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T THE KNOCKOUTHE KNOCKOUT

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.
The referee sliced down through the air with his hand,
to make sure everyone was clear on the count, as he yelled,
“. . . Eight! Nine! Ten! Fight over! Kareena Thakkar for the win!”
Everything else was nonconsequential. I extended my hand
to Jenny. She glared up at me, holding her bleeding face in one
hand as her instructor entered the ring to help her. She got
up on her own, a bit woozy, and we made a short bow toward
one another in respect.
During the fight, she was just the “other girl.” One of the
coolest things about the sport was how we could be competitors
in the ring and friends (or friendly, in the case of Jenny) outside.
“I whipped your butt.” I stuck out my tongue when my
coach had turned away.
Jenny rolled her eyes and nursed her sprains and pains and
let her instructor dab her bleeding face before she stained the
entire mat. If she was anything like me, and I knew she was,
she’d replay the match over and over in her head, wondering
where she could’ve done better. And then actually do better
next time.
“Good fight,” she said, her voice nasally as she held her
nose upward. “I won’t be the one bleeding next time, though.”
“Can’t wait.” I grinned.
Time to shower off the sweat and grime, slather on Icy Hot
like a med addict, slip into baggy sweats, and call it a night.
Coach and all of my teammates wanted to grab dinner, as was
the custom after winning a big fight, but I didn’t have it in me.
“Sorry!” I called back, slinging my old, trusty duffel bag

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