Insisting on Left | The Space Between Pi and Kru (Patreon Magazine) (Patreon)

“Sylvie,” Kru Nu calls to me from the gate that separates the weight room from the main area of the gym. The gate is aluminum and slides open to the side, where it tucks behind a makeshift “DJ Booth,” where you can hook up an MP3 player or mobile phone to play music through the ridiculously large stereo speakers. The light in the ring room is gorgeous in the mornings, just crisp and glowing, these slices of sharp sunlight reaching down through slats in the roofing like fingers of pure light, grabbing into the space. The weight room has artificial light, so even though the lights are turned on inside there’s this transition to darkness behind Kru Nu as he stands in the threshold between the two spaces. He’s looking at me, has arms down at his sides, his bright orange bellypad dividing his naked chest from his long Muay Thai shorts and bright orange shinpads, “dtae bao,” he calls out to me. In Thai it’s both a command and an invitation, and spoken by Kru Nu it’s exactly that blend as well. I look over at him from where I’m shadowing around in a small 2nd ring, which is the original ring that, upon pouring the concrete to lay the foundation, established the Petchrungruang gym in 1986. The kids’ ring I’m in is smaller than the enormous high ring that dominates the room, and it’s canvas is strangely cushy so it makes moving around in there feel like you’re moving on sand. It requires a bit more effort, but it breaks falls more gently. What I like about it is how low the rafters are there where the roof slopes down - low enough that you can jump up and grip them for pullups from a standstill -, whereas the rafters above the big ring are extremely high and give the space a feeling like it’s constantly inhaling. The space down here is almost the same as the garage which is right next to it and, for me, being in dark creviced areas feels good; safe… it’s the scorpion in me. But from here, this little “under a rock” area, I have to peer at Kru Nu through an obstacle of wooden pillars and hanging bags to see him in the doorway to the weight room. I’m hesitating, not yet answering his command/invitation to come hit pads.

Ninety-nine percent of the time I address Kru Nu as “Pi Nu.” The distinction between the two is similar to the distinction between command and invitation. Kru is a teacher and it’s the role to which I play dutiful student. Pi is the word of address to an older sibling, so there’s still a degree of deference because it places me as a junior, but it’s more familiar and less formal than the roles of teacher and student. Pi is an appropriate address for our general interactions, but occasionally Kru is required. About a month ago we got in a bit of a fight, which is to say that the line between Kru and Pi was obscured in a way that made Kru Nu feel appreciated and disrespected, which meant that Pi went out the window and I had to re-enforce the student/teacher dynamic, which is more formal and performative. The problem was I had related to him in a way that was illustrative of us being friends, which we are. But the situation was one in which it is also and equally true that we are not friends and he is both my elder and my superior, so that’s what needed to be illustrated in that situation, these come up sometimes when you are familiar with your coach. It was resolved quickly, but it wasn’t without pain on my part. It’s tricky to balance this kind of relationship, especially because I didn’t grow up in this culture and so when I hit against those lines I’m not always aware of how serious they are or where, exactly, those lines are overstepped. So, now, looking at Pi Nu through this maze of pillars and bags while taking way too long to respond to his call, I’m running through the borders of this scenario. Thing is, I don’t want to kick pads this morning. Things are a bit tender for me at the moment because of this misunderstanding we had the other day, but refusing to hit pads would definitely not be a good move; however, agreeing to hit pads and sulking about it would also be a really bad move. I’m sulking in response to Pi Nu, but I’m answering the call of Kru Nu. 

