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.