Sepak Takraw (Bangkok)
Mr. Teerawut, my taxi driver, pushed all his weight onto my back, driving my face down between my outstretched legs and dangerously close to kissing the cigarette burns on the carpet of the Queen’s Imperial Park hotel lobby in Bangkok.
“You look painful,” he said. His voice was calm, soft, and feminine, but his elbows anything but. My hamstrings burned, and I couldn’t speak.
“Hold it there,” he said calmly, sounding like a monk, which was really starting to piss me off. If I was going to endure this much pain, I wanted someone screaming at me like a Full Metal Jacket drill sergeant. Or a high school linebacker coach. But this gentle Thai taxi driver? I’m not sure I was getting enough bang for my buck here.
He pushed me even harder. “Before you play takraw,” he said softly, “you have to stretch.”
Recently at home in Tokyo, I have been seeing a lot of volleyball on TV. The Japanese men's team is ranked 2nd in the world, and the country has its fingers crossed for a medal in the upcoming Paris Olympics. In a recent match, one of the players used his foot to save the ball just as it was about to land out of bounds. I had no idea the foot dig was a thing in international volleyball competition. When I saw it, I was reminded of the time I first saw men not only using a foot dig, but also flying above a net and spiking balls over a net with their feet.
It was 2009, and I had just finished my dissertation. I was preparing to share some of the findings at a small conference in Bangkok. The Airport Rail Link that connects central Bangkok with the airport hadn't opened yet. So, upon arrival in Thailand, I was told that a driver would be waiting at the airport for me and some of the other conference speakers. After breezing through immigration, customs, and skipping baggage claim, I was greeted by a tall, thin soft-spoken Thai man holding a cardboard sign.
“Hi,” I said, pointing to my name on his sign. “That's me.”
“Hello, I am Mr. Teerawut,” he said. “I will drive you to your hotel.”
We made some small talk for a few minutes while waiting for three others: two faculty members from an institution in India, and a Japanese professor from my own flight, as it turned out.
Once everyone arrived, we piled into a white van waiting outside the airport. I sat in the very back. The two Indian women sat in the row in front of me, and the Japanese professor—close to retirement age maybe—sat alone in the row in front of them. The traffic in Bangkok is notoriously heavy, and the conference wasn't scheduled to begin until the following day, yet the Japanese professor spoke to our driver with an impatient, pretentious, and condescending attitude that reminded me of Major Charles Winchester III from MASH. Every five minutes he scolded Mr. Teerawut for his slow driving and complained about being late for something. We were all slightly embarrassed by his behavior, but ultimately saw the situation as comedic. At one point the two women in front of me turned and gave me an incredulous look, with wide eyes, raised eyebrows, and a little smile. I shrugged, feeling like Radar sharing a secret laugh with Hawkeye and B.J.
I watched Mr. Teerawut’s face in the rear-view mirror throughout the verbal abuse: calm and smiling the entire time. I tried to relax the tense muscles in my own face, like Mr. Teerawut. I let my mind drift to a happy place and time. I thought back to my first trip to Thailand in 2000. The film The Beach with Leonardo DiCaprio had just been released. Tourism to Thailand was booming. Khao San Road was the backpacker’s hub of the world. My memories were blurry, like Leo’s hallucinations: …liveaboard dive trip in the Andaman Sea…evening beers on the deck with new dive buddy Lane, a former Marine “looking for work” in Southeast Asia….a final night on Khao San Road smoking something out of a Coke can with a Swede and his girlfriend…delayed return flight…late-night arrival back in Tokyo…trains not running, can’t get home…all-night karaoke bar in Narita singing “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia with a Thai flight attendant from our flight....
“This is late, too much!” our old, Japanese friend yelled, jolting me back to the present. I stole another glance at our driver Mr. Teerawut—still relaxed, still calm, still smiling.
The following day, after sitting through an exhausting opening plenary, I grabbed some lunch and went out the back door for a short walk. The back door of the Queen’s Imperial Park (which was put out of its misery in 2016 and is now the Marriot Marquis Queen’s Park) is adjacent to the popular Benchasiri Park, which offers an escape from the chaos of central Bangkok. The park has changed since that day in 2009, but at that time it was a smaller, very local park, with a pond, some walking paths, and a kind of court. Small, and with a net, like a badminton court. Yet there were no rackets, no birdies, no volleyball on the court. Just men smashing a rattan ball—smaller than a volleyball but bigger than a softball—over the net. With their feet.
