(Quick note:  the postings are slightly lagging behind where I actually am, but I wanted to catch up on a few things.  Because of the lag time, I’ve actually got another bet coming up hopefully tomorrow.  There’s a soccer game in the Paris area that I want to wager on, so check back tomorrow and I should be able to tell you ahead of time which game and which way I’m betting so you can follow the results of the game via the web (and heckle me if my squad tanks) if you’re so inclined)

So, continuing from where I left off yestarday…

I pulled into Bangkok for the second time in a week…this one via bus with a short-term travelling companion, Flor from Spain. 

The Muay Thai fights started at 6:30, which was about when our bus got into town, so we immediately stashed our packs and grabbed a tuk-tuk over to the arena.

There were ten fights on the docket, and prior to each one there is a sort of combination shadow-boxing warmup mixed with some funky dance moves, all played out to musical accompaniament from a band of drummers.  Once the fight starts it’s five rounds of punching, kicking, elbowing, kneeing and takedowns.  Possibly something is illegal in Thai fights…I don’t know what’s left though.  Even below the belt seemed in play.

The arena had that classic dark, smoky gym ambience, somehow created without any actual smoke.  There are three sections…the VIP comfy ringside chairs, the mid level cement block seats and then the upper section which is caged in with chain link fence (to deter object hurling?).

Officially, gambling is illegal, but apparently it’s of the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy of illegal, because most everyone was doing so.  Problem is, if you’re a foreigner, it’s nearly impossible to get in on the action.  Actually, it’s nearly impossible to even understand the action.  If I thought trying to decipher Japanese motoboat gambling was difficult, Muay Thai made it look as simple as flipping a coin.  Throughout the entire fight, the mass of people in the stadium are yelling and jabbing certain hand signals in the air, trying to line up bets with takers in the surrounding sections. 

Had I known, I would have come with a local who could have helped sort it out.  My attempts to ask how and what the signals meant were rebuffed.  It was pretty clear, it was a local thing and that the “Farang” (foreigners) weren’t included.  Understandable.  But I was a little disappointed. 

From what I could gather, odds were somehow decided, then after a round or so of the fighters feeling each other out, bettors yelled the man they wanted and held up fingers indicating how much they wanted to wager.  It looked like each finger was 100 baht, but there were other signals (like a forefinger/thumb tap tapping) that meant something else. 

As an outsider it looked like pure chaos as the mass of people screamed and guestured and seemingly changed bets throughout the fight.  This would play out until one fighter was obviously winning and then money would be passed to the person they had managed to wager with.  Watching them, I could never figure out who bet with whom until the money actually changed hands.  Oftentimes the other person was sections away and many wads of Baht were fed through the chain link fence.  There was a certain trust involved that a bet was locked and the amount understood, so  it is no surprise they want nothing to do with foreigners coming into the mosh pit and flubbing the whole mechanism up.  Besides, with all the intricate hand gestures I could just as likely be betting one of my kidney as a 100 baht.

Still, I had my sights set on gambling, and without a liason, I made a proposition to Flor.   Last fight of the night, we each pick sides. Obviously she wasn’t going to bet a chunck of cash, so we set it up that if her fighter wins, I will put the money toward a donation to the Cambodia orphanage we had come across back in Phnom Penh.  In addition, it would work just like one of the other bets–if I lost, I would have to go into ultra low budget mode for the next set of days.  This time in Paris.

And if I won?  She, like many Europeans I’ve come across have a tendency to bang on the US fairly frequently about this or that.  Nothing mean-spirited…it’s just hard-wired in their system at this point.  Hers was always goodnaturated ribbing, but still, feeling patriotic, I opted for some pro-America payback…if her fighter lost, she would have to speak glowingly of the States the rest of the evening.  I might even make her throw back a Big Mac and wash it down with a Starbucks Frappocino for good measure.

Before we got to our fight, we saw some serious beatdowns==one in particular which was five rounds of bell-to-bell balletic ass-kicking. 

Also on the docket was a match between two 10 year olds, tipping the scales at 82 pounds each.  In the wrong context, two 10 year olds wailing on each other in front of a crowd of grown men wagering on the fight could seem a tad sketchy, but honestly, it was more like watching a Pop Warner football game–kids playing a physical sport they obviously enjoyed.  And what 10 year old boy doesn’t enjoy beating up on his firends?  When i got boxing gloves for Christmas one year, we would spend hours pummelling each other.  One guy got the left glove.  The other the right.  You were at a distinct advantage if you got to only throw southpaw, and usually ended up being backed up into the ropes–aka, the living room wall–and had the snot pounded out of you.  It was great! 

One thing that obviously translates between cultures is the overbearing sports parent.  It was like watchng a Little League game with the poor kids getting instructions barked at them by ringside parents, despite the icy look from the trainer.

Once the last fight arrived I gave Flor first pick.  She could watch the first round play out and then choose sides.  She chose wisely.  From the start my guy wasn’t much more than a mobile punching bag.  To his credit, he made it through the fight still on his (wobbly) feet despite absorbing a ton of bell-ringers to the melon.

And so, the US bashing would have to  ontinue for another night, and I was again looking at flying into a new country–France this time–in ultra low budget mode.  But on the plus side, the money would be going to a better place than say, the Caesars Palace coffers or that Macao casino.

I know this all may sound somewhat self-serving, me trying to project some sort of altruistic bent, let me just say, I don’t really see the charity thing as my idea.  I would have been happy to have bet with the Thai guys, but as I had been trying to figure out how,  a thought flashed.  It was my stepdad. 

All along this trip, I’ve felt some sheepishness about searching out my biological father’s life.  Sheepish in that my stepfather might view it as a slight.  This is a man who brought me up since I was five and has been more of a father than anyone has a right to ask. 

And at that moment I had this sort of epiphany–a way to do something in his name while on this trip.  It would be the type of thing he would do.  Not the betting itself.  Or the hitting Bangkok for Muay Thai part. Those I don’t really see him doing.  But he would be the first do do something for others.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is , this bet was his, not mine. 

Mind you, the next one will be mine–a French Ligue 2 soccer match, which if I win will be frivolously spent on copius amounts of French wine and decadence. 

But this one,belongs to Don Hill.