by Yilen Pan
Sugar Ray Leonard says in his memoir that there is nothing sweeter in this world than when you land the perfect punch. It has a unique satisfaction to it, the kind of jolt that resonates from your fist all the way up to your shoulder, then back down to the soles of your feet. It’s instantaneous gratification, one where you feel an immediate return on the punch you throw.
I had been training for a couple of weeks when a fraternity brother of mine, Anand, offered me my first opportunity to hit someone. I was 19, he was coked out, pounding shots of spiced rum, slamming the shot glass onto the tile counter and exhaling toxic fumes like an industrial plant. Someone handed him a beer, slapped him on the back, and pointed in my general direction. His nose was red as if he had viciously rubbed it raw, and his eyes glazed over like glass beads. Outlined around his left eye were the remnants of a black eye he got in a street fight a few days before.
Anand was the kind of guy that got into bar fights just for the hell of it. He picked fights with bouncers, picked on guys that were smaller than him, bigger than him, more successful than him, or anyone who looked funny. He was, for lack of a better term, a bully. With heavy steps that clunked on the kitchen floor, he walked over to me. The DJ changed records when Anand spoke.
“I hear you’re doing Muay Thai,” he said. “Betcha hit hard.” His speech was clear, as if he was taking shots of Pepsi or Dr. Pepper instead of rum. He put himself in stance – one foot back at forty-five degree angle – and said, “Hit me. It won’t hurt.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding me right?” Someone patted me on the back and handed me a red plastic cup filled with Keg beer. I took a swig and cringed, someone had put a shot of vodka in it.
“I ain’t kidding,” Anand said. “Hit me as hard as you can,” he pointed to his chest, “right here.” He flexed his chest and exhaled all the air in his chest, as if he were expecting a baseball bat to come flying out of nowhere. He positioned his feet on the beer drenched kitchen floor, and narrowed his eyes, like a hawk eying its prey.
“Fine,” I said. I put the cup down on the counter and wound up a punch. It landed with a thick thud. He let his hands drop to his side.
“Man, you hit like a bitch,” he said, picked up my cup and drained the liquid as if he were claiming it as a prize. “My fucking mother hits me harder then that,” he said. He turned around to go back to his friends, probably to laugh at me, to explain that I was nothing more then a joke.
My biggest fear was that he would say I trained Muay Thai just to be able to say that I did. At 19, my biggest fear was someone compromising my credibility. Still is, somewhat.
“Hey Anand,” I said. He spun around, his eyes glazing over me as if I were nothing but a little kid. “Lemme try one more time.”
“Aight,” he said. Again he flexed his chest and exhaled all of his air. His face was contorted into a scrunched ball, but his eyes remained flat and indifferent. I put my left hand on his chest.
“Ready?” I asked. He nodded. I twisted my whole body into my punch. My arms extended at full speed, launching a balled up fist into his chest, throwing it with as much force, power, and speed as I could muster. My first two knuckles landed onto his chest, and then the rest of my body followed. A jolt, passed through my arm and down through my body, instantly letting me know that I had done something. In that split second I felt the inside of his ribcage, felt his airy lungs, his rapid beating heart, the outline of his ribs, before everything rebounded and his torso popped back into shape. He flew backward, unable to catch his feet and fell onto the floor, his back drenched in the sour beer and dirty footprints. He lay there for a few seconds clutching his chest and catching his breath. I had never hit someone as hard as I hit him and it felt good.
*Yilen Pan is an avid Muay Thai practitioner and amateur fighter.
I had been training for a couple of weeks when a fraternity brother of mine, Anand, offered me my first opportunity to hit someone. I was 19, he was coked out, pounding shots of spiced rum, slamming the shot glass onto the tile counter and exhaling toxic fumes like an industrial plant. Someone handed him a beer, slapped him on the back, and pointed in my general direction. His nose was red as if he had viciously rubbed it raw, and his eyes glazed over like glass beads. Outlined around his left eye were the remnants of a black eye he got in a street fight a few days before.
Anand was the kind of guy that got into bar fights just for the hell of it. He picked fights with bouncers, picked on guys that were smaller than him, bigger than him, more successful than him, or anyone who looked funny. He was, for lack of a better term, a bully. With heavy steps that clunked on the kitchen floor, he walked over to me. The DJ changed records when Anand spoke.
“I hear you’re doing Muay Thai,” he said. “Betcha hit hard.” His speech was clear, as if he was taking shots of Pepsi or Dr. Pepper instead of rum. He put himself in stance – one foot back at forty-five degree angle – and said, “Hit me. It won’t hurt.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding me right?” Someone patted me on the back and handed me a red plastic cup filled with Keg beer. I took a swig and cringed, someone had put a shot of vodka in it.
“I ain’t kidding,” Anand said. “Hit me as hard as you can,” he pointed to his chest, “right here.” He flexed his chest and exhaled all the air in his chest, as if he were expecting a baseball bat to come flying out of nowhere. He positioned his feet on the beer drenched kitchen floor, and narrowed his eyes, like a hawk eying its prey.
“Fine,” I said. I put the cup down on the counter and wound up a punch. It landed with a thick thud. He let his hands drop to his side.
“Man, you hit like a bitch,” he said, picked up my cup and drained the liquid as if he were claiming it as a prize. “My fucking mother hits me harder then that,” he said. He turned around to go back to his friends, probably to laugh at me, to explain that I was nothing more then a joke.
My biggest fear was that he would say I trained Muay Thai just to be able to say that I did. At 19, my biggest fear was someone compromising my credibility. Still is, somewhat.
“Hey Anand,” I said. He spun around, his eyes glazing over me as if I were nothing but a little kid. “Lemme try one more time.”
“Aight,” he said. Again he flexed his chest and exhaled all of his air. His face was contorted into a scrunched ball, but his eyes remained flat and indifferent. I put my left hand on his chest.
“Ready?” I asked. He nodded. I twisted my whole body into my punch. My arms extended at full speed, launching a balled up fist into his chest, throwing it with as much force, power, and speed as I could muster. My first two knuckles landed onto his chest, and then the rest of my body followed. A jolt, passed through my arm and down through my body, instantly letting me know that I had done something. In that split second I felt the inside of his ribcage, felt his airy lungs, his rapid beating heart, the outline of his ribs, before everything rebounded and his torso popped back into shape. He flew backward, unable to catch his feet and fell onto the floor, his back drenched in the sour beer and dirty footprints. He lay there for a few seconds clutching his chest and catching his breath. I had never hit someone as hard as I hit him and it felt good.
*Yilen Pan is an avid Muay Thai practitioner and amateur fighter.
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