Sityodtong North Shore Part 1: "The Other Side"

“The Other Side”

                As mentioned in my previous post, my quest for summer training led me to Sityodtong North Shore, a Muay Thai/MMA gym in Beverly, Massachusetts. Given the rest of my martial arts background and heavily traditional attitude toward training, it might come as a surprise that my search ended there. Yet reviewing my advice in “Finding a School”, I believe it makes perfect sense. To begin with, the realm of competitive fighting is a largely foreign one to me (not to mention nearly any style from outside Korea or Japan). By training in competitive arts with cultural roots in Thailand and the United States, I would be stepping outside my comfort zone in a number of ways, both technically and culturally, and thus expanding my horizons and broadening my knowledge more than I might have by starting up at yet another Karate or Soo Bahk Do school. That being said, my fondness for such arts is great, but my interest in training for the brief period of a summer is more exploratory than pleasure-seeking. Most of all, perhaps, training at an MMA gym would allow me to truly put my money where my mouth is. After loads of talk about how ultimately all arts teach the same principles, and that martial artists must learn to bridge the cultural and social gaps between arts to promote a more cohesive and constructive community, I have done little to learn from martial artists on “the other side” and teach them in turn.
                Though in college and the last few years I befriended several students of Brazilian Jiujutsu and MMA, and indeed had the opportunity both to exchange knowledge and engage in no small amount of friendly sparring bouts, I have yet to visit a school and receive formal training in any competitive martial art. What I call the “other side” (that is, other than the more traditional arts in which I have primarily trained) consists of the more recently-developed fighting sports which developed in the last few decades, popularized by such venues as UFC, Pride, etc. These “Mixed martial arts” (MMA) are based primarily on a fusion of Western boxing, Muay Thai, and Brazilian Jiujutsu, and bear little outward resemblance to the traditional martial arts popularized in the West years before. Many traditional martial artists scoff at the mixed martial arts for their differences in outward appearances; matches play out in cages rather than rings, fighters dress in 21^st-century style with under armor (or go shirtless to display their tattoo collection) and shorts covered in brand names, scantily clad women carry signs with the names of rounds, etc. Rather than the small, good-natured, soft-spoken stereotype of the traditional master, the stereotypical MMA fighter is the man martial arts were designed to defend against; brawny, athletic, aggressive, and mean. It has long been my opinion that these outward appearances are giving the wrong impression, and that, at their core, the mixed martial arts are not far at all from the traditional martial arts in which they take root. Nevertheless, most critics of MMA are focused only on the differences and not the similarities between these and their own doctrines.

                Through the proliferation of these differences, a rift of fear and discomfort has formed between traditional and mixed martial artists, leaving both sides sorely isolated and in many ways ignorant. Traditional martial artists may fear the “ruthless” and almost sadistic attitudes they attribute to mixed martial artists, while mixed martial artists resent condescending assertions by traditionalists that they are mere brutes who know nothing of real martial arts. The mixed martial artists in turn will label traditionalists as soft men who wouldn’t last a second in the street, while the traditionalists counter by insisting that rules and regulations make MMA fighters careless, imprecise, and ineffective in life-or-death situations. And so on it goes.

                Having been initially frustrated by the attitudes of high school classmates (all fans of UFC) and their view that traditional martial arts were unrealistic and fanciful, I met many of my first sincere acquaintances in the mixed martial arts with a chip on my shoulder. It was not long, however, before both of my fears were assuaged; I found these friends respectful and talented martial artists (not to mention great people), and further, I found that my training in traditional arts carried with it many of the same principles as their own, and surpassed their skills in as many ways as it fell short of them. After a few years of scattered and friendly sparring rounds, pad lessons, and jiujutsu workshops, I began to feel a tenuous grasp of the techniques and culture of “the other side”, but knew if I were to truly cross the gap and attempt to promote greater unity in the martial arts, I would need some serious professional training. It was time for me to dive in and see if my beliefs stood up to reality.

The Visit

                 It was this feeling (along with my desire to improve my long-range striking, spacing and timing, clinch-work, knee-strikes and left-lead kicks) which found me leaving a flustered message on an answering machine at 4:30pm the day before my last post, just after sitting through a lengthy recording of “The Voice of UFC” promoting the school and instructor to a background of hard rock. I shakily left my name and phone number, mentioning that I was interested in attending a free trial class in the next week, then hung up and headed home from work. Not long thereafter I received a call from the school and scheduled a free trial class for Tuesday the 8^th.

