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Although I knew what to do, and it wasn’t that complicated, I was still a little nervous.
    Neungsiam’s bout was one of the main events of the evening, and a key step in his comeback. The Thais called him “Mr. Smart,” and if you watched him fight, you knew exactly what they were talking about: He was cold and calculating and explosive. Above all, he was patient, his dark eyes missing nothing, blocking everything, and he loved to punch. A fight was just finishing and Neungsiam was up next.
    A typical muay Thai fight starts out slowly. The trainers or promoters are good at matching fighters, and there are few knockouts. The fighters begin by feeling each other out, probing for an obvious weakness. The first round or two might see just a few kicks and blocks per round; the fighters are aware that they must carefully conserve energy for the ordeal of the rounds deeper into the fight. The later rounds, the third and fourth, are where the fights are usually decided. The fighters often go straight into the clinch as they tire, looking to land knees for the most points. The pace quickens, and there is no way to communicate how strenuous this is. Going twelve rounds in Western boxing is a breeze compared to going five in muay Thai—at least, that’s according to Apidej, who had boxed professionally as well.
    Neungsiam’s opponent was a current top fighter, higher ranked, and the betting favorite. He was younger and leaner, but he seemed quickly intimidated by Neungsiam’s calm hostility and heavy touch. Neungsiam had power as well as speed, and his careful thinking and reasoning were apparent from ringside. I was too focused on the match to feel any stage fright when Kum and I leapt into the ring to massage Neungsiam between rounds; I just didn’t want to screw up my tiny part of the whole effort. In the corner between rounds, I filled my mouth with water and sprayed it onto Neungsiam’s legs and then roughly and vigorously massaged him, while Kum did the same to his upper body. The crowd breathed like the sea around us.
    The fight turned into a muay Thai clinic: Neungsiam took his opponent apart. He checked the kicks and counter-kicked with devastating power, and he punished his man whenever he tried something. Muay Thai matches are very much about composure: breathing through the nose, appearing unwinded and unhurt. Neungsiam’s calm, utterly hostile gaze cut through his man and everyone could see it. He hit too hard and his defense was too complete for his opponent; the man couldn’t find a rhythm and looked more and more ill at ease while trying to appear calm and collected. In the middle of the third round, Neungsiam chased him down in a flurry of pinpoint hard punches—you almost never jab in muay Thai—and knocked him out. He strode coolly away, shaking his right fist in triumph. It was awesome. His opponent left in a wheelchair.
     
     
    One day when I was in the office, e-mailing my mom, Anthony strode in and said he’d found an opponent for me. I finished the e-mail without mentioning it. The fight was set for July 14, nearly two months away, and I would be facing a heavyweight Japanese fighter who was also new to muay Thai. Anthony was relieved to have found an opponent for me; there were maybe only two Thais fighting near my weight (around 185 pounds) in the whole country, and they both would have obliterated me.
    Once my fight was scheduled, it loomed like a long, dark cloud on the horizon. I trained as hard as I could each day, full out. I joined the long morning runs with the Lumpini fighters who were about to fight, out in the dark before anyone else would go. I was discovering the key to building endurance: Push on when you feel you can’t, and next time that moment will come later. I had to push hard, because the fight was a “professional” fight, meaning five rounds.
    I had some doubts that would eat into my heart late at night, or when waking from an afternoon nap, but strangely enough my