Queen’s Cup 2011: My First Muay Thai Fight in Thailand

August 12 is a special date in Thailand. It marks the birthday of Queen Sirikit, who passed away last year, and it is also Thai Mother’s Day and a national holiday.

Across the country, this date has always been marked by celebrations and events. But for me, August 12 also marks a very personal anniversary.

Fifteen years ago, on the night of August 11–12, 2011, I fought my first Muay Thai match in Thailand, in Bangkok.

And, just to ease myself into things, it was also the first time I was fighting for a title.

The event was called “มหกรรมมวยไทย เทิดไท้องค์ราชินี”, a major Muay Thai event organized in honor of the Queen, and it took place on a temporary ring set up at Sanam Luang, in the heart of Bangkok.

The official fight card was huge: 25 fights, fighters from 17 countries, and five WPMF title fights. Part of the event would be broadcast live nationwide on Thai Channel 7, from 12:30 to 2:30 a.m.

One of those five title fights would be mine.

And it was only the sixth fight of my life.

It was my first time in Thailand. I had come to join my partner at the time, who was working near Pattaya, and I had been training at RMB in Pattaya for just under two months — a gym that still exists today, although under a different name and management.

One day, Rachid, the Algerian owner of the gym, asked me if I wanted to fight in Bangkok.

Well… what did I know?

I wanted to fight. I was training, I felt ready, so the answer was pretty obvious: yes.

I don’t know if something got lost in translation or if, with my broken English at the time, I simply hadn’t understood a damn thing. Anyway, about a week before the fight, one small detail came up: I wasn’t going to Bangkok just to have a fight.

I was going to fight for a WPMF title.

Only later would I understand how important that title was in the Muay Thai world.

But I came from Satori. I had fought a total of five times: four amateur fights with protective gear and one without. I had won them all.

So the fight in Bangkok would be only the sixth fight of my life.

In my head, I was basically the female version of Giorgio Petrosyan.

I could have fought anyone.

And of course, I would have won.

On the morning of the weigh-in, we left Pattaya early. I was in the car with Rachid and some other people from the gym, and I still remember watching Bangkok’s skyscrapers pass by outside the window shortly before we reached our destination.

I knew practically nothing about that huge city. I had been there once on a day trip with Beppe, but that was about it.

We arrived at a hotel in the historic part of the city, near the Grand Palace and Sanam Luang, where the event would take place.

Beppe wasn’t with me because he had to work. All I had to do was weigh in and wait for him to arrive that evening.

I had already left Pattaya weighing around 56 kg, and the fight was at 57 kg.

Back then, I wasn’t experienced enough to really know how weight cutting worked. To be honest, I didn’t even really see the point of it — and, if I’m being honest, I still question it sometimes today.

At the official weigh-in, I came in at around 55 kg.

My opponent was Lindsay Ball, a Canadian fighter with much more experience than me. She fought out of Sinbi Muay Thai in Phuket and, as far as I remember, had quite a hard time making weight.

Sinbi later posted two videos on YouTube about her preparation and the behind-the-scenes of those days in Bangkok. I also remember that, somehow, the other side had gotten the impression that I was the more experienced one, the one to beat.

The reality was pretty much the opposite.

And yet, I was put in the red corner, traditionally reserved for the home fighter or, in any case, the favorite.

Knowing what I know today, I wonder how I ever stepped into that ring back then to fight for a WPMF title, in a weight class that wasn’t even really mine, in only the sixth fight of my life, barely knowing how to clinch.

But there was still one detail missing.

Rachid gave me the shorts I was supposed to wear for the fight.

They had the French flag on them.

That night, I was Miriam Sabot, Team France.

Perfect.

But I couldn’t have cared less.

Between naivety, recklessness, and ignorance, no one could have convinced me that I wasn’t going to win. And even if I didn’t, I was still going to give that girl, who had no idea yet who Miriam from Satori was, a run for her money.

And back in 2011, social media wasn’t what it is today. There was practically nothing about me on YouTube. I was a complete unknown.

But I had grit, attitude, and a huge desire to win.

In my head, that would be enough.

Beppe finally arrived on the evening of the weigh-in.

I couldn’t wait to tell him everything that had happened that day, especially about a coincidence that had made me really happy: among the other fighters competing at the event was Lena, a Croatian girl who sometimes came to train at Satori, mainly to do hard sparring with me.

In the middle of all that chaos, in a city I didn’t know and surrounded almost entirely by strangers, seeing a familiar face was amazing.

On the day of the fight, Beppe and I went out to eat and walk around for a bit.

At one point, a taxi driver stopped me and asked if I was a fighter.

I told him yes.

He immediately got excited and started asking me a ton of questions. Too bad I didn’t understand a single word of Thai yet.

At one point, he asked if he could touch my shins.

He ran his hand over them and, satisfied, said:

“Strong.”

That moment stayed with me for years.

I think that was one of the first times I thought Thailand simply had to be “my” place.

Here, when you say you do Muay Thai, no one looks at you like you’ve just announced that you live on Mars.

