Becoming a “Warrior” in Thailand. Ch 1, Pt 11: Gettin' dat ass whupped by a Scottish girl

Western Boxing class begins with jumping rope. In high school, I used to jump rope almost every day to improve my foot speed for basketball, so unlike everything else at Tiger Muay Thai, I’m actually comfortable doing it. Then we jog in circles around the ring as Chokchai yells out; “Uppacut!—Jab!—Hook!—Uppacut-jab-jab-hook!—Uppacut-jab-jab-hook!”

Next comes pad work. One of the trainers (there are 4 trainers to about 12 students) holds up pads that fit over his hands like baseball mitts, and directs you how to punch. To begin, he vocalizes commands and holds his pad firm in the appropriate position—“Left Jab!” “Right hook!” As you get the hang of it, he simply moves his hands to certain positions and you throw the appropriate blows. It’s all done in time and rhythm—at least when it’s done well.

At first, my punches snap and the sound they make when they hit the bag is crisp and tough. But pad work is exhausting. Three minutes into the drill and the sound of my punches is as soft as the early evening breeze rustling the banana trees.

A quick water break, but at least Chokchai isn’t threatening to hit us with a stick if we forget to bring water. Then the gloves go back on and we spend three minutes (one round of Western boxing) with the heavy bag. By now the muscles in my shoulders and back have past exhaustion and have nearly gone to sleep—JAB!”—a few remnants of strength remaining—“HOOK!”—I feel like I’m boxing a marble statue—“UPPACUT!”—now the bag, which before the workout seemed to sway in the wind, is damn-near immovable.

And all through the workout Chokchai is smiling and giving orders and advice, correcting our mistakes, demonstrating proper technique, and when there is time and the moment calls for it, making jokes. Like Tony at the restaurant, he radiates the energy of a man who loves his job—not of a man whose dreams were crushed by the best boxer in the world, which for some reason, is all I can think about.

I lean my sweat-glazed forehead against the cool black leather of the bag and swing uninspired hooks into its belly like a four-year old at the end of a tantrum.

“Gloves on! Now we spar!” Chokchai shouts with a mischievous grin on his face.

In my defense, she’s been boxing since she was 8 and is headed to the Olympics to fight for Scotland next summer. I’ve been boxing for about an hour and am headed to Paris next summer to drink wine and look at art.

She bobs, weaves, hooks, jabs and does all sorts of shit I don’t know how to counter or do myself. I throw a jab. She throws a combination. She can’t weigh more than 120 pounds, but after a quick jab snaps above my left eyebrow it’s quite clear it doesn’t really matter how big she is—she’s not fucking around.

If I really had to fight this girl my best bet would be to grab her in a big bear hug and throw her to the ground. Maybe pick up a broomstick and whack her across the head with it. But since we’re sparring in a ring with trainers watching, I can’t resort to those measures. And this girl knows how to box! So instead I keep my hands up in defense and do what I can, which at this point in my training, isn’t much. A few jabs here, some sidestepping, a few more jabs and a slow, lumbering hook now and again. But it seems that after every punch I throw she hits me with two, and by the end of the round, the only round (thank-goodness), my head’s pounding and I’ve lost a contact lens.

As I walk to the side of the ring, she touches me on the elbow with her gloved hand—“Ey,” she says in a thick Scottish accent. “Effery time you jab, ya drop ya gua’d. And thaat’s won I hit chuu. Keep ya ahms up.”

I thank her for the advice, noticing my sore jaw when I talk, and walk away. At least she isn’t Canadian, I think.

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