I Fought Ivan Drago

It’s day four of Muay Thai training and my stats aren’t great. I’ve been to one session and have spent the last two days teleporting between my bed and the bathroom. Not the start I was hoping for.

I’ve flipped a page this morning, though. Time for redemption.  

I strap my hands – this time in the gym because I’m confident enough to do it right without help from my trusty assistant: YouTube – and grab a skipping rope before they run out, leaving Ollie to hop awkwardly at the back of the class with his own imaginary rope. I think it’s a rite of passage around here.

The coaches have set up the same three stations, except today I do them in reverse.

I start in the ring, strategically choosing sparring partners that don’t possess the same serial killer eyes or Hercules physique of my last partner.

‘Change station,’ one coach yells. I move to the bags. I like this station. Bags don’t hit back.

‘Change,’ he yells again. I find a coach with pads. Mission today: stay on my feet.

‘Jab, cross, hook, elbow.’ I throw each strike quickly and accurately, putting a subtle smirk on the coach’s face that reads, ‘not bad Farang’ – which loosely translates to ‘good job white boy.’

The station ends and I sigh with relief. There’s just one problem; there’s still 10 minutes left.The coaches direct the class to put our shinpads on and mouthguards in. We have three rounds of Muay Thai sparring.

I pick out two less experienced looking guys for the first and second round. We spar at 20 per cent effort like the coaches instructed. This is a breeze.

Now it’s round three. A buzzed-headed neck-tatted Rambo-looking fella singles me out.

‘You. With me,’ he says with a thick Russian accent. What can I do? Say no thanks?

We start sparring and he immediately comes out of the gate all guns blazing. If this is 20 per cent, I don’t want to know what his 100 per cent looks like, though I’m confident I’m already looking at it.

For every punch I send to his torso, he rocks me in my nose. For every punch I throw at his chin, he pelts me in my ribs. 30 seconds left.

I step back and wipe my face with my left glove only to see a smear of blood spread across the red Bangtao logo that I swear was silver only a minute ago. I lift my head with a delirious look on my face, only to meet the unforgiving eyes of the sociopathic sadist standing over me. 

‘It is fine with me. Keep going,’ he says with a malevolent smirk you’d expect from a Hollywood villain.

‘Alright Ivan Drago,’ I say in my head but not out loud because that would be a recipe for disaster.

My hands go up again and this time they don’t leave my head. I tense my core and eat the body shots that he feeds me as I count down the last 20 seconds. I can feel the red river stream from my nose trickling its way down my neck, shoulders and arms, and all I can taste is the cocktail of blood, sweat and saliva that’s set up shop in my mouthguard.

‘Time!’ Thank God.

I rip my bloodstained gloves off and stumble to my gear in the back-right corner of the gym, as far away from Drago as possible.

I think that’s enough for day four.