From the outside looking in, understanding a science

by Flip English

If he knew that I had only come for the promise of bloodshed, I wonder if the promoter would've acted as hospitable as he was. Muay Thai wasn't as sacred to me like it seemed to him, but that disclosure could have ruined the first impression. We shook hands and I smiled to conceal guilt when he mentioned how honored he was by my patronage. After our introductions he escorted me to the press section to where my ringside seat was. The reservation was a much appreciated perk. There would be nothing to spoil the entertainment that evening in terms of perspective. Aside from the ropes there was little to interfere with my view of the action. The only thing that could disappoint were the fighters themselves.


But I knew none of the fighters, had no expectations. There wasn't much to research anyway because this was an amateur event, everyone on the card were still polishing their names, hoping a win that night would brighten it more. I could relate, I wasn't very experienced as well. It was my first coverage of a fight ever, Muay Thai or any other Martial Arts discipline. Never have I even seen a ring fight in person before, only on television. Sitting there among seasoned fight officials and judges gave me that vibe like I was the only virgin in the room. At one point I even met a veteran writer who publishes his own magazine on Muay Thai, and being clueless while hearing him talk about the big names of the sport only helped an inferiority complex develop in me that night. He probably thought to himself: how does he not know who Kingstar is?

Before accepting the press assignment my knowledge of Muay Thai was minimal. My earliest exposure came from watching Frank Dux versus Paco in a Kumite match, and also getting my ass kicked by Sagat at the arcades. The only recent addition to my Bloodsport and Street Fighter knowledge came with the rise of MMA, as Muay Thai is one of the cornerstones of the sport. The only real credential I had for claiming my seat was that I was no stranger to violence. Though my personal history with fights isn't rich, my resume isn't exactly blank. With three older brothers there was no shortage of sparring partners growing up, plus factor in the rage from a broken home life and it was a formula for a fondness of letting my fists fly. But I learned early in my youth that seven simple stitches can produce a bill worth several hundred dollars, and so for the benefit of the family budget the ruffian in me converted to peacemaker. I grew to behave more careful, thoughtful, diplomatic. But I could never deny the unique pleasure of being witness to a fight. The savagery of such situations strangely appeals to my senses, and it eased my mind to know that all the attendants in the venue with me shared the same sickness.

The card featured nineteen fights with three being title matches, and from watching all the bouts that close up I gained a type of respect for the sport that I hadn't entered the building with. By the evening's end I would understand the culture of the sport to a humbling point. The proximity of my seat allowed me to view the fights with more insight, opening me to something that a television fails to deliver. The power in the striking can be felt, as well as the hurt that reflect in the anguished faces when they land. Seeing it raw was discovering a new feeling of joy. My senses were fully stimulated, and the virgin vibe became vacant in my veins after the vividness of the action struck my vision. I was tasting all its spices, seeing all its colors, my nerves electric from the surging sights and sounds. The live chanting of the corners each time their fighter landed a knee made my heart beat like an elephant's pulse. They shouted: Oye! Oye! Oye! It brought flashbacks of an early childhood memory of seeing a cockfight, the way the men and women and children got louder with every pecking blow of the roosters: Oye! Oye! Oye! The rumbling of the ring, the sounds of strikes connecting, and the various voices of the spectators—it all gave the scene a true high-definition effect. These were some of the details a camera lacked the focus to capture.

Walking to my car after the fighting had ended, a mysterious thrill still lingered in me like a sore from a fresh bruise. On the drive home I would replay the evening's episodes in my mind to investigate what it was specifically. I spent the next day recollecting the pieces of my first Muay Thai event and tried to relive the exhilaration. From my small talks with the judge sitting beside me, to the hype music the deejay blasted in the gym, everything served to reconstruct the experience. I remembered the aromatic atmosphere produced by the smell of Tiger Balm as it trailed the random fighters who passed my table. I recalled noticing it was a carpenter's hammer that the time manager used to sound the bell, and that the voice of the announcer was barely audible due to my position from the speaker's range high above me. But most importantly, I concentrated on the centerpiece of that night's gathering. It was the fights and the fighters themselves that called the audience to assemble, or more deeply, it was Muay Thai and its devoted practitioners that was the essence of it all. There is where it lived and thrived, the source of all the rush, the core cause of that mysterious bruise.

Aside from the experience, after reading about the subject of Muay Thai is more forgiving and a loss can be redeemed in a rematch. The only thing foul about combat sports is that nations don't prefer it as an option to settle conflict. Muay Thai and the reality of its brutality is undisguisable, but that is because we do not make efforts to mask it. There is no shame in the sport. The same cannot be said about warfare and our practice of banning its raw evidence from public view. Truth is, for the enemies of Muay Thai it is difficult for them to accept that it has a conscience. They cannot see the righteousness in a battle between consenting fighters who've agreed to let action prove something about their character that talk could not communicate. All the justice in it has been misunderstood, unacknowledged, or simply unappreciated. It's unfortunate that some people cannot distinguish the difference between a merciless death match of chickens from an honorable battle among warriors. The comparison about combat sports being like a cockfight is better fitted for gladiator duels and war games, not Muay Thai.