I stick my left leg through the middle ropes, bend at the waist and duck through and out of the ring. Stepping down from the curb of the canvas to the cement floor requires a bit of attention, as there are bits of gravel and pits that can be painful underfoot if you’re not looking. I kind of like this about the different areas of the gym, how you’re forced to be mindful instead of everything being all one, safe substance. It’s about 4 steps on the bumpy cement until I get up onto a slanted wooden plank, which covers an access point to the water pipes that run throughout the gym, the house, and the outside taps. The wood is loose and gives a kind of plunk plunk sound and bounce as I step onto it, then another bonk as I step down onto the smooth tile on the other side. At this point I’m only a couple feet away from Pi Nu and he’s looking closely at my face as I approach. He’s reading me, noting every single thing I’m trying not to say about my mood right now but that is actually projected onto my face like a bat signal. I look up at his face as I get close and smile. He knows it’s forced, but he accepts the gesture and we turn into the weight room together.

The mats on the floor are blue and spongy. They’ve been pulled up and moved for demonstrations outside a few times, then returned and glued down, but there are spots where they pop up if you hit them at an angle. My favorite bit is that there are areas where the cat, affectionately called Crazy Cat (by me), has clawed into the rubber and left little slashes and pearled sponge. And more recently Bank has started practicing tricks on his skateboard on the mats, so there are saturn-like rings from the wheels in wide sweeps around the outer edges of the mats. I love that the equipment and space is marked (and marred) by use. Sometimes I’ll be alone in the weight room and Crazy Cat will sneak in and settle onto the mats. When I see her I tsk and shoo her out, but she’ll always hunch down and frantically claw a few times at the spot where she’s landed for as long as she can before I grab her and throw her onto the tiles of the main gym room. It’s this panicked scribbling on the wall while being thrown out of a punk club or something. I always chastise her, but I look at those new scars on the floor with a kind of affection, because she knows she’s bad but she can’t help herself. It’s her nature. She’s crazy and a cat. 

Kru Nu picks up his pads and pokes his finger at the round timer on his phone, then pulls his elbows into his belly and makes a, “aaah, hua huah!” sound to start the first round. It’s a sound he makes to indicate he’s in a light mood. He wants to play and is indicating to me that all is clear and well. My mood isn’t light. I’ve been working very diligently on changing my stance to Southpaw and in the year or so that I’ve been attempting this (at gradually increasing degrees of dedication), there’s been some push back from Kru Nu. It wasn’t his idea, but rather something introduced to me by Karuhat, with whom I train once a month, if I can. I have Kru Nu’s blessing to book my own fights and go train with anyone, anywhere, whenever I want. But I do know that there are small shadows to this freedom and it isn’t without complication in being his student. When I come back and say, “hey, Karuhat wants me to be Southpaw now,” it doesn’t just roll over like, yeah, no problem. Especially because I didn’t start out any good at it. It was like starting over as a beginner, because your non-dominant side can be pretty weak; so I was off-balance, awkward, and had no defense. I explained to Kru Nu why I was doing this, as did my husband, and Kru Nu understood and was periodically on board, but then would put his foot down and oppose the idea all together. I understand; it’s a jab at his authority as my trainer. But he also knows, and I think even likes, that I’m so stubborn. The important part is to just demonstrate my respect for him as much as I can, which at times has been not enough demonstration and then we end up where we were the other day. Our fight the other day wasn’t about this, but the long and short of it is that he felt disrespected as my Kru because a third party (who is a piece of shit) manipulated a situation by attacking Kru Nu’s authority over me. I was at home, texting with Pi Nu about this thing and then called him to make things easier. It was upon hearing his voice that I understood how angry he was, so I told him I was coming over. I live 5 minutes from the gym, so I hurried down the stairs of my building and jumped on my bike and zip over, my face hot and already feeling like a bird was flapping wildly through my chest. I sat down at his living-room table and listened to him tell me that he thinks I don’t “believe him,” which is a phrase he uses to mean trust and obey. He was saying this because he was pissed about this third party business, but I called him out and asked bluntly - taking the third party out of the equation altogether - if he really felt that I didn’t respect him; if I really didn’t believe him. He looked at me, his long index and middle fingers covering his lips and his thumb under his chin, leaned back in his chair and his legs sprawling toward me. “No,” he answered, “you don’t believe me.” He was being harsh on purpose, like a strict father, but the ball in my throat choked me and my eyes welled up with tears. I looked away; he didn’t. I stood up and pushed the white plastic stool I had been sitting on under the table. Pi Nu’s eyes widened. He wasn’t anticipating this move, me getting up to go. His fingers twitched for a moment, ready to move from his mouth, but didn’t. I knelt down and put my head at his feet, saying, “koh toht, koh toht” (“I’m sorry, I’m sorry”), which made him startle. “No, mai pben rai,” (“no problem”) he said as he put his hand on my head. His father, who was sitting on the huge wooden couch to the side of us, watching TV as we had this intense conversation, looked over at this scene and smiled, kind of giving away that Pi Nu’s performance of anger was a larger projection than the situation really warranted. I stood up and picked up my phone off the table, flipping the screen to find an image I had on Instagram. I opened the screen and turned it to face Pi Nu, “This is how I see you,” I said. It’s a diptych of Pi Nu in the ring during pads, standing with the light from the roof appearing like a LASER beam out of his gaze; the other side is an image of Cyclops from the X-Men, shooting a beam of light from his eyes. The caption reads, “Superheroes are real.” With one hand on his knee and one resting on the table, Pi Nu looked from the screen up to my face, his expression much softer than a moment ago. But my face was hot and searing and the ball in my throat had moved to become a bowling ball in my gut. I put the phone in my bag and hurried out the front door, ducking politely as I passed in front of Pi Nu’s father. If he were only Kru Nu, I could have cowtowed and been done with it; if he were only Pi Nu, I could have laughed the whole thing off. But he’s both. I went to Kru Nu’s feet and Pi Nu startled. It’s complicated.

