CHAPTER 2

  We walk toward the large, worn out “THE KNOCKOUT KING FIGHT GYM” sign across the entrance. “Lek, why do you look so nervous? Do you think we’ll put you in the ring right away?” Uncle jabs.

  “Will you?”

  He grins. “We’ll see.” Then adds, “You find out if you're a coward in the ring.”

  He chuckles.

  “The ring don’t lie.”

  The moment we step inside, everything changes.

  It smells like sweat, and old leather. The air is hot and muggy. I kick my shoes off and notice my feet sticking slightly to the floor as we walk. Every inch of the floor is stained and the walls are cracked. The heavy bags hang across the back wall and sway underneath the rhythm of sharp, powerful kicks.

  The ring is centered in the gym like a shrine. The canvas is worn, the ropes droop… but feel alive. The entire gym breathes around it.

  Posters of champions the gym has created line the walls. I’m stuck on the younger Somchai, face hard, fist raised high, belt around his waist. His nickname, THE KNOCKOUT KING, printed in bold letters.

  I tighten my grip on my bag. I look at everything and nothing all at once. I don’t know where to begin or what to do.

  At the same time, I don’t want to leave.

  “Welcome to The Knockout King Fight Gym” Uncle waves his arms like he’s showing off a mansion. “This is the best Muay Thai gym in Bangkok. Prolly the world.”

  He takes a bite of noodles in between sentences. I can hardly follow.

  “The bag area. Those guys are hitting pads. The ring area is where the fighters train.”

  Uncle enters a surprisingly clean area. A soft voice interrupts.

  “Excuse me.”

  Two foreign women in crop tops stand near the front desk, holding onto their phones, looking like lost movie stars. “Hi… We’re here for Muay Thai training? With Trainer Mee?”

  My Uncle lights up. He smiles big and his face turns slightly red. “Hi! First time, right? I’ll teach you ladies my kick-punch style!” Uncle chuckles. Leans toward me, rambling “Lek, I have to take care of customers. Sorry, very important!”

  He glances at the foreign women. “One moment!” Then pulls me past the bag area and yells toward the ring. “Fon! Help my nephew, yeah? He’s fresh from the rubber farm!”

  I look up.

  A girl is beating up a boy in the ring. Her twin braids snap with each punch, each kick. She swings like she wants to take his head off, kicking his leg out from underneath him. He flies through the air.

  It’s not a fair fight, despite his bigger muscles.

  Somehow, she makes it look beautiful.

  Uncle nudges me. “She’s the best in your age group, and insane.”

  A timer rings and she leaps out of the ring like a wild animal jumping onto a scale.

  Her eyes locked on the number.

  “No way,” she mutters. “Still point-four over.”

  She groans so loud the whole gym can hear it. She kicks the scale, kicks the air, and kicks a nearby trash can over. Then turns around and sprints back into the ring.

  Another boy’s there, already looking terrified. She jumps in without a word.

  It happens again, jab, looping hook, kick, dump. Each strike landing harder than before. The poor guy crashes into the canvas.

  Then back to the scale.

  Still too heavy.

  Back to the ring.

  This repeats three more times. Three new boys. Same result. I just stand there frozen watching like it’s some kind of ritual.

  Fon steps onto the scale, “Awh, I’m still over!” She’s dripping sweat, breathing hard, eyes scanning the room like she’s hunting for her next victim.

  Her eyes land on me.

  She points at me. “You. Rubber boy.”

  I blink. “Me?”

  Before I can say anything else, a pair of gloves hit me in the face. I fumble with them.

  She jumps back into the ring without waiting.

  I look back for my uncle, but he’s across the gym, laughing with the foreign women.

  I think I might die.

  A group of boys are slumped around the ring like they escaped a warzone. One is icing his jaw, another has bloody tissue stuck up his nose, and the rest are staring blankly out of swollen eyes, like this pain will linger for the rest of their lives.

  “Fon beat up Palm today. Didn’t he win a belt recently?”

  “Yeah, he fought in the stadiums.”

  Palm glances up with distorted black and blue half-grin. “I’m ok.”

  Everyone else knows what they’re doing.

  My Hands? Never wrapped.

  Gloves? Never worn.

  Back on the rubber farm, the only thing to kick is a banana tree. Soft and forgiving, nothing like this.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I step into the ring, despite my trembling body.

  I stare at her wide-eyed. My heart pounds.

  “Hands up.” She says, already in her guard. “Left foot forward. Square your hips.”

  I do my best, but my legs shake. I feel like a baby giraffe.

  “You’re not balanced. Shift your weight from front to back, like a slow march. Steady.”

  I march clumsy and awkward. She doesn’t laugh.

  “Good enough.” She says. “Now. Hit me.” She smirks.

  Fon dances around me. Hands up but loose. She isn’t taking this seriously. She’s smiling.

  Not in a mean way, but like she’s having fun.

  It throws me off.

  Is she mocking me? Is she trying to be nice? Why is she smiling when I’m about to die?

  I glance outside the ring.

  Her training partners watch me like I’m the next sacrifice.

  One of them whispers, “He’s dead.”

  Another, “Yup.”

  My arms are stiff, my legs are wet noodles, and I’m supposed to hit her?

  I’ve never hit a girl before, actually, I’ve never hit anyone before.

  I’m a farm boy.

  How can I fight?

  I’m going to die.

  “Come on. Try.” She says. “You won’t land it anyway.”

  That does it.

  I throw a punch.

  She slips it, smooth as her satin shorts. So I throw another.

  She’s already somewhere else.

  She lightly kicks my leg from behind, and I stumble.

  “I’m over here!”

  I swing a few more times.

  Miss.

  She slips.

  Miss.

  She’s already gone.

  Wait… She moves BEFORE the punch lands…

  So if I punch…

  No…

  If I look like I’m punching…

  I could hit her.

  Could I pull something like that off?

  I give my idea a shot.

  She moves.

  BAM.

  I land it.

  Her head snaps slightly to the side.

  Her face goes red. Not hurt. Just… surprised?

  Is she mad I hit her? Or embarrassed?

  She slams her gloves together.

  “Let’s go.”

  Outside the ring, the injured kids are suddenly animated.

  “He hit her!”

  “Revenge…”

  Fon notices. She swings. My fear kicks back in and I shell up, too slow.

  She hits me right in the face.

  CRACK.

  My head snaps back. I taste blood.

  “OW! That hard? Seriously!?”

  Outside the ring, the injured boys start howling.

  “Woah, the kid is still standing!”

  Her eyes widened. She wasn't expecting this.

  “You’ve got a chin.” She mutters.

  She grins again, flashing her purple mouth guard.

  Her punches fly toward me so fast I can’t see them.

  She slams her gloves into my body. I collapse.

  I gasp for air collapsing to the canvas.

  It feels like my lungs got punched out of me.

  Fon stands over me for a second, breathing hard. Her glare softens just a little.

  Then she turns away.

  She jumps out of the ring and grabs a jump rope.

  No more boys left to fight.

  No one left to help her sweat.

  I can hardly see. My eye is swollen shut. I can only hear her skip furiously. Her movements are hard, fast, and focused.

  The rest of us, the beaten boys, sit slumped against the wall like war-survivors. All we can do is watch.

  We watch her jump, sweat, and grind.

  Desperate to cut the rest of the kilo.

  No complaints. No water. Just repetition.

  Someone mutters, “She’s definitely fight-ready.”

  No one else speaks. We listen to the rhythm of the rope cutting the air.

  Lying on my side, too sore to move.

  No tears come, but they’re close.

  I came to Bangkok thinking I could become a fighter.

  Now I’m not sure.