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I woke up to a dark and cold Bradford morning. The hidden anxieties had begun to surface: fear of broken noses, black eyes, and stinky smells. The typical concerns for a non-boxing type. What the hell was I doing?
When I stumbled into the gym, Nigel was sipping on a steaming cup of tea.
"Ready?" He asked.
No way. Not even close.
"I was born ready," I answered.
We started off easily. Nigel demonstrated the basics. I learned the right way to punch, tried to learn the right way to kick, and how to breath at the same time. Which is actually more difficult than it sounds.
After a while, I strapped on some gloves and practised my shaky skills in the ring. At first, with music playing and adrenaline pumping, I felt like Rocky. Well, like Rocky except a bit taller and with red hair. Still.
"One, two!" Nigel shouted. "One, two, kick!"
This was great! I was in the ring! I was kicking, punching, bobbing and weaving, I was...getting...really...really...tired.
"Come on!" I heard Nigel from somewhere very far away.
This, by the way, is where that breathing bit comes in. Of course, I wasn’t doing it.
A bell sounded.
"Breathe."
Nigel slowly came back into focus.
"Breathe," he said again.
Oh right. That whole thing. I put my hands behind my head and watched the floor beneath me pool with sweat.
"Well done," Nigel grinned, "Tomorrow you’ll do three of those. In a row."
When I recovered, which was around lunchtime, I felt absolutely fantastic. Sure, I was knackered, but it was the good sort of knackered. In one hour I had learned the very basics of Muay Thai. And in three minutes, I had learned that three minutes is a really long time.
I felt spent, but newly capable. I felt like I had accomplished something. I felt damn good. But, that was before the afternoon session.
Afterwards, the sense of accomplishment remained, but something else had appeared: bruises, sore muscles, and the knowledge that I could take a punch and keep going.
Maybe not a bare-fisted, ring-wearing punch, but a "light sparring" punch nonetheless. In a world culture of play stations and cable television, it is almost something that has been forgotten. Unless you’ve been to the pub lately.
I went one round with Mahfuz, who was training, going to school, and in the army. I went another with Karl, whom I had met before the session, but got to know much better after he connected two solid jabs to my jaw. Even so, I had begun to see openings and recognise targets. But, not many, not yet.
That night Mahfuz and Sully, another fighter who had just had his first bout, showed me Bradford from another perspective. They promised me they could show me where I could find good food and good birds.
I haven’t been hungry lately.
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