They know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s their national sport. And very often you can feel their interest and respect, because they know there’s more behind it than just a sport: it’s a life of training, sacrifice, and hard work.

It was very different from what I had experienced in Italy up to that point.

The ring had been set up at Sanam Luang, not far from the hotel, so Rachid and Song, my Thai trainer, gave me a massage and wrapped my hands right there in the room.

I remember a great atmosphere, surprisingly relaxed.

Laughing, joking around.

Time flew by.

And almost before I knew it, we were already ringside, ready to climb in.

I was the first fight of the nighttime part of the event. Then the introductions and official ceremonies began: Thai officials in suits and ties, speeches, waiting around.

We were already running late.

Meanwhile, it had started to rain.

And the ring was completely outdoors.

It was well past midnight by the time I found myself in the ring, holding a French flag, standing in the front row with what seemed like an endless number of people. Lindsay was on the other side.

There was the national anthem. Then the song dedicated to the Queen. Then the presentation of the WPMF title.

I understood little to nothing.

Every now and then, I heard my name and my opponent’s.

And meanwhile, it kept raining.

I thought:

This ring is going to be slippery.

And right after that:

What if they cancel the whole thing?

As if that wasn’t enough, my right glove was also too tight. It hurt, and I was starting to lose feeling in my hand.

I tried to explain it to Beppe, who was in my corner with Rachid, but by then the gloves were on and sealed, and there was no time left to do anything about it.

They simply told me to keep moving my hand.

And I had been standing there forever, stiff as a board, waiting for all those ceremonies to end.

I had warmed up well.

I was ready.

And even back then, I hated waiting around for no reason before a fight.

Once the ceremonies were over, it was finally time for the Wai Kru.

Mine basically consisted of my usual quick lap around the ring.

Not as a stylistic choice.

Simply because no one had ever taught me.

And incredibly, it would stay that way for most of my career, until many years later, when I arrived at Manop Gym.

Then the bell finally rang.

The fight began.

I came out aggressive and, watching it back today, I think I landed some much cleaner shots than she did.

What I really struggled with was the physical difference between us.

Not so much the clinch itself — I don’t think she knew that much about it either — but the weight difference when she managed to pin me against the ropes, driving her shoulder into me.

I fought all five rounds as if everything depended on that fight.

At the end of every round, I remember Song rushing over, grabbing me and practically lifting me all the way back to the corner.

Before the last round, they even took off my ankle supports.

Something I only noticed the next day, when I watched the video back.

In the end, they gave the win and the WPMF belt to Lindsay.

But that night, I felt GREAT.

I had fought five rounds in the rain, at Sanam Luang, in the heart of Bangkok, for a WPMF title.

In only the sixth fight of my life.

In a weight class that was too high for me.

Fighting as a mercenary under the French flag.

In the middle of the night.

And in the middle of all that madness, our fight was being broadcast live nationwide on Channel 7.

Those are the stories worth telling.

Those experiences that, for better or worse, stay with you forever.

I remember Sanam Luang packed with people holding umbrellas.

The rain on the ring, though, I barely remember feeling at all.

What a crazy night.

What a life, the life of a Nak Muay.

What I couldn’t have known back then

In the years that followed, as I continued my journey in Muay Thai, I lost much of the naivety I had stepped into that ring with.

I became a little less naive.

Reckless, on the other hand, I pretty much stayed. Over the years, I accepted some much worse fights.

But above all, I began to understand many of the nuances behind matchmaking.

Looking back at that night now, I see it very differently.

I was nobody in the Thai Muay Thai scene. I was a beginner who had just arrived in Pattaya, with only five fights behind me and no name at all on the Thai circuit.

My opponent, on the other hand, fought out of a much better-known gym, had far more experience, and that title was an important opportunity for her.

Years later, it’s hard not to think that I was exactly the kind of opponent they needed: an unknown fighter with little experience, newly arrived in Thailand and ready to step into the ring without asking too many questions.

A kind of perfect sacrificial lamb.

And yet, in the narrative surrounding the fight, I seemed to be the more experienced one. The one to beat.

They even put me in the red corner.

Looking back on it now, it makes me laugh.

Back then, though, I wasn’t asking myself any of these questions.

I just wanted to fight.

And maybe part of the strength I had that night came precisely from being completely unaware of all of it.

When you watch a fight, you see two fighters stepping into the ring. Most of the time, you don’t see everything that happened before. You don’t know about the agreements, the matchmaking, the real differences in weight and experience, or the interests of the gyms and promoters.

That night, I didn’t see any of it myself.

I learned it over the years.

And this is also the Muay Thai I want to tell people about.

My Muay Thai. The real one.

It isn’t always pure. It isn’t always fair. And it isn’t always as romantic as it may seem from the outside.

Sometimes it’s incredible and gives you far more than you could ever have imagined.

Other times, it disappoints you so much that you think about giving it all up and ask yourself:

Why am I even doing this?

And yet, fifteen years after that night in the rain in Bangkok, I’m still here.

Maybe that’s the answer right there.