 18; or that he’s been training for only a month and a half. It could have been the announcer’s poor English.
The tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) French/Swede ignored the Wai Kru and stood in the corner. Sweat was rolling down his shaved head. His neck was arched like a vultures and his abs seemed to be breathing independently. His arms would have been at his sides but his lats pushed them away.
Fully clothed, Jack looks plump. At 18 years of age, baby fat still clings to him but he has a deep chest and thick legs built from years of playing Shinty. Jack had even proudly announced that he made the Scottish national shinty team and would not allow his mood soured by our pointing out that Scotland is the only country that plays shinty. Jack still won’t tell us whom the Scottish National Shinty Team competes against.
Jack’s Wai Kru seemed to drag on while the tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s determination was growing. By the time Jack finished, the tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s bloodlust was peaking. Jack still hadn’t made eye contact and wandered back to his corner and spoke briefly with his trainers.
“Ready?” the referee called.
“GET HIM JACK.” came a reply from the audience.
The competitors moved to the center of the ring and touched gloves. The determined, tall, muscled (possibly belt-holding) crazy-abbed, French/Swede bounced twice and attacked Jack with a flurry of kicks, and punches, hitting al of the levels of Jack’s body. Jack pretended that the blows left him unaffected—maybe if he pretended, it would somehow be true.
Jack received two sharp kicks to his lead leg and ate a right hook behind his left ear. He crumpled straight down, like all of the bones from his body had been removed at once. But he was awake before he hit the mat and sprung back up the moment his head hit his own knees. He looked around to check where he was but a few jabs reminded him before he could process it for himself. He was in a Muay Thai ring, being pummeled.
All of the supporters who came out to see Jack fight were screaming our throats hoarse for Jack to hang in there. By the time the first round ended, Jack had been knocked down twice and had been struck with dozens of shin kicks to the thigh. He limped to his corner and winced with pain.
While his corner men iced him down, the fighters from the camp tried to come to terms with the obvious mismatch. What is Jack doing? Why’s he fighting this guy? Who possibly thought this would be an even match?
The bell rang for the second round and Jack bounded to the center of the ring. He was rewarded for his exuberance with a flurry of punches to the head, another dozen kicks to the thigh and a referee stoppage.
When the determined, tall, muscled, crazy-abbed, French/Swede’s hand was raised in victory, a belt was slung around his waist and additional accolades heaped on him—none of which were intelligible.
In a round and a half, Jack had been efficiently dispatched by a competitor well above his own skill level.
This was the first time I saw such a mismatch but it wouldn’t be the last.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Training Day 49
The alarm went off at seven AM. I didn’t recognize the song, the volume was turned low enough that it would wake me but not disturb my neighbors.
I could hear the groundskeepers milling around outside of my window, antagonizing my already guilty conscience for not wanting to roll out of bed. But I slept with the AC on and the new quilt left on my bed provided another luxurious obstacle to starting my day—so warm and soft. I rolled the blanket over my knuckles and tucked my fists under my chin, bracing my body against the artificially dry cold that enveloped the room. My legs swung off of the bed and led me in a slow shuffle to the bathroom. I tried not to take inventory of the aches and bruises that wracked me from head to toe, so I upset the morning ritual by showering before training.
I set the electronic water heater on the showerhead to high and turned the knob. The water is normally set to cold for the after practice showers. Cold water is recommended by the antibacterial soap I’ve been using and it cools my body temperature after workouts in the tropical heat.
The warm water was relaxing and I let in a mouthful before spitting it back out. I don’t think that small amount would be enough to give me diarrhea but I’m unsure because that was the first time water not from a plastic bottle has passed my lips in almost two months. I feel a pang of guilt again as I consider diarrhea a viable excuse to avoid practice. I place the palms of my hands above my head against the wall of the crude shower stall and twist the balls of my feet on the coarse concrete floor. The water flows over my face and trickles down my bruised legs.