In my adolescent years I saw a boy get jumped at a basketball court because of a racial slur. I also sat next to a table in a bar where a drunken brawl broke out, and how many scuffles I've seen in school involving bullies I cannot precisely recall, but plenty there was, and most of them mismatched. In all these examples is not a trace of fairness that a sanctioned fight otherwise offers. Unlike street fights Muay Thai is organized. Those involved expect a fight and know the date it will happen. There are no surprises because bouts in the ring are more fairly matched than the ones on the streets: weight classes are established, performance enhancers prohibited, and weapons banned. What these rules do is make victories earned inside the ring more respectable, credible, justified. The only way to cheat is to be the one more ready, more practiced, more conditioned than the other contender. In this scenario a disciplined ring fighter with padded gloves evoke the kind of fear a street brawler armed with brass knuckles would, and the danger is just as real if not for a trained referee actively alert on the premises to enforce regulations.

I can only imagine the worst in the world if all Martial Arts like Muay Thai were subtracted from it. There would be an imbalance that would shift societies down the negative end. What would save the disgruntled? Where would the frustrated youths go to direct their rage? How will the roughnecks of the world defuse their anger without relying on vices? All men may have been created equal, but not all are designed alike. Not all of us can be comfortable in a shirt and tie. Not all of us are destined for corporate careers. Some of us are born brawlers built for battle. Some of us have a temper that only special training can tame, the type that involves physical pain. The bullies of the courts and the bars and the schools would have little chance for salvation without an option like Muay Thai. Their rowdy nature could channel itself towards a life of crime and abuse. What would be left to help discipline their minds, and focus their passion? What could teach them to care about their character, be thoughtful of consequences, and value the art of diplomacy? I was lucky enough to have found my rescue in writing, but if literary expression and wordplay had not given me enough satisfaction, I wonder if I would be where some of my friends are now, stuck in the confines of a county jail, or a prisoner of drug dependency.

In a weird way that only a fighter might understand, there's just something about seeing a struggle that stirs inspiration, something that pierces through illusions of the world, something so genuine that it brings a peculiar sense of tranquility to the mind. A fight demonstrates certain truths about reality, reminding us that life is anything but calm and civilized, and that adversity is what keeps alive our will to oppose it. Sometimes people need confrontation to smack them awake because the impact is a humbling sensation. Sometimes the comfort and security that technology and wealth can offer delude even the sharpest of us, dulling the mind to believe that there exists a softer side to double-bladed sword. This I think is what draws most fighters to bloodsports, this call to routinely get their dose of that punch to the face, that knee to the gut, or elbow to the jaw. It's like a ritual of self-sacrifice, a voluntary surrender to suffering, a purification process to punish and weaken the infidel within, so that the virtues that give a fighter's life its value is nurtured. From this angle I understood the true worth of Muay Thai. Some may call it a sadistic addiction, but I saw that it was more relative to religion. 

And if Muay Thai were a religion then the trainers are its priests. They help guide fighters on their path towards understanding and self-confidence, and counsel on how to avoid temptations that break concentration. This religion offers a way to find esteem and health, self-control and self-defense. It conditions a strong mental discipline, which is necessary in any aspiration and a definite must when overcoming any challenge. To become a consistent champion there is a cleansing regimen to rid the fighter of behavioral impurities. Focus goes beyond the training camp and crosses over to personal life. Time must be dedicated on practicing technique if a fighter wants to earn top status, and following the right diet encompasses more than food choices, pertaining also to the cutting off of unhealthy habits and influences. Poisonous morals and negative ethics must be strictly severed like it is the worst fat of all, because true champions leave out the bullshit in every aspect of their lives, just as the saints had to resist every form of evil to maintain their holiness. These are the commandments every king of the ring had followed. This is the creed that kills cowardice. This is the state of mind that winners adopt, and if it is not accepted then the glory of being the best in Muay Thai or in anything else will remain as elusive as the Holy Grail.

But whatever vantage point it's viewed from, as simply a sport or an abstract faith, the Science of Eight Limbs has a rightful place in this world. Most of the fighters I saw had proven that in their performance, defending their love of Muay Thai by preparing for the fights like a military drills for war. With all the energy and effort and endurance that was exerted, I could've been fooled in thinking the fighters were fighting for more than trophy cups and belts, as if they were struggling for the existence of an honorable ideal. All the strength of their souls and the might of their minds were invested into something that mattered, something with meaning. From what started out as a slick venture to grab a free ringside seat to see a bunch of live beatings, my plan crashed harder than the knockout of a fighter I had seen. The Muay Thai event broke me open, cracking me apart like the rib fracture a fighter had suffered that night. I didn't expect the kind of heart that was demonstrated in the comeback combats that transpired, or the grace and humility in the sportsmanship of all the contenders, winners and losers. I underestimated these so-called amateurs. They had put on a better show than some of the professional bouts I've seen on pay-per-view. In the time frame of just a few hours I had been converted from spectator to fan, had broken through the matrix of the mainstream and grew an appreciation for Muay Thai that challenged the popularity of MMA. The event marked a demise of an ignorance I had entered the venue with, and with the same death blow it had also granted the birth of a higher respect for it. With every show it will continue to sucker punch people in their solar plexuses, and that is why I think this religion will never die.  

If my editor knew the real motive of why I wanted the assignment, I wonder if he would've still given me the opportunity to cover the event. All I initially wanted was a free admission to the best seat in the house, plus something to do on a Saturday night besides bellowing with boredom. A short time after its publication the promoter called me after reading my work on the website. He appreciated that I've written about all the fights and not just the title bouts as the assignment originally involved. It was just my way of paying homage, a gesture of respect in exchange for the entertainment and enlightenment. He said he looked forward to working with me in the future, and I said with sincerity that the interest was mutual. After we hung up I made it an obligation that the next time I would see him again I'll be sure to mention how honored I am to be part of Muay Thai. I understood now why it seemed so sacred to him.