The Knockout

Pink was reserved for the most badass in the sport of Muay Thai. It was an unspoken rule. You had to earn it. I, Kareena Thakkar, was at the top my game . . . at least when it came to my division and weight class in Texas, anyway. But that didn’t give me the right to wear pink. Nuh-uh, not yet. I knew deep in my bones that one day I would rock the most coveted color in all the land, but for now, pink gloves sufficed.

Sweat poured in rivulets down my body like this was the fight of my life, and the aforementioned pink gloves got their licks in. My fists were up to protect my face and every muscle and nerve were lit. I ducked and dodged and hit and punched. My lungs pounded out breaths in controlled grunts. Adrenaline surged through my veins. My teammates called me “the girl on fire.” I scorched the ring and this blonde chick had nothing on me.

At least, that was what I told myself during every fight. They were good, but I was better. They were tough, but I was fierce. They hit and punched hard, but I was stone. And what did stones do when they careened toward. someone? Why, they knocked them out. And Mama said knock. You. Out.

In this very moment, the cheering crowd muffled into bleak silence, sending a ringing through my ears. Every face blurred into one long, ambiguous slate of heaving bodies.

I counted the milliseconds as everything went into slow-mo. My breaths escaped hard, roaring in my chest. My skin tingled with excitement and anticipation. I bounced on the balls of my feet. My nails dug deep into the leather of my gloves.

I was fit from years of training, but parts of me would always be skinny. Peers ridiculed my tiny wrists with sharp, jutting bones. I had chicken calves and bony ankles. But the good thing about possessing all of that? I also had sharp, strong-as-hell elbows and those were fan-freaking-tastic for Sok Ngad. The Uppercut Elbow. In I went. Striking my opponent and bringing her to her knees.

Most people didn’t get this, this whole Muay Thai business. Too much violence. Too much hatred. It was the sort of stuff left for boys. Cuz what? Boys would be boys? Boys could act rough and girls had to sit with ankles crossed in pristine dresses and keep their opinions to themselves?

Society said girls shouldn’t be fighting. Indian girls especially shouldn’t do these things, yaar! But right now? Whatever anyone else said or thought didn’t matter. This was a sport of passion, of skill, of years and tears in the making.

I had a way of wiggling into my opponents’ heads, knowing their fighting patterns and logic. The equally strong blonde had managed to kick me in the ribs in the first round and stepped in to go after my injured side. With moves faster than anyone in my local weight/age range, I shifted toward Jenny and went uppercut, slicing through the marginal space between her gloves and knocking her back. But ah nah, I wasn’t done with her, following with a quick rear cut and taking. Her. Out.

Jenny hadn’t even hit the floor when the crowd exploded, screaming, applauding, and chanting, “K.O.-K.O.! K.O.-K.O.!” Lyrical music to my pounding ears.

Yeah, she wasn’t going to last an entire three rounds with me. I stepped back into my corner, bouncing and shaking off the adrenaline, and ignored the searing pain racing down my forearms while watching the girl on the floor. It took three tries for her to sit up and cup her bleeding face. Where did all that blood come from anyway? Her nose? Lips? Teeth?

Suck it up, Buttercup. This was Muay Thai.