Yesterday’s practice took more out of me than I had anticipated. It was the first practice I’d attended since my long weekend on Phi Phi Island— made famous to the West by the The Beach and infamous by the tsunami that hit several years later. I expected the trip to be a restful vacation, but beer was consumed by the bucket-full and sleep was elusive.
That’s not to say the trip was a waste. The voyage would have been worth the time and money just to have a single meal at a beachside restaurant. The food was overpriced and underwhelming but the view was unheralded.
At first, I didn’t realize the warm ball of joy growing just three fingers below my naval and as deep as infinity. There it grew, and traveled up into my chest, and lodged itself in my esophagus before erupting into an unabashed “YAY” every time a woman in a bikini walked by. To the casual observer, it must have looked like I was on an ecstasy laced invisible rollercoaster. There are many things taken for granted on the grounds of a fight camp. But I paid for my frivolity.
On the day I returned, the head coach moved me from the intermediate section to the advanced section of the camp—only this time it wasn’t a question but an order. I tried to explain that the weekend had taken a bit out of me and the two days I’d been gone had been detrimental to my cardio but to no avail. I embarrassed myself during the pad work drills and had my neck cranked for a full hour during the clinch-work.
Now, under the shower, my body was wilting and my eyes were swollen shut with sleep and ache. These are the times where it’s dangerous to think. The topics of reflection often include: What am I doing here? What do I really have to prove? Will this all be worth it? Can I keep going?
Thankfully my strategy of building the expectations of this trip high enough that my friends and family would never let me live it down if I backed out has created a whole new level of accountability. I will press on.
I turned the shower off and ground my feet as far into the floor as I could. There was something reassuring about the texture of coarse, wet concrete against the thick skin on my soles.
The evening before, I was watching the pre-fight training video of George Saint Pierre and BJ Penn. It was a typical video that included trash talk, training montages, coach hype and slow motion entourage walking scenes. In the video, GSP says something to the effect of, “In fighting, there are three laws: To believe in yourself, to believe I your trainers and to believe in what you’re doing.” But belief (faith), unfortunately, is not constant.
Law 1: Belief in myself. I think I have this down. I have no doubt that I will be able to complete the task set before me when the fight date arrives. Law 2: belief in my trainers. I’ve always been skeptical of the trainers here. They see thousands of fighters a year and there’s little to distinguish one from another. Earlier in the week I saw a good friend of mine put into the ring for his first fight with a fighter who had more than 30 fights under his French Kickboxing Championship belt. My friend was decimated. Law 3: Believe in what you’re doing. Yeah. Sure. I believe in waylaying regret.
I turn the shower off and walk to the sink. I expect the reflection in the mirror to look different, harder, than when I arrived. But my reflection looks the same to me, save the Mohawk and goatee. After toweling myself off, I skip practice in favor of writing this entry.
Last week, the clique of friends I made left. And the voices of dissent have grown louder, “I’m going to a different camp,” “I’m not getting anything out of this place,” “This camp sucks.” It’s hard to not get swept up in it.
By Friday, my second month here will have concluded and I’ve been encouraged to take a week away from the camp and decide how I’m going to proceed. I’m not sure whether that means I’ll change locations entirely, change camps or stay here.
I could hear the groundskeepers milling around outside of my window, antagonizing my already guilty conscience for not wanting to roll out of bed. But I slept with the AC on and the new quilt left on my bed provided another luxurious obstacle to starting my day—so warm and soft. I rolled the blanket over my knuckles and tucked my fists under my chin, bracing my body against the artificially dry cold that enveloped the room. My legs swung off of the bed and led me in a slow shuffle to the bathroom. I tried not to take inventory of the aches and bruises that wracked me from head to toe, so I upset the morning ritual by showering before training.
I set the electronic water heater on the showerhead to high and turned the knob. The water is normally set to cold for the after practice showers. Cold water is recommended by the antibacterial soap I’ve been using and it cools my body temperature after workouts in the tropical heat.
