A Fighter's Heart: One Man's Journey Through the World of Fighting by Sam Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page A

himself training, by a show of heart. Now, at my fight, he had his hair carefully styled and looked nervous as hell.
    “Sam, you warm,” Yaquit said, as I climbed to my feet and began to shadowbox, staring at the floor. There are two schools of thought about where your eyes should be when fighting: You stare at your opponent’s eyes and let your peripheral vision cover his body like a membrane, or you stare at your opponent’s midsection. I was of the latter school. The eyes are for mind games, and intimidation, and distractions, and tricks. I don’t do any of those things. I just want to hit, to get through and make good connections, to be there in front of the other fighter and to find a way through him. I don’t care about him one way or the other; I don’t know him.
    There was a commotion where my opponent was warming up. He’d drawn a crowd, but I ignored it. I later found out that he was putting on a real show, dropping ax-kicks and flat-punching the brick walls. He’d also taken off his shirt and pants to reveal a body covered in deep, serious tattoos—demons and snakes and fish. The Thais loved it and were screaming, “ Yakuza! ” Traditionally, a member of the Yakuza, the Japanese mafia, has tattoos covering his entire body, except on his face, neck, and hands. Another Yakuza tradition is to cut off a finger to show regret if you disappoint your boss. I can’t prove that my opponent was Yakuza, but he was sporting about five thousand dollars’ worth of tattoos and he did show up with four or five burly Japanese guys (of course, they could have been friends from his gym or dojo). I learned later that he was missing half of his left pinkie. Maybe he wasn’t Yakuza, but the Thais certainly thought so.
    I put on my cup and fight shorts and went over and got my gloves. Yaquit tied them on. The gloves weighed ten ounces each and felt like nothing. At Harvard and Fairtex, I had used regular boxing gloves, the sixteen-ouncers, so I couldn’t believe these things. Once a fighter puts on those lobster claws, he’s good for only one thing.
    Yaquit spoke to me very intensely. “Sam, elbow,” he said, making an elbowing gesture. I could see he was worried. From the way everyone avoided my eyes, I was getting the sense that they were concerned for me.
    Then it was time to go.
     
     
    I step into the ring, and stand facing my corner, hands on the ropes, waiting for the music to start the wai khru. My pulse begins to race. I avoid looking at my opponent. Finally, I am really nervous.
    The music comes up, and we begin our walk. I move around the ring counterclockwise, with my inside fist up and outside fist on the top rope. This is a way to learn the ring, to feel it. I bow and say a prayer in each corner, ostensibly to placate the spirits of the corners. I read somewhere that the way to win a fight is to take control of one corner, and then another, until finally you control the whole ring. So I mutter to each corner as I stop and bow my head, “This is my corner.”
    Then the wai khru begins. I learned Apidej’s wai khru, as is proper. I walk in small spiraling circles into the center of the ring and carefully get down on my knees, kowtowing toward my own corner, my back to my opponent’s corner. The wai khru is the time to think about your parents, your family, and your trainer. I do, and it works. It centers me, reminding me of why I am here and who I am.
    I sit up and bow three times, swinging my arms wide and curling them up to my face as I arch back. And then a slow climb to the feet, the ram muay, turning and stepping lightly, deliberately, dancing to the beat like it’s an Indian rain dance. I stare at the ground, intent on learning every square inch of the canvas, of knowing the dimensions of the ring. It’s all mine.
    The music ends. I bow to my corner and go over to Yaquit. He removes my mongkol and says something in Thai—which I don’t understand and doesn’t concern me—and crosses himself;