I have never once been tempted to view or attend a boxing match. It is savage and uncivilized, and watching people hurt one another for entertainment seems degrading to all parties, participants and spectators alike.

So, obviously, I attended a traditional Muay Thai kickboxing match at Bangkok’s classic Rajadamnern Stadium, first opened to the public in 1945. Because… it’s savage and uncivilized? Also, because it’s a thing here, and I should do the things here? Although that line of reasoning is dangerous, as it ends in a gogo bar with new friends and a noticeably lighter wallet.

Well, I’m here to learn about the local culture, and Muay Thai is quintessential Thai culture. So let’s carpe the fucking diem. Together, of course. I can feel you right by my side.

The Spectacle

Before we get to the actual boxing, there’s the context. Maybe this is what boxing matches in the west are like, wouldn’t know, but the bombast felt most to me like an NBA game. There were t-shirts thrown to the audience (by hand, no cannons), there were light shows and Dance Cams and Friend Cams and Kiss Cams. The Kiss Cam stopped on one couple. She waved at the camera and he, without a moment’s hesitation, lifted his shirt and played with his nipple. Like, “Kiss Cam, right. Better bust out the signature move.”

There was an emcee who spoke almost entirely in English, making the whole event feel like something staged for the entertainment of farangs. Said English was delivered with the exaggerated cadence I associate with WWE hype men. Plus twerking. He twerked. In a totally dignified way. Stop judging.

Of course, the legacy Rajadamnern Stadium has been updated to incorporate the full, necessary, and expected multimedia extravaganza.

The in between rounds action was almost as good as the boxing. Here we see the vigorous rubdown and the extravagant dousing with water. This clip stops short of the work inside the trunks, which seemed to be a consistent feature. Trunks pulled out, hands dipped in. I think it was like, “Sure, I’ll go risk permanent injury for you. But I’m getting the Happy Ending, motherfucker. Right here, right now!”

I think all the dousing is in service of the dramatic halo of water droplets they produce when they’re hit, the boxing equivalent of a cinematic lens flare.

The boxing itself seemed… weird? Not like I have a baseline, but it wasn’t at all clear what’s forbidden, as it had a more than expected flavoring of street fighting. Clinching, head kicks, noogies, kneeing, head locks, kidney punching, kidney kicking, wedgies, rolling on the mat like wrestlers, and, apparently, just throwing your opponent to the ground.

I’m sure twerking was reserved for the emcee, but other than that it seemed like a free-for-all. The only time the referee intervened was to pull the boxers apart from a clinch. And it didn’t appear they were permitted to clinch until someone broke a rule or crossed some ill-defined line. It seemed more like, “OK, enough. You’re boring the audience. Move on.”

The net effect was kind of like watching an NFL highlight reel with nothing but concussions (*sigh* – I checked, and of course that’s a real thing that actually exists). There were eleven bouts and I stayed for all of them. Because it was kind of fun. Not like the most fun I’ve ever had and a high I’ll be chasing the rest of my life. But I kind of expected that I’d watch a few bouts and leave, queasy but impressed with my open mind and stout heart. But I had fun. I found it hard not to get swept up in the crowd’s blood lust enthusiasm. Who knew I was that simple? Shut up.

But you’re here for the savagery and I’ve kept you waiting. I’m a very poor host.

If you find boxing and its brethren morally offensive or just difficult to watch, you can stop here. You have been trigger-warned.

The Sweet Science

I always assumed that description was a Mailer-ism, as if somehow we needed more proof that the man was a clown. Turns out it was coined in 1813 by a British sportswriter. People have been stupid for such a very long time.

The boxers ranged in age from 16 to 37 and were paired in bouts by weight, although the weight groups topped out at 140 pounds; these well-oiled gladiators weren’t carrying a spare ounce. The pairings showed no regard for age, however. Oldsters fought against youngsters, with winners on either side of the divide. The 37 year old lost to a 19 year old, and a 16 year old was flattened by a 27 year old. C’est la fucking vie.

Round One of the first bout was underwhelming, as the two teenage boxers circled one another like kittens, with only a tentative jab or kick breaking the routine. It was interesting to see the little timing steps they took before a kick, bringing an unexpected element of dressage to the proceedings.

Then they started boxing. By Round Four a cut had opened up on the Blue boxer’s forehead, offering the evening’s only blood. Despite that, it went the full five rounds and was won by Blue by unanimous decision.

Then it got serious. Of the remaining ten bouts, four ended in knockouts. This one features the 27 year old Italian taking out the 16 year old Thai in the first round. Not for the faint of heart. The excellent view, by the way, courtesy of my ringside seat. You’re welcome.

Yet another knockout, of an entirely different nature. This features the Moroccan fighter, who I thought was the evening’s best kicker, knocking out his overmatched Thai opponent in the second round.

To zero in on a specific technique, it seems perfectly legal to just grab your opponent’s leg and hold on.

Of course, no night is complete, boxing match or not, without women beating each other up. Here we have our combatants, a sneering Thai boxer and her pensive Eastern European counterpart.

The Thai boxer knocked the other woman’s mouthguard out in the very first round, foreshadowing her win by unanimous decision.

The final bout of the night just had to end in another knockout. This one featured the 19 year old knocking out the 16 year old in the second round.

Then there’s this. Not the final bout, but the most devastating knockout. I had just missed filming this, but my adorable, nearsighted French seatmate shared his video with me. Shout out to Hugo for this video.

I refer to him as both adorable and nearsighted for the same reason, by the way. We were chatting and I had made some reference to living in New York City in the 80s and 90s, and he asked how old I was. In response his eyes got big and he told me, no way, he’d pegged me for 45. I love you, Hugo. Never change.

And there you have it. I enjoyed that. Is there something wrong with me? Certainly. Is this evidence of what it might be? Maybe? Please vote in the comments.