That’s what was in my mind as I decided whether or not to hit the pads this morning. Over time I’ve persisted in trying to get him to hold pads for me in Southpaw, which he’d do for a few days, then tell me to switch back to my natural stance. When I kept trying to go back to Southpaw, he stopped verbally telling me and instead would just force me into my right-handed stance by the angle of the pads. In the beginning when I would force myself back into Southpaw, despite the discomfort in my mind and body at this awkward change, he would kick my front leg mercilessly to punish me back to my other stance. His kick landing on my front leg sends bolts of electric pain up to my hip and, out of fear and panic that I didn’t have the ability to defend myself, I’d fall back into Orthodox as a defense in and of itself. Occasionally I’d take the pain as a challenge and come after him, insisting on the stance despite the punishment. On those days, he let it go and I could get all my rounds finished in Southpaw stance. But for months, almost a year, it’s been his insistence on staying Orthodox by how he holds the pads and punishing me with pain (and exposing my lack of defense) when I force myself back into Southpaw.

But all this while I’ve been very stubborn. I don’t oppose him, verbally. I don’t explain myself or argue, I just keep trying to find my ability within the stance by returning to it. It’s difficult because I do believe him. When he punishes me for standing Southpaw, I believe that I can’t defend myself - because in those moments, I can’t. But this is Kru Nu’s method, because he’s so patient. He will just keep showing me that opening until I learn to close it or give up. He doesn’t tell me, he doesn’t lecture or explain; it’s up to me. Either switch back to the safety of Orthodox because I can be strong there, or get stronger under the repeated pain of that weakness. Work it out. If you really want this, then really work for it. But there’s also this part of it where my insistence on something that he opposes is demonstrating that I don’t believe him, and quite frankly if I were a Thai boy in his gym I’d be in the corner, left to figure shit out on my own a long time ago. It’s because Pi Nu believes in me that I can get away with this. And it’s also because he must know that I believe him, follow him, respect him and love him that he puts up with it. Every time he kicks my leg and I force myself back into that stance, even if it’s just to be punished again, I’m showing him belief in myself. 

