Fight Like a Girl - Sheena Kamal Page 0,5
the real fighters spar nightly until we almost pass out. Some of them flash big smiles at everyone and we know those are the girlfriends that are gonna end up as ring girls, and there’s no fate worse than being a ring girl in a sport that actually includes girls as competitors. But sure, be eye candy.
“What’s with you?” asks Amanda. Noor has gone home with The Fiancé and there’s only a handful of the fighters left, trying to get in that last bit of training for the night, trying to beat some sense into themselves or the other guy. Amanda gets behind my heavy bag and holds it for my push kicks. She bends her legs, takes the force on her flexed thigh rather than her belly.
“Nothing.”
She gives me a knowing look. Even though we’re the same age, she’s always looking at me like that. I’m beyond being offended by it, though, because it’s Amanda, and she’s almost a legend in our gym. She made the Canadian team last year, but a knee injury kept her from competing internationally. Still, everyone was jealous because she came off her injury even better than she was before, and how does that happen? There’s no chance of her not making the team again this year.
“Your dad’s back?” she asks now, out of nowhere.
How did she know?
“Don’t really want to talk about it.” The impact of my next kick sends her a step back.
“You train harder when he’s here. Might be a good thing since you can’t quit losing in the ring.”
My face burns. I’m so embarrassed I can’t look at her. My next few kicks are off, too. Like, I know I’m shit in the ring, but I can’t help it, and I can’t stop from going in there either. “You might as well quit before you get any worse,” she smirks. “Come on, I’ll take the train with you.”
Where we’re from, legends take the train, too.
Before I go, I look over at Kru, who’s doing his own drills on the speed bag. He doesn’t break rhythm but gives us a little nod of the head to say goodbye.
Sometimes I try to tell how old Kru is, but this is almost impossible because of his amazing skin. He could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five and you wouldn’t be surprised at either end. Once, between rounds on a pad session, I asked him why he liked Muay Thai so much, being from the Philippines. He just sighed and gave me more push-ups to do. Kru doesn’t have time to explain personal shit to people, so unless you have a question about technique, you’re out of luck. Sometimes, though, he’ll bring pizza to the gym when we’re trying to cut weight the hardest, just to remind us what’s important in life. Cheese and happiness. So we don’t take ourselves too seriously.
I think I’ve loved Kru for years, but not like you’re thinking. I don’t want him to touch me or anything, you perv. I just want to spend most of my waking hours at his gym…but everyone has to go home sometime.
Right?
It’s not parka weather yet, so we’re in our standard sweats as we wait for the train together. Amanda’s wearing her Team Canada gear. I wonder if the situation was reversed whether I’d hold my success over her head. She’s got three belts to her name already and a social media following the rest of us could only dream of. If—in some kind of multiverse where there are an infinite number of mes standing here while the Toronto chill sneaks past the fabric of my clothes and pricks at my skin—if one of them is a champ and one of her isn’t, would that make me feel sorry for her?
I sneak a glance at her. Her eyes are on the tracks. Figures. Champs and almost-champs, they’re always looking ahead. So now I’m doing it, too, and feeling proud of my new focus on the immediate future. We stand there, not just waiting for the train but willing it closer. She doesn’t ask me any more about my dad, and it’s a blessed relief. The thing about the gym is nobody is all that interested in what your life is like outside its walls. It’s just not that important.
* * *
The next few days are brutal. I stand just outside the front door and listen before I walk in on anything. Ma is shouting less than she usually does. I wonder if