The warm water was relaxing and I let in a mouthful before spitting it back out. I don’t think that small amount would be enough to give me diarrhea but I’m unsure because that was the first time water not from a plastic bottle has passed my lips in almost two months. I feel a pang of guilt again as I consider diarrhea a viable excuse to avoid practice. I place the palms of my hands above my head against the wall of the crude shower stall and twist the balls of my feet on the coarse concrete floor. The water flows over my face and trickles down my bruised legs.
Yesterday’s practice took more out of me than I had anticipated. It was the first practice I’d attended since my long weekend on Phi Phi Island— made famous to the West by the The Beach and infamous by the tsunami that hit several years later. I expected the trip to be a restful vacation, but beer was consumed by the bucket-full and sleep was elusive.
That’s not to say the trip was a waste. The voyage would have been worth the time and money just to have a single meal at a beachside restaurant. The food was overpriced and underwhelming but the view was unheralded.
At first, I didn’t realize the warm ball of joy growing just three fingers below my naval and as deep as infinity. There it grew, and traveled up into my chest, and lodged itself in my esophagus before erupting into an unabashed “YAY” every time a woman in a bikini walked by. To the casual observer, it must have looked like I was on an ecstasy laced invisible rollercoaster. There are many things taken for granted on the grounds of a fight camp. But I paid for my frivolity.
On the day I returned, the head coach moved me from the intermediate section to the advanced section of the camp—only this time it wasn’t a question but an order. I tried to explain that the weekend had taken a bit out of me and the two days I’d been gone had been detrimental to my cardio but to no avail. I embarrassed myself during the pad work drills and had my neck cranked for a full hour during the clinch-work.
Now, under the shower, my body was wilting and my eyes were swollen shut with sleep and ache. These are the times where it’s dangerous to think. The topics of reflection often include: What am I doing here? What do I really have to prove? Will this all be worth it? Can I keep going?
Thankfully my strategy of building the expectations of this trip high enough that my friends and family would never let me live it down if I backed out has created a whole new level of accountability. I will press on.
I turned the shower off and ground my feet as far into the floor as I could. There was something reassuring about the texture of coarse, wet concrete against the thick skin on my soles.
The evening before, I was watching the pre-fight training video of George Saint Pierre and BJ Penn. It was a typical video that included trash talk, training montages, coach hype and slow motion entourage walking scenes. In the video, GSP says something to the effect of, “In fighting, there are three laws: To believe in yourself, to believe I your trainers and to believe in what you’re doing.” But belief (faith), unfortunately, is not constant.
Law 1: Belief in myself. I think I have this down. I have no doubt that I will be able to complete the task set before me when the fight date arrives. Law 2: belief in my trainers. I’ve always been skeptical of the trainers here. They see thousands of fighters a year and there’s little to distinguish one from another. Earlier in the week I saw a good friend of mine put into the ring for his first fight with a fighter who had more than 30 fights under his French Kickboxing Championship belt. My friend was decimated. Law 3: Believe in what you’re doing. Yeah. Sure. I believe in waylaying regret.
I turn the shower off and walk to the sink. I expect the reflection in the mirror to look different, harder, than when I arrived. But my reflection looks the same to me, save the Mohawk and goatee. After toweling myself off, I skip practice in favor of writing this entry.
Last week, the clique of friends I made left. And the voices of dissent have grown louder, “I’m going to a different camp,” “I’m not getting anything out of this place,” “This camp sucks.” It’s hard to not get swept up in it.
By Friday, my second month here will have concluded and I’ve been encouraged to take a week away from the camp and decide how I’m going to proceed. I’m not sure whether that means I’ll change locations entirely, change camps or stay here.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
I Bought an Athletic Cup
It’s made of steel. It punishes people for attempting low blows. It is my friend. But I still haven’t learned exactly how to tie the cup on. It feels like a burlap thong with a fishing weight attached to the front of it.
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