He’s standing there with his pads in position for a right kick, which means that I have to switch my stance to throw it. I gallop my legs in a switch kick and slam into the pads, letting out a loud “haah!” as I connect. My right leg comes back down from the pads and I’m in position to throw another; Kru Nu has angled his body so that I can continue in Orthodox stance, but I put my right hand forward and push his pads, repositioning myself to Southpaw. He looks at me for a moment, considering this. The pause is really only a split second, but it’s as loaded as was that hesitation in my mind when he called to me from the doorway to come kick pads - but now it’s he who is hesitating. He’s looking at me, deciding whether he’s going to let me take the lead in this dance or not. I look him right back and cut off to an angle, firing a low kick that he didn’t call for. He kicks my leg back and I wobble as the pain shoots deep into the muscle. I nod and he kicks again, this time I teep his belly-pad and he spins for a moment before catching himself. This game will just keep going, where I alternate between insisting on the switch of stance and insisting on my belief in him as my teacher, despite this disagreement. The bell rings to end the round and he sits down on the bench next to the round timer, twisting his body around to check a spot on his shoulder in the mirror before turning to look at me across the room. I’m sipping from my water on the bench on the opposite side of the room. He’s watching me. He doesn’t care about the pads at the moment, he’s waiting to see how I’ll respond to him. He’s waiting for a smile, a sign that opposes the heaviness I’m clearly carrying. I look him in the eye and nod. A smile breaks across his face and he kind of hunches forward to look at a piece of tape that has stuck to his foot. He’s totally relaxed, looking at that piece of tape on the underside of his foot, his toes flexed up and away as he twists his ankle. Light from the windows on either side of the mirror pours in and if I shift my eyes from the window to where Pi Nu is sitting, he almost becomes a silhouette as my pupils struggle to adjust between the contrasts in bright and dim. The numbers on the face of his phone countdown and the bell sounds to start the next round. Pi Nu’s foot hits the floor and he looks over to me, eyebrows raised. It’s something between commanding and inviting. Something between Kru and Pi. I shove my hands back into my gloves and wipe the hair away from my face and we lock eyes as we meet in the middle of the mats, like a planet at the center of Bank’s scratchy outer rings. I put my right side forward and Pi Nu adjusts his feet to match my Southpaw stance, then spends the rest of the round trying to force me back into Orthodox. There is no “winning,” only this constant revolving.

If you enjoyed this article you may enjoy the others in the series:

ARTICLES - Patreon Magazine

• Patron Only Articles - These articles are written specially for my patrons and are my attempts to expand as a writer. They are full of richer descriptions, and take on themes not always talked about in the experience of being a fighter. At least one is published a month, if not two.

Arjan Surat: The Unbreakable Breaker of Bangkok | Maybe the toughest, hardest man in Thailand. Arjan Surat is 63 and made of the stuff that feels like it's from 100 years ago. The unbreakable breaker. read it here 

When I First Met Dieselnoi: A Giant in my Soul | The powerful impression the legendary Dieselnoi made on me right from the start, a resonating impact that has made on me as a person. read it here 

The Perfection of Festival Fights in Thailand | A trip to the clinic to receive a boosting IV leaves me drifting through thoughts of belonging, as I listen to my kru talk about me to the nurse. read it here 

Cheet Yaa - "if there were no cuts it wouldn't be Sylvie" | A trip to the clinic to receive a boosting IV leaves me drifting through thoughts of belonging, as I listen to my kru talk about me to the nurse. read it here 

The Hurting Game - The Psychology of Hurt | Even though I've fought over 200 times being the one who hurts others, that the game is hurting, is still a psychology I need to embrace. read it here 

A Girl and Her Bag - the Intimacy of Work | Every fighter who has spent a long amount of time in the gym has to fall in love with their bag - how bagwork contains its own beauty. read it here 

Jai Rohn - My Story of Blood, My Pride and Stitches | My heart was racing, I was upset at my performance, and then there was the pain of stitches, more painful than any stitches I've had before. read it here