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I meet Lai on a stiflingly humid October morning in Phuket, Thailand. It isn’t even 8, but already droplets of condensation cling defiantly to my body. Lai solemnly takes my hands in his and introduces himself. I’m here for a private Muay Thai kickboxing session, and Lai came highly recommended by a friend. We start the class with some basic drills, so he can assess my technique. Having done Muay Thai before, I’m certain my athletic skills will surpass his expectations. We do a few minutes of pad work, and with every punch and kick, his eyes narrow in disapproval. He looks at me forlornly. “No…” He corrects my stance and holds up the pads again. After a few more minutes, where I continue to disappoint him, he drops the pads. “Ok… TV! Come.” He leads me to the far end of the gym, by the full-length mirrors. “Look TV.” “Look at the mirror?” I ask, pointing at our reflections. “Yes, TV. Look!” he says, and pushes my head forward. He demonstrates a proper roundhouse kick. We do it together, slowly at first. He is a perfect display of grace, power, and agility. Beside him is a baby giraffe having a seizure. “Noooo…” he cries. After several more tries, when his dismay becomes almost unbearable, he stops me. “Now, kick is…” he wags his fingers back and forth, to indicate overwhelming mediocrity. _____________________________________________________ I’ve had several lessons with Lai now, and although I was confident that I’d soon impress him with my physical prowess, this hasn’t happened. Most of our sessions have ended with him holding onto a punching bag, fake-sobbing in exasperation. He told me that long ago, he used to train a prominent UFC fighter. A cursory Google-stalking revealed that he’d been fighting since he was seven, and had moved to Bangkok on his own to earn a living as a professional fighter. I’m curious about this unassuming, laconic man. I want to know his story, but we are impeded by a language barrier and a lack of time. How did this incredible athlete go from training a professional mixed martial artist abroad to working at a local Muay Thai gym, training an asthmatic Canadian girl with the dexterity of an aging sea turtle? I looked forward to our lessons each day, both for the learning experience and for Lai’s solicitous care and sense of humour. I was determined that eventually, he would be proud of me, and wouldn’t end our classes ugly-crying in the corner. _____________________________________________________ Lai and I are working on my teep (front kick). Lai is nervously holding the kick pad around his mid-section. “Careful,” he warns, gesturing to his crotch area, which is partially covered by the bottom of the pad. I nod, and we start. My aim is awful. I manage to hit the pad about 70% of the time, but only 10% are reaching the centre. The other times, my kicks land south of the pad. “You see tiger???” Lai yelps, pointing at the orange tiger painted on the pad. “Yes…” “Why you no kick tiger if you see tiger?” “Um… because I have the coordination of a drunk gazelle?” “Please, careful!” Lai pleads with me. “You see tiger, you kick tiger! No kick here and here!” Lai gestures at his nether regions, directly under the pad. “Ok…” I am determined to do this. See the tiger… Be the tiger… I teep the pad hard, hitting it right below the tiger. Lai doubles over, gingerly holding his groin. “I’m so sorry…” He looks up at me from the ground. “BREAK!!” I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help myself. My whole body is shaking with the effort of controlling this inappropriate display of joy. I recently read that a child laughs over 400 times a day, while an adult only laughs a dismal 17. In that class, I laughed so hard I had to hold myself to keep from rupturing my spleen. _____________________________________________________ At the end, Lai takes my payment card. “I’m so tired…” “You didn’t sleep well last night?” I ask sympathetically. “No. I sleep good. Because of you, I am very tired.” He turns and walks away, most likely to jump off a cliff.