The Renaissance Man Project is an original non-fiction novel by Nathaniel Kostar, occasionally known as Nate Lost. Follow 
The afternoon Muay Thai beginner session is crowded with about 30 people, plus 6 or 7 trainers, mostly men in their 20’s and 30’s from America, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Europe, and Latin America, with a few women and older men sprinkled into the mix.
The head trainer is a Thai man in his mid-forties named Dang who jokingly calls himself “Mr. Miyagi” and carries a long thin stick he uses to smack younger trainers and sometimes the students he knows who are having trouble keeping up with the workout.
Sometimes he lets loose a solid whack or kicks one of the trainers in the ass if they don’t follow directions or are slow to demonstrate a technique, and he no doubt receives satisfaction from making them wince. The blows aren’t malicious, and his goofing lightens the mood of training, but it also reinforces his position as the eldest, head trainer—the man with the stick.
One look at Dang and you can tell he was a fighter. Both ears are cauliflowered, one significantly more than the other, and his left knee is scarred and about two inches off center. He sports a bald head and a thick goatee, and is stockier than the other trainers. He’s no longer in fighting shape, but still hard-bodied with traces of definition in his arms and legs.
He also looks and acts a little bit like a pirate. As he yells at us to get ready for warm-ups—“Let go! In the middle, we stretch!”—his voice cracking like dried leaves on a walking trail, I imagine him climbing a rope onto the stern of a ship, equipped with bandana, sword, and gold tooth, demanding the captain hand over the booty in broken English.
“Don’t forget bring water. O’ I hit’chou with stick!” he shouts with a sly grin as we spread out on the mats to stretch. In other words, stay hydrated.
After stretching, we form a circle and jog laps. While we jog, we are told to keep our hands up in a boxer stance and throw punches.
“Left jab!” “Right jab! “Left uppercut!” “Right uppercut!” “Left hook!” Dang shouts from outside the circle, and the large group of sweaty barefoot fighters obey.
After a twenty-minute warmup, we begin a group exercise focused on form. We are spaced about three feet apart, facing the long row of mirrors that line the front of the workout space. It reminds me of Kung Fu movies except that we’re dressed differently, hail from different countries, and almost everyone is shirtless. Dang commands from the front of the room in front of a mirror that stretches the length of the mats—“Left jab!”…he begins slowly.“Right hook!”… “Block punch!... Right kick! Left leg block!” “Right hook!”
It must be obvious that I don’t know what I’m doing, because after the first few punches a trainer pulls me aside.
The trainer’s name is Chokchai, a short, almost pudgy, baby-faced man in his mid-30’s with a goofy smile. Unlike Dang, whose whole demeanor is aggressive, Chokchai resonates a friendly, happy vibe. He isn’t cut like most of the other trainers (many of whom still compete in Muay Thai bouts), but round all over.
First, he shows me how to stand correctly. He lightly touches my shoulders and adjusts them so that they are aligned with the mirrors at the front of the facility and not opened to my right. Next, he taps my back-right foot with his foot, and when I fail to adhere to his signal he reaches down and moves my foot with his hands. The feet, he tells me, should be positioned shoulder length apart, and the hips should be squared towards the front of the room. Now my left leg is only a few inches in front of my right, a stance which seems awkward for someone who’s only exposure to fighting has been watching Western Boxing, a style where the back foot is usually significantly behind the front; a stance that enables jabs from the off-hand and powerful overhands and hooks from the fighter’s strong arm. In Muay Thai, however, the stance is not designed to maximize an attack by punches, but rather by kicks and knees. Now my back-leg’s toes are in line with the front leg’s heel and all my toes point straight ahead at my imaginary adversary. Finally, he raises my elbows so that my fists are up by my temples, blocking the face and head. Before his assistance, I was holding my fists down by my chin, leaving half of my head open to attack.
By the time I’m in a proper stance, I’m stiff as tree bark, and Chokchai lets out a boisterous laugh.
“Calm!” he shouts, smiling like he’s being tickled. “Relax. Relax.”
He walks behind me and massages my shoulders. But I can’t relax and at the same time feel “ready.” I’m like a dancer trapped in the head. My body mimics my own cerebral anxiety instead of flowing with the music.
“Now kick!”
I heave my right leg forward in my best attempt to mimic every fighting movie I’ve seen from Karate Kid to Bloodsport, but the resulting blow wouldn’t knock dust off the bag.
“Again!”
Not much better.
Chokchai smiles. “Okay stop. Lift leg.”
I raise my right leg and he grabs ahold of my knee and thigh. He twists my leg ninety degrees so my shin faces the bag. “Like this!” he says, “Bang!” But my hips aren’t flexible enough to bend in such a way without his help. “You strike here,” he says, touching where the arch between my shin and foot forms, but now with my toes flexed forward forms a (hypothetically) hard, flat weapon.
Chokchai assists me for about fifteen minutes before the group is divided up for sparring. There are three girls out of the group, and I’m the only guy chosen to go with the girls.
(Me & Chokchai)
I’m paired off with a girl from Canada who has thighs like redwoods and has been training at Tiger for months. We tie our hand wraps with the help of the trainers, then put on gloves and shin pads that awkwardly cover the tops of our feet up to just below the knee. She wears a tight black tank top soaked through with sweat. I’m in shorts.
We begin to spar, and I notice the shin pads are too big for me and flap loose around my shins and feet. My kicks, without Chokchai guiding me, are slow and awkward. I possess neither the flexibility nor technique to make them snap.
And after I kick, I often lose balance and spin around 360 degrees to regain my stance—a perfect opportunity for my opponent to kick my ass, literally and figuratively.
The loose leg pad complicates my already awkward stance, and the Canadian, sound in her form, blocks my attacks easily. She raises her muscular leg at the knee to form a shin-shield that protects her torso and deflects my clumsy kicks.
She is poised. Basically, she knows what the fuck she’s doing in a ring, and I don’t have a clue. When my leg limbos, caught in no man’s land between attack and protect, she attacks—her powerful thighs twist and bend and her leg slices at my ribs before I have time to block.
The sparring session isn’t painful, physically at least, for neither of us are fighting with much of our strength. And when I take my time I begin to block most of her kicks. I am quicker and stronger than she is. But the game is also chess, and I don’t know the rules.
In my defense, it’s the first time I’ve ever been inside a ring sparring with anyone. But I know what my friends would say, and what my conscience is saying as I step out of the ring, and it’s something like this—On your first day training Muay Thai, you got your ass kicked by a girl. And not just any girl, a Canadian.
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Read Intro, Part 1
Read Intro, Part 2
Read Intro, Part 3
Read Intro, Part 4