Why do we fight?

What right-minded person would voluntarily put themselves in a position to be hit with punches, kicks, knees, and elbows? Why would anyone choose to risk being cut, beat up or knocked out, with a crowd of onlookers to boot? What does someone gain from dedicating weeks, months, and years to a gruelling training regimen and strict diet, just to have a fight with a complete stranger at the end of it all?

These are, in truth, completely valid and understandable questions. The answers, on the other hand, are perhaps not so obvious.

Of course, anyone who is familiar with Muay Thai will be aware of the countless fighters in the sport’s homeland who compete as professionals, earning a living in rings from countryside fairs and temples, to the storied Bangkok stadia. You’ve probably seen the documentaries on young Thai children, supporting their families through their exploits in the ring, dreaming of one-day becoming a champion and lifting their family out of poverty.

This, though, is not our story.

Here in the West, most of us live much more comfortable lives than nak muay in Thailand. We have jobs that ensure we can always put food on the table and a roof over our heads, with disposable income to pursue our interests and hobbies.

We aren’t fighting to survive. So why fight at all?

There are as many answers to this question as there are people to answer it. Our drive and motivation to compete in, arguably, the toughest fighting sport in the modern world, is unique to each individual.

Those who do not care to understand us, may assume that we are violent thugs, a throwback to a primitive urge that mankind should have outgrown already. This is far from the truth. The vast majority of fighters I have met are humble, respectful and peaceful people (outside of the ring, at least). Personally, I have always been a calm, placid person with little taste for confrontation. Why on earth, then, do I feel this irrepressible urge to put myself in the ring?

A throwback to more primitive and violent times?

 

It is no exaggeration to say that Muay Thai changed my life. When I first stepped into Shor Chana Muay Thai gym, I was chubby, unfit and suffering from a severe lack of self-confidence that had plagued my life to that point. I was also in a pretty shitty place, mentally, coming out of a long-term relationship and feeling pretty lost. Muay Thai gave me a focus, a passion, a reason to make the right decisions. Slowly, gradually, my lifestyle changed. I trained more and more, started to eat better and take care of my body. The results were clear. I got leaner, stronger and fitter. I felt better in myself and my body. Perhaps less obviously, my confidence and self-esteem grew. It wasn’t so much that I became a different person; more that, by chipping away at the things that were holding me back, I allowed the better aspects of my nature to fully emerge.

My life began to revolve around Muay Thai. I train every chance I get and factor this into virtually every decision I make. And yet, this itself is not enough. There must be a final step, some way to demonstrate and test the growth and development I make. There is only one place you can truly do this. In the ring. In this place, you cannot hide. You cannot project some fake image of yourself, whether it is what you mistakenly believe you are or what you want everyone else to think you are, and it hold true. In the ring, there is only you and your opponent. He has been through the same things as you, sacrificed just like you, and wants to win just like you. Only one of you can emerge as a victor. No-one will hand it to you, you don’t get it just for trying. It is the ultimate test of what you are truly made from.

I make no embellishments or excuses. Things haven’t always gone to plan in the ring for me. Indeed, I’ve lost more fights than I’ve won. That’s life. It doesn’t always go the way you hope. What are you going to do then? Give up? Say, at least I tried but this isn’t for me? Or swallow your pride, learn what lessons you can, get back in the grind and prepare to do it all again.

I have considered giving up fighting. I won’t lie about that. There was a difficult period earlier this year, training for a fight in less than ideal circumstances. I started to question if it was all worth it. I started thinking about what life would be like if I didn’t have to train every night and cut weight. If I could just train when I felt like it, eat whatever I wanted. If I could pursue my other interests that so far had to be subordinate to my Muay Thai training. Plus, I wasn’t getting any younger. The end of my twenties was looming. I’d often said that I would consider hanging up the gloves when I hit 30. Shit, that day was coming fast and I wasn’t anywhere close to achieving my goals.

A number of fights falling through exacerbated the problem, denying me the frequency of fighting that I felt was required to reach my goals. Nothing will make you question if it is all worth it, like a fight being scrapped days before the event, after you’ve already put in all the hard work both in the gym and in the kitchen.

After losing my fight, I thought I was done. I’d had enough. It just didn’t seem worthwhile any more. I expected relief, a weight off my shoulders. Instead, there was an emptiness, that hollow feeling that comes when you do not know what is next in life. I wasn’t excited about the things I’d be allowed to do now.

Then I talked to my trainer, Master Chana. His unwavering belief in my potential, which as yet I had failed to fully realise in the ring, reignited my self-belief. I could still achieve what I had set out to do. I started to think again about what life would be like if I quit fighting. I started to think, not about the things I would gain, but the things I would lose. Without this single, overarching drive, what would I be working towards, what would I be getting out of bed for in the morning? I was still single, I’ve never been overly career-focused, and, whilst I had other interests and passions, none of them ignited me like Muay Thai. I had no replacement.

I know the time will come when I will hang up the gloves, and I’ve long wanted to follow into teaching Muay Thai once this day came. So, even if I wasn’t fighting, I’d still be in the gym all the time. If I was still going to put the time in, why not get the end result whilst I was still physically able?

Deep down, I knew that quitting now would be something I would come to regret. We only get one shot at life, and this sport isn’t something you can do at any age. It was now or never. I could still live with the sacrifices required to live the life of a fighter. Could I live with giving up on the dream that has consumed the latter half of my twenties?

In the end, the answer was there all along.