I stood nearby and watched, mesmerized. There were about a dozen local guys running on and off the court. They were playing a game like volleyball, but with the feet only. These guys had the flexibility of a yoga instructor and could pirouette in the air like Jackie Chan on CGI. The practices and games had the relaxed, informal vibe of an urban pick-up basketball game in the States. Locals coming and going. Gym bags stacked on the park benches. Lots of banter, lots of laughs. I watched for hours, before I realized that I had missed all the afternoon conference presentations.
On the way to breakfast the following day, I saw Mr. Teerawut in the lobby. He was sitting on a sofa, hands in his lap, staring straight ahead. I am not exactly sure what he was doing. We exchanged hellos, and I thought I would ask him about what I had seen in the park the previous day.
“Oh, that’s sepak takraw,” he said. “Thailand is number one.” Mr. Teerawut told me that the game goes all the way back to the 15th and 16th centuries in Thailand and Malaysia, and perhaps even further back in Myanmar. I later learned that the modern game was standardized by officials from these countries in 1960. Since 1990, it’s been part of the Asian games every four years.
Although Thailand certainly has had success at the sport, I also learned that several other countries, notably Malaysia, might take exception to Mr. Teerawut’s words. In fact, this past May, Malaysia defeated Thailand in a regional tournament in Kuala Lumpur. Thailand’s manager showered praised on one of Malaysia’s star players, for his unbelievable “sunback spike”—one of sepak takraw’s most talked about moves.
I’ve always been a sucker for sport, so I felt like a little kid explaining my excitement on discovering the game. And I listened to Mr. Teerawut as he explained further about the game, the way a child listens to his mother while being read to.
“Well, if you have time, tomorrow, I teach you sepak takraw” he said.
“Wait, what?” I did some quick calculations in my head. Today I would be busy with my own presentation along with a few other presentations I had to join. But, tomorrow. Tomorrow was the third and final day of the conference. The morning was full, but the afternoon just might work.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?” I asked.
“Ok. I see you here in the afternoon,” said Mr. Teerawut.
“Great. What time?”
“After lunch.”
Clearly, the Thai people had a different approach to time than we did in Japan.
We met in the hotel lobby in the afternoon of my final day in Bangkok. Mr. Teerawut wore his usual short sleeve, light blue button down shirt and black slacks. But today he carried a yellow rattan ball with him. He then insisted that I stretch before we played.
After the grueling stretching session in the lobby of the hotel, we went out the back door to a corner of Benchasiri Park. Mr. Teerawut taught me some basic kicks and correct form. I felt like I was 18 again, playing hacky sack outside my dorm in Colorado. It was clear that Mr. Teerawut had played before. Maybe when he was younger. I asked him about it, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.
We fell silent and into a rhythm of sorts: one lean, graceful Thai offering the perfect foot pass, and one skinny awkward white guy returning the pass into the bushes. It felt like a profound moment. We were like a father and son having a baseball catch in a corn field as the sun set on a warm summer day. Sport was bringing us together. Transcending cultures. Then it started pouring.
“We go back,” said Mr. Teerawut abruptly. And just like that, my sepak takraw playing days were over.
The following morning Mr. Teerawut took me to the airport. I thanked him for everything, especially our sepak takraw session in the park. He nodded, and in the rear-view mirror I saw the same face: relaxed, calm, and smiling.
I received an email from Mr. Teerawut two weeks later. It was the first and only email I have ever received from a taxi driver. I still haven’t deleted it from my Inbox.
As you interested in Sepak-Takraw, Thai sport, while you were in Bangkok. See attach link for details of both Sepak-Takraw and Takraw Lothuang.
The links he sent me were from Wikipedia-type sites, and something that would have taken me less than a minute to find myself. However, the gesture was touching. I replied quickly, with many words of thanks. Then I closed my laptop, and that is the last time I ever heard from him.
I haven’t played sepak takraw since then. But there is sepak takraw ball on a shelf in my office. Sometimes when I am alone in my office, I try to dribble it in the air like Mr. Teerawut taught me, but I always end up kicking it into a shelf and knocking over a picture of my kid. I don't think Mr. Teerawut would mind though; in fact, I think I can picture the expression he’d have on his face.