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Fond Farewells
The basics of Muay Thai aren’t difficult to learn. The strength of an experienced practicioner comes from repetition of those basics. So, unlike Karate or Tae Kwon Do, in Muay Thai a beginner is (for the most part) performing the same techniques as a championship fighter. Just not as well. Kind of like sex.
So, like sex, I was gradually getting better. I wasn’t a champion. I’m wasn’t even a that good. But, I was a thai-boxer. I had taken the first step (and first punch and first kick and first knee etc) to becoming the best I could be. However, I had taken my last strides in Bradford. And I was sad to go. My time was up.
Three weeks had become one night. I would leave for London tomorrow morning. It would be strange.
Bradford life had become quite normal to me. I had stopped gawking at the countless prostitutes that waved to me on my walk homes. I had stopped sweating at the first sight of spicy curry. I had stopped shivering on those cold Bradford mornings (but that’s because I had started to wear a coat).
In three weeks, I had pulled one muscle, broke out into one allergic reaction, ate twenty-five chicken breasts (I like chicken), and boxed for more than one hundred rounds. Needless to say, I got pretty damn good at eating chicken.
I also made a lot of friends. Nigel, Karl, Sully, Mahfouz, Pete, Mark squared, and many more. That was the easy part. There is something magical about sports. Thai-boxing is no exception. All of them, including myself, experienced hardship, pain, and triumph side by side. Whether we laughed together, skipped rope together, or sparred together, we did it together. These are bonds that a forged in fire (and sweat).
It’s a fascinating process. Each of us were utterly different. Some were small, some were medium, and some were big. We varied in age by as much as twenty-four years. We were of different races, religions, and realities. We might not have been the kind of people who would naturally come together in friendship.
But, we did. At six or eight at night, from work, from school, or from the army, dropped off by girlfriends, buses, or bikes, coming from the poorest parts of town or coming in the finest suits, we all came to Mungsarin Gym. For two hours a night, we were all thai-boxers. Nothing less and nothing more. It was wonderfully simple. Punch, kick, kick, punch. It was an escape from the civilized modern world we had created. It was a return to instinct.
The images of Bradford’s empty buildings, dark skies, and blackened bricks will stay with me. But, it is the people with which I exchanged blows that I will alway s remember. "I told you!" Nigel liked to say, "Thai-boxers are nice people."
After Karl’s first amateur fight, he shook his head and told me, "I don’t know anything about that guy, but the second after we stopped punching the shit out of each other, I liked him." Thai-boxing is like that. So is Bradford.
On June 17th, I’ll arrive at Bangkok. For two months, I’ll train at a Muay Thai camp with professional fighters. I know it will be hot. I know it will be hard. I know it won’t be Nigel, Mungsarin, or Bradford. And (I never thought I would say this), but that’s too bad
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