The Match

I stand prepared, gloves clenching. With my name pronounced over the many heads of people I start towards the centre of the crowd, brandishing my red cloak and head band. Jumping over the ropes I stare at my opponent stony faced. Hands together bowing slightly towards him I perform the Wai, who he himself acknowledges, and reciprocates the gesture.

We parade the ring following the rope, bowing in each corner, a sign of respect and one I do with up most honour. The outlandish music starts to play over the voices of excitement, pipes, strings interrupted intermittently by crass horns. Cigarette and cigar smoke is mixed with the colourful pungent smell of spices that waft from the food vendors outside on the busy Bangkok street.

Sat in my corner, the black shirts ready me in anxious anticipation for the oncoming battle. Head band and cloak removed, gum shield in I walk towards the centre, to stand toe to toe with the soon to be enemy. As combatants we stare each other down. The bell rings and the invisible barrier separating us is removed. Touching gloves, the crowds noise hushes to a murmur whilst the music plays on.

Guard up, feet stepping we dance looking for the occasion to strike. Quick punches come my way, although blocked I feel the venom of each one, powerful and deadly, even so I remain composed still dancing. He pounces again, but this time I am ready and react bringing up my left foot to parry I push him back. Caught off balance he stumbles. Seeing him open and using this fleeting moment to my advantage I pivot on my left foot to bring around my right shin in a round house kick to smash against his right thigh with great force. Bone connects with muscle and sinew creating a sound, a meaty thud.  Stumbling further he hits the ropes. Keeping motion, I jump and bring up my knee to connect with his chest. He swiftly sidesteps dodging, as I hit the ropes.

Out manoeuvring me and on my flank, he races into my defence, with ferocity we wrestle into a clinch. Working his way into my guard I am now a slave to his every whim and brace myself for the oncoming storm. The following agony ensues with me twisting and turning to catch him off balance, whilst he brings in every knee with painful conviction.

With every pound of strength, I work my gloves to try to come in on the inside of the clinch, bringing up my own knees to some meagre purpose. Eventually with much exertion I finally push his arms either side of mine and grip the back of his head, breaking his control. It now becomes a war of domination as we both frantically try to gain the upper hand, whilst battering our bodies to ruin. With each breath spent time draws out to the bell.

The clinch becomes light as we untangle ourselves and break apart. Relieved with the moments peace we head back to our corners. Tactics, plans and encouragement pass me by, as much welcomed cool water is fed to me. On every intake of breath my ribs ache from the knees I received. He is stronger, made by years of training in the local gyms. To fight a battle of attrition would be folly, I will need to use cunning, I will need to employ misdirection.

Abruptly and all too soon the bell rings answered by the crowd’s enthusiasm. I resume my posture and again make my way to the middle of the ring. As he moves I notice something, there is now a slight limp as he proceeds towards me, a sign of a damaged leg. I have created his weakness, one I will exploit at every opportunity.

We stand off temporarily, waiting for the other to initiate the ordeal. I break the silence, stepping in close for punches and mid-section kicks, all expertly deflected as he stands there indifferent. He replies, an elbow pierces into my guard which is meant for a larger glove and connects with my head, slicing skin above the right eye. In pursuit a combination of hooks come my way, one manages to find home on my chin that instantly sends pins and needles coursing through me. In desperation I bring up my left shin to create a full defensive position, just in time to see his low kick in vain hitting my leg, shin on shin to no advantage, the power rocking me where I stand. My vision is now blurry, warmness is felt trickling, as the side of my face is awash with blood that drops onto the matt adding to the dry patches of older duels.

On the back foot and retreating into my shell my opponent see’s now a wounded animal, which he intends to run down, and so carries on the attack. More ready I manage to block him each time.

Cold realisation grasps me, the wound above my eye may end the fight sooner than it should. It’s now or never, I will have to use extreme measures. My anxious thoughts dissipate to a moment of clarity. Focused and unyielding I find resolve. He notices a change in presence and revises into a more guarded position.

My turn to assault, I send light jabs and crosses his way, not meant for purchase, but to mask my true intentions. He covers up his head to repel the blows, but does not raise his heavy right leg which remains inviting. Again my shin smashes into his thigh with skilled precision, hitting the exact same spot as before. His stance is gone, as what can only be seen as excruciating pain envelops his very being.   

Un-balanced and still disorientated from the devastating blows I received, I land awkwardly feeling the tendons in my left foot twist. As in some bizarre form of karma I too find myself in agony. My left foot cannot be used again as a fulcrum for my leg kick, other weapons will have to be utilized.

My right eye nearly closed I feel energy sap away. I stand coldly not showing my true predicament. Now two wounded animals look at each other from across the ring and nod out of recognition and respect, as fighters do when facing equal measure.

He cannot use his legs and for him it has become a boxing match. Out of ideas again and again he comes in close for punches, elbows and a chance to get into a clinch. Each time I counter, parrying with my left foot wincing, keeping him out of range. His weakness has become psychological as well as physical. Any approach to his right leg will be blocked with much exaggeration.

The final plan of misdirection is to be implemented and carried out as practiced countless times before. I have trained for this circumstance repeatedly and it seems it was not in vain. The plan starts, as I put all my weight onto my left foot, bringing my right shin to bare threatening. As predicted his weakened leg cannot be bought up to justifiably defend itself, in compensation he drops his hands waist height to deflect the oncoming threat. Painfully I jump off my left foot, with my right leg mockingly staying in position. I fly through the air towards him and bear down on his unprotected head with my right fist with all my weight, with all my power. His face contorted slams back from the impact. Like a puppet with all its strings cut at once his body limply slumps to the floor into a ragdoll pose.

The crowd roars. People can be heard chanting farang, farang, farang, meaning white stranger, not mockingly, but in appreciation of the entertainment they have just witnessed. The black shirts race towards me, ruffling my hair, tending my cuts and giving me water, as I take in this moment of brief glory.

The judge holding up my hand declares me champion. My enemy is now my brother as we embrace as warriors, both humbled by each other’s execution and passion for Muay Thai.