Advanced

Yesterday I stood on the mats below the boxing ring, facing one of my more enthusiastic trainers. He had a regular Thai pad on each arm (I use the term “pad” loosely here), and my wrapped fists were clenched inside of black 16 oz. gloves. We faced each other in identical stances, though his bore about 13 fewer inches above it, and he held the pads up next to his head in a normal boxer’s position, regarding me expressionlessly from between them.

We circled each other slowly, bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm, and suddenly he gave a harsh, guttural cry and spun to the side, holding both pads together facing my right. I took the signal, and threw my already aching right leg toward the pads with as much legitimacy as I could give it; my shin and ankle thundered into the pads with a satisfying explosion, but before I had time to rejoice in the small patch of fluff which flew off of the pads in my direction, I felt a small ankle at the back of my left foot, and in a fraction of a second I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

As usual, a loud cry of “OOOOOHHHH-WAAAAAIIIIEEEE” echoed around the mats from the trainers nearby, and I lumbered back to my feet, nodding and smiling ruefully at my grinning opponent who was bouncing gleefully from side to side. I set my stance, regained my rhythm, and the moment my gloves came up to my chin, my trainer’s grin vanished, replaced again by blank, unyielding concentration, and the pads resumed their irregular orbit in front of him.

This scenario repeated itself over a dozen times, often requiring a long string of techniques from me before the heavily anticipated counterattack, when this man’s shins and forearms formed a complex drum line across my head, ribs and thighs. Sometimes I was able to respond; sometimes I managed to catch the counter-kick, or to at least raise my own shins to ‘block’ it, much as one places a stop-sign in front of a careening semi, but more often my stomach and jawbone grimly accommodated their foreign visitors.

When the whistle blew for the end of the final round, my trainer held the pads to his right one more time, uttering a loud cry in Thai which I took for encouragement. As I threw my shoulders and hips into the kick, my leg whipped around in defiance of all exhaustion, and as I felt the last reserves of my speed and ferocity course through my muscles, I just had time to see a tanned foot rising over the rim of my carelessly lowered left glove. There was a flash of light, and a second later, with no knowledge of how I had arrived, I found myself once again on my back, staring at the ceiling, and feeling a ringing numbness where the left side of my jaw should have been.

My trainer scampered over to me smiling, helped me up, and I grimaced, rubbing my jaw, and shrugged helplessly at him as if to say, “I’ll do better next time.”

He smiled broadly, and put both of his hands on my shoulders, staring up at me earnestly. “Haha, no. You ge keeked, do no feel bad. I know EVERY-thing.”
Laughing again, he released me, clapped me on the shoulder, and made the Thai gesture of thanks/respect before shaking my hand. This, I have found, is the regular story of the advanced class here at Tiger Muay Thai.

The trainer who I’ve described here (whose name I will make a priority to learn) is in fact already familiar to me. He, along with many other Thais, fluctuates back and forth between the beginner and advanced mats, and in fact is the same trainer who still leads the beginner class in the aforementioned ceremony of his own invention beginning with “WHAS YO NEM?!”

I have noticed a few other familiar faces as well, though it seems that some do stay exclusively in one area, as much to my regret, Dang has yet to make an appearance outside of his customary rounds. Their attitudes are much the same as well, and I have found the complete return to this jovial spirit of training extremely refreshing. My young friend’s bellowing introductions don’t take place here (being perhaps unnecessary, as at its heaviest day I’ve seen up to six people in the class including me), but there is unmistakably the same emphasis on personal relation.

For example, the trainers seem to have a pretty firm idea of what each of us is capable of performing, and assign some students mildly heavier or lighter workout numbers for certain exercises. Likewise, I have found myself remembering the styles of the particular trainers, knowing to whom I should address certain questions, and what amount and what manner of physical punishment will be dealt out by each one during the dreaded pad-work drills (described at the beginning).

What’s more, at this level, I have found that the trainers sometimes disagree on certain minutiae of the art. Far from being frustrating, it is actually interesting and encouraging to have conflicting corrections from different instructors, and while any of those attending or spectating always quickly yield to whoever is leading the lesson, I often see them after class, standing on the mats in small groups, demonstrating movements and speaking thoughtfully in Thai.

Overall, the trainers seem to worry a lot less about students slacking or not paying attention, or being in any way undisciplined. The students here, what few of us there are, seem to be distinctly less concerned with proving themselves against the others, or really with anything other than committing themselves to the training, and it strikes me that Dang’s beloved bamboo switch would have very little purpose. This is not entirely without exception of course, but I have already found the students in the advanced class to be very friendly and inviting, and I do not at all have the impression that anyone is comparing him- or herself to me (I say this, of course, bearing in mind the fact that I have once been mistaken on this account; despite that, I feel that I'm more on the mark this time).

Though I have been shaken somewhat by the recent social troubles involving my progression, I can say honestly that I am very happy to be in company with these people. I have met a young English girl named Karla who is in possession of both phenomenal boxing skills and a genial and approachable demeanor, and her boyfriend Adrian, who has actually grown up alternating homes between Bangkok and Manchester, and so speaks fluent Thai and has the mannerisms of the West with the comfort and ease of someone who is still at home.

In short, I have finally begun to find a few people to whom I actually relate somewhat, even if only on a casual level so far. I have already had interesting conversations about something other than sex or violence, and the forecast is good for many more.

Next time, I should really talk about Chris; I feel that he is a central character whose detailed description is long overdue.