Becoming a "Warrior" in Thailand. Ch1: Pt 5. Fighting and Feasting
My father never taught me how to fight, and neither did my mom. I imagine his father, an educator and for a time the principal of Trenton High in New Jersey, never taught him either. Maybe he didn’t know anything about fighting. Or maybe he had witnessed too many fights between kids who learned from their fathers, or the streets, and decided not to pass the tradition on to his son.
Either way, I never learned, at least not in any formal, teacher-to-student, sort of way. Play-wrestling, slap-boxing with friends, boxing out in the paint, and watching boxing on TV was my only exposure to the world of “combat” as a kid.
So I suppose it’s no surprise I haven’t been in many fights in my life. In 5th grade, I “fought” Jeff Peroni because he was supposed to be my friend, but word trickled down that he was “talking shit behind my back.” One day in recess when we were playing tag I puffed my bird chest up into a bright yellow down jacket I thought was cool at the time but that really made me look like a giant chicken, and I pushed Jeff.
What followed wasn’t a real fight was 150 collective pounds of kid rolling around on the ground for a few minutes until our gym teacher, Ms. Rachelwitz, grabbed us by the back of our collars and walked us to the office with our heads held low.
My next altercation came in high school after I embarrassed a classmate in gym class by dribbling a basketball between his legs. I didn’t just dribble the ball between his legs, I did a move I’d seen on the new AND 1 mixtape that was intended to make the defender reach and look like a fool, and that’s what happened.
Thing is, the defender happened to be a 6’4,” 240-pound classmate with an attitude, and after class he approached me in the locker room and pushed me. Things got tense but at 5’6’,’ 135 pounds soaking wet, I knew I didn’t stand much of a chance, and had the good sense to walk away.
Finally, in college, during a night of binge drinking, I punched a good friend in the face amid an incoherent argument and woke up feeling so terrible I wanted to disappear.
And that sums up my career as a “fighter.”
After training, I stop by Tony’s Restaurant for dinner. Community-style tables jam-packed with shirtless young men with bruised shins and knee-braces and tape-wrapped ankles talking in a myriad of tongues—though English is the lingua franca—stuffing their faces with herculean portions of chicken, steak, rice, eggs, salad, vegetables and noodles.
I sit down and am quickly greeted with a jubilant “HELLO!” by a Thai man of tiny proportions with slightly bowed legs and a big smile walking towards me in a blue polo and khaki shorts.
He introduces himself as Tony, the owner, and asks my name and where I’m from. He is warm, welcoming, and genuine, and despite not knowing anyone, I immediately feel comfortable in his restaurant. Throughout dinner Tony takes orders and passes out the dishes two women are preparing in the open-air kitchen. He chats and goofs with everybody, navigating smoothly between Thai and an accented but clear and coherent English. It seems like he knows everyone in the restaurant intimately.
I order a strawberry protein shake, pad Thai with chicken, a hardboiled egg and a bowl of fruit. I feel like I lost 10 pounds during the training session and I know that if I don’t eat like crazy this month I’m going to lose weight, which I don’t want to do because I’m already skinny. Besides, I’m fucking starving.
Before long I meet some of the other fighters—Israelis, Brits, Italians, Scandinavians, Canadians, Americans, South Americans—they’ve all come to Thailand to learn Muay Thai. They are a mix of students and professionals who have the luxury to take time off; teachers, filmmakers, and writers who want to train. Others have more serious intentions of becoming professional boxers, Muay Thai, or MMA fighters. And then there are others who already are.
The fighters tell me about Tony and his many services. He not only runs the restaurant, which is the favorite spot on the block, but he also rents apartments behind the restaurant, bicycles and scooters. He sells gas for the scooters, tickets for fights in town, and for a few bucks on Friday or Saturday night you can hop into the back of his pick-up truck and he or one of the guys working for him will drive you into town to see a fight or to drink and party at the bars.
Tony thrives off the camp and the foreigners that flock to Tiger, and everyone loves him. He’s having such a good time as he takes orders, chats and delivers generous portions of food to hungry fighters, it’s difficult not to. He loves his job, and because of that love he stands out. He glows. And this luminescence attracts many friends.
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Read Intro, Part 1
Read Intro, Part 2
Read Intro, Part 3
Read Intro, Part 4
Read Ch 1, Part 1
Read Ch 1, Part 2
Read Ch 1, Part 3
Read Ch1, Pt 4