                Days passed quickly in my anticipation, and I soon found myself following a host of black-and-white signs advertising Muay Thai toward the rear entrance of two story building on a back street in Beverly. Hands nearly shaking with the heady excitement of an entirely new school and style, I climbed a flight of concrete steps and pushed the doors ajar, then started immediately up the nearby stairs to the training hall.  I was greeted during my ascent by the sonorous impacts of feet and shins against heavy bags, the echoing stomp of feet on the floor above, and the hissing, well-practiced exhalations of martial artists executing their techniques. Above it all, a youthful, masculine voice rang out with surprising clarity, explaining movements and techniques with unmistakable energy and the sort of earnest confidence one expects from a fighter who has tested their skills in a ring. My gut tensed nervously at the thunderous impacts echoing in the ceiling above, but before I had the chance to fear or hesitate I almost laughingly realized the familiarity of the situation.

                Eight years ago I had the same reaction as I ascended four flights of rickety wooden stairs to the top of an old brick building in Watertown, MA, where I was visiting Shobu Aikido of Boston, now my alma mater of the martial arts. I could still recall cringing and wincing at the sounds of men twice my size colliding bodily with the floor above as they were effortlessly cast about by my future teacher. It took a surprising amount of courage to finish that last flight of stairs, yet when I reached the top, I entered a world which would change my life thereafter.

                By the time I had pushed that fond memory from my head, I had reached the top of a new flight of stairs, and was standing dumbly as I stared through the wire cage at the mat before me and thirstily (though somewhat unconsciously) drank in the beginner’s Muay Thai class as it drew to a close. Coming momentarily to my senses, I checked behind the front desk, and, finding no one, quietly took a seat to watch the rest of the lesson. As usual, my attention was drawn immediately to the instructor; a young man, not more than a decade or two my senior, with a solid, athletic build, short-cropped brown hair, and a magnetic, encouraging vigor to his voice. He spoke plainly and clearly while a room-full of fighters in tank-tops, under armor, and MMA shorts watched transfixed; their concentration drawn by his slow, precise, and effortless demonstrations. There was an honest, casual, and undeniable authority in his demeanor, and it was respected unequivocally by the surrounding students.
                Coming from a more classical background, I was momentarily confused by the apparent youth of the instructor, and, accustomed as I am to meeting hardened, bearded old men when I’m introduced to the head of a school, was convinced that perhaps an assistant teacher had taken his turn with the beginner’s class. Watching the teacher’s movements, however, I began to have other suspicions. The instructor moved with the sort of loose, easy relaxation characteristic of a thoroughly competent martial artist, his strikes precise and gentle for demonstration, yet showing ominous, explosive yet skillfully restrained power to the trained eye. I was soon told at the front desk that this was in fact head instructor (or in Thai, Kru, translating to “coach” or “teacher”) Neil LeGallo, a former Muay Thai fighter who had trained in Thailand under famed Kru Toy Sityodtong Sriwaralak and renowned MMA trainer Mark Dellagrotte.

                The beginner’s class ended with several sessions of light “play” sparring (some of which, I noted in a combination of excitement and moderate fear, didn’t seem too playful) followed by conditioning exercises including chin-ups, push-ups, and sit-ups in lengthy sets. I hastily introduced myself to Kru Neil, who quickly and efficiently explained to me the workings of the school and specifics of the style and provided me with loaner boxing gloves and shinguards for the upcoming advanced class. He explained that he had chosen to start me in the advanced class in order to ensure that I got more personal attention from himself and senior students.

                Before I knew it, I was clumsily shadowboxing while trying my best to pick out the most advanced students of the class. They were easy to spot, with similarly relaxed, crisp punches and an easy bounce to their stance which I later learned was called a “stock”. I spent no small amount of time imitating the way they moved and studying what made their movements different from others around them. My year of informal training with college classmate and competitive Chinese boxing fighter Tommy Xu paid off immensely here, as I found myself throwing hooks and jabs with relative ease and conscientiously kept a guard hand at my chin at all times.

