The year, I saw red I took up Muay Thai boxing from a family friend who was a Buddhist Monk-turned Thai masseur by day, Thai Chef at The Star by night.
“Yhu hap tu be strung, in here” he tapped his temple. “Ip yhu wan really hurt, yhu muss use deir own porce agains dem. Push op deir knee, fly tru de air, elbow up, elbow up! Crack deir head lik a watermeron. Walk away. Try. Yhu try.”
Friday nights, he taught me Muay Thai boxing for free and I became the body bag for all the stumpy Irish guys training for their MMA championships on weekends. Thump. Readjust the kick bag, it’s fallen with the sticky sweat. Whump. Shooting pain though the hip. Thump. Stand your ground, tense the muscles. Whump. Don’t blink or You Dead. Thump. Ice pack later, get back up now. Whump. Inked shamrock and a tribute to Belinda flashes left in a haymaker. Eyes water, hot streaks tear down my cheeks. Christ. Taste salt and Spit red. Drink break.
I only stopped when I felt my pelvis give out. My chiropractor told me that if I didn’t stop, I’d be needing steel robs in my back.
An ultimatum like that helps demist the windscreen.