It was day two in Bangkok, and I was hungover looking for the gym.
When I arrived the day before, it was Wesak Day, and that meant a ban on the sales of alcohol. Yes, in Thailand, alcohol sales are forbidden on special occasions or during certain hours on other days.
That's when I learned that to white people, the day you can't purchase alcohol is the day to get smashed, and my new acquaintances weren't going to let a little thing like law stop them from drinking. They offered me beers packed in newspapers bought from a seedy little tavern down the street. After a while, the path from the hostel to the tavern became an alcohol trade route, well-travelled by alcoholics walking around with dubious rolls of newspapers in their hands.
And that's how I ended up spending my first night stumbling along the alleys of Patpong with ping-pong-pimps enticing you on the premise of vaginal acrobatics every seven steps. Conmen tend to spare me because I blend in with the locals, but that night I was surrounded by Caucasians so I got more attention than a Rolex in a whorehouse. Tuk-tuk rides, taxi tours, cheap young sex, escorts—I felt like a high-roller even though I was on a shoestring budget.
Fast forward a night of accidentally dropping beer bottles in front of cops and buying more beer to replace said spilt beer; and there I was, hungover and looking for this place called Fighting Spirit Gym which was apparently a five minute walk from the hostel.
As I walked through an empty lot, I noticed slabs of cement around me. I cleared my brain fog just enough to realise that I was in the middle of a cemetery, and sure enough, Fighting Spirit Gym was right in front of a tombstone.
I liked the location. It gave the place a good ambience. I made my way in before this Chihuahua blocked my way. I was probably invading its territory. I would've swiped it aside if not for the owner sitting on a stool further back. He was massive.
World War 2 called. They want their tanks back.
I wasn't aware that brick outhouses were allowed to run gyms.
(Insert more referential thoughts to describe Mr. Huge here)
"I'm just here for a session," I said.
"SURE," he replied. "I'M DAN. JUST GO ON IN AND GET YOURSELF WARMED UP."
Dan was as close to Brock Lesnar as any man will ever be, but he was all smiles. Turns out, he was a pretty chill guy.
I skipped over a pitbull—Dan sure loves his dogs—and made my way into the cage. Five Thai instructors were sitting in the boxing ring, and only one other student was inside. The intimidation was overpowering at this point. Buying contraband booze in a foreign land was nothing compared to this. So I gave my best tough guy impression. I avoided eye contact, held my head down, and twiddled over to the dressing room. That showed them.
I came back out and started skipping rope. Damn Thai ropes are built so heavy I gassed after 10 minutes. The oldest trainer pointed at me as he donned the Thai pads. Was that disappointment I saw in his eyes? No matter, time for pad work, and pad work is always the worst part of training. On top of that, Fighting Spirit Gym does four minutes of pad work instead of the usual three. I prepared myself for projectile vomiting as my trainer and I touched gloves.
In Muay Thai, they train you to look at the chest as opposed to the face. That way, your peripheral view picks up the whole body, and you see punches and kicks better. All I saw was scar tissue that ran from his chest to his belly. Must've had his appendix removed, or he could've had a titanium skeleton implanted. It reminded me of Sagat. Capcom finally did something right. Somehow through all that fatigue, I caught myself wondering what the story was behind that scar.
After my death and resurrection, meaning after five gruelling rounds of pad work, I limped over to the bags to do my own drills as Sagat corrected my technique. This was followed by clinch work with the only other student who had 20 kilos over me. Not fun.
There were students that came in at different times of the day and they still received the full training, which meant that Fighting Spirit Gym had a pretty relaxed approach to training while still maintaining the proper syllabus.
After training, I cooled down and paid Dan for the session.
"THANK YOU SIR," he said, with a voice that sounded like a blend between a sub-woofer and a concussion grenade.
"Thanks for the training." Everything sounded squeakier after Dan spoke.
I gave a final wave to the crew and made my way through the cemetery. I didn't feel so hungover anymore, and I've learned something new to use in future training.
I reached the hostel and Mike and Aiman were already on their second round of beers. A normal occurrence if not for the fact that it was 4 p.m. They noticed the gloves hanging off my backpack and gave me a nod.
"What's up, fighter?" Aiman said. "Here, have a beer."
"I don't know guys, I just recovered from a hangover, and I don't really feel like drinking after training."
...
We drank well into the night, and this time we didn't have to do it illegally.
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