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eyebrows and asked again if I wanted a fight. “Sure, why not?” I said. He nodded, satisfied, and walked away. I hung up my wraps to dry in the afternoon breeze and realized that I had just committed to stepping into the ring for a professional muay Thai fight. Just like that.
     
     
    Once a month the Lumpini fighters from Fairtex would go to Lumpini stadium, and two or more would have fights. These were big-money fights—career fights—with purses of eighty thousand baht (around two thousand dollars U.S.), which is serious money in Thailand. A large part of the camp would go with them, a retinue of trainers and observers and fighters dressed in their Sunday best. We would leave in a parade of vehicles, from tricked-out, low-slung pickups (Yaquit used to drag-race his) to a decrepit old van.
    Lumpini stadium was what I came to Thailand for. It epitomizes the romantic lure of Southeast Asia: the heat, the noise, the adrenaline, the betting, and the wildness. On a big night, Lumpini feels full of possibilities, with a dark and bloodstained edge. The concrete amphitheater probably holds anywhere from four to ten thousand people. There are three main sections of seats: The uppermost section consists of benches; it’s where seats are the cheapest and also where the gambling is the heaviest. The middle section has folding chairs that waitresses navigate to bring beer and food. Ringside seats are the most expensive, about twenty dollars U.S. There can be anywhere from nine to twelve fights in a night, with the main-draw fights scheduled about three-quarters of the way through the evening.
    Although my fight was not likely to happen for at least another several months—and when it did, it was not going to be in front of four to six thousand people in the Lumpini stadium—Philip wanted me to be a cornerman for Neungsiam’s comeback fight. He wanted me to get used to being in the ring in front of people, to confront that stage fright. The cornermen in muay Thai are directly involved with the fighters during the fight, much more than they are in Western boxing. When a round ends, both cornermen dart from outside the ropes and set up a stool and begin vigorously massaging and rubbing the fighter’s arms and legs. The previous week, Neungsiam had shown me what he wanted.
    In the back room there was an assembly line processing the fighters: A fighter stripped down for a vigorous massage with hot liniment, which had the effect of warming him, fully, without him having to waste a drop of energy. He then had Vaseline smeared on his face and chest so that the gloves would slide off his skin and not cut him. When his massage was finished, the fighter got off the table and the next one took his place, with his trainer as his masseur. After the oil massage, the fighter got his cup tied on and put on his fight shorts, emblazoned with his name and the name of his trainer or gym. He warmed up a bit, but not too hard, with a few minutes of shadowboxing. His trainer tied his armbands on, recited short Buddhist or Catholic prayers, and then the mongkol —a headdress that used to be made from rolled-up Buddhist scrolls but is now made of decorative plastic—was placed on his head. The mongkol, usually blessed by a priest, helped protect the fighter from harm. Fighters sported different styles of mongkols, some with tassels, some without, many with a Las Vegas garishness. While all this was happening, you could hear the pipes and drums tinking and plinking in their dissonant way, and the crowd outside shouting “ Oh-way! ” in response to a fighter’s good technique or solid hit.
    I watched Neungsiam get lubed and then start his warm-up, marching up and down the alleys in the backstage room, throwing a few punches. He seemed extremely confident and calm, even eager. He received his blessings and had his robe threaded onto him, and then Kum and I went out in our traditional red vests and took up position behind Neungsiam’s corner.