My shoulders are burning and I can hardly hold my hands up. Each time I punch
the heavy bag, my feet slip backwards in the puddle of sweat which is dripping
off my body. I steal a glance at the timer. Barely a minute has passed, two to
go. Guy on my left continues to murder the bag. Each one of his punches is
accompanied by a loud “pshhh” of air as he forcibly exhales through his mouth
guard. Rhythmically, “pshhh, pshhh, pshhh.” The bag he’s hitting bounces up
and down, rattling the chains it hangs from, shaking the I-beam frame that
runs along the ceiling, and violently swinging the bag to the right from the
power of his left hook. I try to concentrate on the drill - left jab, straight
right, left hook - “pshh, pshh, pshh”. I’ve never been so tired.
The gym is located at one end of a non-descript strip mall. It shares an
entrance with a used bookstore/video rental shop. Customers of either business
are greeted by a life size, black and white cutout of a young Mohammad Ali
attached to the entry way wall. The glass door on the right leads to the gym.
The the walls of the gym’s small entry area are covered in newspaper
clippings, photographs, and posters of boxing events. The posters are mostly
in French, and from the 1980’s. Ali, the gym owner, greets me with a gentle
handshake. His French accent is thick and he doesn’t look much different than
the spry kickboxer on the posters from almost 20 years ago.
Ali explains to me that street shoes are not allowed on the training mat –
the red, grey, and blue soft vinyl that covers the gym floor. I can kickbox
bare foot, but he’d like me to get a pair of wrestling shoes, which are like
boxing shoes, but easier to find. Ali took a pair of 16oz training gloves, two
blue handwraps, and a jump rope from a cupboard in the gym office and handed
them to me. “Ask Danny to show you how to put on the wraps.”
The office is separated from the gym by a floor to ceiling window. I could
only see one guy in the gym, stretching and pacing, waiting for class to
begin. Ali got up and walked to the office door, “Danny, show Kenneth how to
wrap his hands.” I said thanks as I took my new stuff out of the office. Ali
reminded me to always sign in before working out, and that I could not workout
more than three times per week.
Danny walked over as I unrolled one of the two blue elastic handwraps. They
are twice as long as I am tall (I learned later that Mexican style wraps are
180 inches, or 15 feet, long). He showed me how to hook the loop at the end of
the wrap over my thumb and wrap around my wrist, over my hand, through each
finger, again over the knuckles - to pad the punching surface, and ending with
several wraps around the wrist. He explained that the wraps are to protect the
small bones in your hands and fingers, and to keep your wrist from getting
sprained. I wonder to myself protect from what?, and I nervously hope we
aren’t going to be hitting each other that hard, at least not on my first
day. It feels neat to have my hands wrapped up and I’m eager to see how it
feels when I punch something.
As I finish wrapping my hands, a few other guys show up for practice. I notice
I’m the only guy without a bottle of water. Ali walks across the gym floor and
turns on a large digital clock on the wall. The speaker on the front of the
clock emits an oddly distorted digital imitation of a bell ringing and
everyone begins jumping rope. I look at the clock; it says 2:58.
The ceiling is low, so each turn of my rope hits the acoustic tile above me,
knocking a small piece of fuzz loose that slowly floats to the floor. By the
time there are six pieces of ceiling fuzz on the ground around me, Ali comes
over and ties a few knots in my plastic rope, shortening it to the right
length. I’m clumsy. Each time I misstep, the stiff plastic rope whacks my
second toe - on my feet, the longest toe. As I’m getting started for the
umpteenth time, Ali walks buy and says, “You should get some shoes.”
I’ve broken a sweat, my calves are starting to burn, and my two long toes feel
like I’ve stubbed them on the curb. The clock emits a rapid series of
digital bell rings and I stop jumping. Everyone around me speeds up. Some of
the guys are doing double unders, turning the rope twice around each jump. I
look at the clock and it reads 00:30. Thirty seconds to go. I figure out that
you are supposed to sprint at the end. I start again and hit my toes three
more times before the digital bell rings and Ali says, “Time. Stretch out.”