                This particular class emphasized technique. The format was consequently very similar to a standard Aikido class and thus comfortingly familiar. Kru Neil would demonstrate a technique a few times with greater emphasis on form than on power--explaining the purpose and application--then would break the group into pairs to alternate practicing the technique. At the end of each demonstration, he would ask the group “Does everyone understand?” and students would answer loudly in unison “Kup Poom!” and wai, or bow, before breaking off. Partners switched roles after a few minutes, each in turn both attacking to receive the technique  and performing the technique when attacked. Music traditionally played during Muay Thai matches (the actual name escapes me) blared in the background and gave the training a bouncing, energetic and infectious rhythm which starkly contrasted the relative serenity of a traditional Aikido or Karate school.
That night, all techniques began with a “pass” movement, which I likened to the irimi-tenkan movement of Aikido. The pass involved deflecting an opponent’s jab while stepping slightly forward and swinging the rear leg behind, thus passing to the outside of the opponent’s guard and pivoting around the strike, ending in a position here a jab could be fired in return. Throughout the night, we practiced following the pass with jabs, crosses, knees, leg kicks, and a number of combinations.

                After several rounds of techniques practice, we dispersed for play-sparring. Having had sparse opportunities for sparring in the past (the majority were with members of the martial arts club at my college and during my summer at The WestHaven Academy of Karate in 2010), I was thrilled at the opportunity to really work on my footwork and timing, not to mention to dive head-first into what I consider an integral part of real martial arts training. I noticed immediately that I defaulted to a combination of my Karate training in Tang Soo Do and Shorinji when the pressured by my opponents, constantly having to restrain illegal backfists and side kicks. At the same time, I was far too accustomed to kicking above the waist, and was repeatedly reprimanded to kick lower, while simultaneously neglecting to avoid kicks directed at my thighs (a mistake I paid for while walking sand dunes the rest of the week).

                Already ragged from my inefficient, jumpy, and energetically wasteful sparring style, I soon found myself pumping out chin-ups for the final portion of the class; the same mix of conditioning I had seen at the end of the last class. Having trained largely at traditional schools, I have rarely done such conditioning as part of a class, but instead have always done it in my spare time. The sense of camaraderie and fellowship which I found in struggling alongside other students was surprisingly encouraging. After chin-ups, pushups, and a set of 50 sit-ups, the class ended with applause as students began to disperse, bowing, high-fiving, and hugging (more in the style of “bro-grab” than anything else) those they had worked and sparred with throughout the class. The attitude and feeling was as gracious and satisfying as the conclusion to any traditional class I have ever attended. As Sensei William Gleason (the head instructor at Shobu Aikido of Boston, my first and foremost teacher) said of his own teacher’s perspective, it is not so much the formality but the attitude that matters, and if someone is sincere, even if they bow only the slightest bit, what is meant by it is clear and the purpose of the gesture is fulfilled.

                This idea reflects my initial suspicions about “the other side”, and pervaded my experience at Sityodtong. The differences perceived, criticized, and perhaps even feared by many traditional artists are primarily just on the surface. In essence, every part of the class resembled closely some form of training I had experienced at one time or another in traditional disciplines. Students were sincere, disciplined, and serious, while Kru Neil was insightful, open, and extremely helpful. Less blood had been spilled in two and a half hours practice than in an hour of training at some traditional schools I have attended. As I bowed off the mat and returned my borrowed sparring gear, I wasted no time in signing up for three months training (my job will end by the beginning of August) and purchasing a pair of shin guards and boxing gloves (both of whom I hope to put to further use after my training at Sityodtong) before I headed out the door. The delayed publishing of this post is due entirely to the frequency and intensity with which I have been training since my first day, and my experience has only grown more rewarding.  For fear of writing too long an article, I will follow this one with a second which will discuss in greater detail my training over the last few weeks and my experiences as a traditional martial artist in an MMA environment.
                To any martial artists in New England planning on visiting the North Shore for any length of time, Sityodtong is an essential stop. The facility is clean and crowded with top of the line equipment, the mat space crawling with experienced martial artists and dedicated students. The attitude in training is sincere and assiduous, and the techniques are practiced in a traditional manner meant to preserve the Thai heritage of the art while also demonstrating their utility in self defense and MMA competition. This summer is shaping up to be a fantastic training opportunity. Stay tuned for part 2 of Sityodtong North Shore.