Everyone drops their ropes and starts doing basic stretches or sipping from
their water bottles. A young Latino guy says, “Hey, I’ve got an extra
water. You want it?” I nod, and gulp down at least a pint. Before I can get
the cap back on, the timer squawks its distorted bell and everyone is jumping
rope again. I’m too winded to say thank you. This continues for four
rounds. By the end of the fourth, my toes don’t bother me because they are
tingling and numb. My shorts and shirt are completely sweat soaked. Ali says,
“gloves.” And the guys all head into the locker room. I head to the bathroom
to refill my now empty one liter water bottle. As I’m putting on my gloves,
Ali produces a felt pen and marks them with my initials.
We form a loose circle around Ali, and he pairs us up, nodding and waving his
glove with a quiet, “go with him.” I get paired up with the guy who gave me some
water. He tells me he’s new too, which is a bit of a relief. Ali beckons one of
the guys over with his gloved hand. The student, fit and crew cut, is wearing a
mouth guard and colorful Thai boxing shorts. He looks tough. Ali shows us,
slowly at first, that we are to round kick to the middle with the right leg, jab
with the left hand, and punch with the right. He does this combination two or
three times, each time faster. The last time, he goes a quite a bit harder and
the guy is actually getting knocked around by the kick and punches. He tells us
to get started.
My partner says, “go ahead” and raises his hands. I have no idea what to
do. How do I stand? Where do my hands go? I sneak a look at some of the other
guys, raise my hands up near my face, spread my feet apart, and swing my leg
gently towards my partner’s middle. I land off balance, and weakly punch:
left, right. I try again. This feels awkward. Ali comes by and tells me to
keep my hands up, showing me and my partner where to put them. I kick again,
but can’t hold my hands up while kicking. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have
signed up for dance lessons instead of boxing.
A few more times and Ali tells us to switch. My partner kicks me with his shin
in my side. He asks me to turn the palms of my gloves toward him, and he
punches each one - left right. Ali takes my place and shows me how to block
the kick by bending my body to lower my arm, and to help my partner punch by
meeting his punch with the palm of my hand. It makes a pleasant popping sound
when my timing is right and his punches meet my gloves with a snap. We do a
few more drills like this - each taking turns for three to four minutes,
pausing after each round for instructions and to sip water. I’m using muscles
I’m not sure I’ve used before. My hips are tired and stiff. When we’re working
on head kicks, I can’t get my leg higher than my partner’s armpit.
At the end of the last round, Ali tells us to take a heavy bag. He
demonstrates a simple combination we are going to practice first: jab, right,
left-hook. We wait for the timer and Ali tells us to start. He comes around
and gives me some help. I’m clumsy and awkward. In between rounds, Ali
demonstrates the next combination we are to practice: front kick, right elbow. Low
kick, high kick, left, right. And so on.
Ali gives me more help. I’m to focus on the left jab, keeping my right hand
up, making sure I’m not too close to the bag. I can use my left hand like a
curb feeler, to figure out the distance I need to be from the bag. When the
third round is over, I’m gassed. I’ve only been in the gym for 50 minutes.
Everyone takes off their gloves, and get a floor mat from a pile in the
corner. We’re going to ‘cool down.’ We start out with 100 crunches, done very
quickly. I’m only able, after the first ten, to do every other one. A quick
break, and it’s fifty v-ups. My stomach muscles are now failing completely. I
can’t do another sit up. We end with fifty “boxer’s situps,” full situps
ending with a one-two punch over the knees. I can only do about ten. We do
some light stretching, put our mats away and my first hour of Muay Thai is
over.
When I get home, I struggle to get my shirt off both because I am sore and
because it is stuck to my skin. I was planning on taking a shower, but instead I
get my clothes off, crawl into bed, and sleep for a couple of hours.
–June 2006 Colorado Springs
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