CARACAS is starting to feel familiar. The streets, the faces and the warmth of the people. Four days in, the calm before the storm feels sharper. The gloves sound louder, the air feels heavier, and every word carries more weight.
Today’s session felt different. Until now, it had been assistant trainer Junkot and me holding pads for the champion, but this afternoon, the veteran trainer Sasakul stepped in for the final rounds. There was no wasted motion, just crisp combinations, sharp pivots, and the sound of leather-on-leather echoing in the gym.
As he finished, Junkot called time, and the gym applauded. The champion barely reacted, just nodded and went straight to the bag. He’s been here before. He knows what it means to be ready.
The gym wasn’t just ours today. In the corner, a young woman, one of Venezuela’s top amateurs, I was told, drilled away with quiet intensity. I was told she had nearly 50 fights and just one loss, a record that speaks for itself. Across from her, a fighter nicknamed “The Bulldozer,” a multiple-time amateur champion, moved between bags with a relentless pace.
He’s making his pro debut next month in Colombia against an undefeated prospect. Later, the gym’s owner told me his trainer was paying out of his own pocket to make that fight happen. It stuck with me. In a country where opportunities are scarce, boxing survives on sacrifice. You could feel it in the way they trained, as if every punch was thrown for something more than themselves.
On the drive back, the traffic in Caracas was at a standstill. Promoter Jorge Fernandez of Venezuela Top Boxing explained that it was still backed up from the municipal elections held the day before. Another reminder that life here doesn’t pause for fight week, that the city moves to its own rhythm regardless of who’s fighting in it.
We talked about the arrival of the Cleto Reyes gloves and the walk-out order. Chatchai, unfazed, said he didn’t care who walked first. “We just want to fight,” he told me, his tone sharper now than earlier in the week. When I mentioned the Reyes gloves, he nodded. “That’s good for Panya,” he added. “We’re not here to play the long game.” You could feel his energy shifting calm earlier in the week, now sharpening into fight mode.
Later that evening, I sat with Panya in his room. I wanted to go deeper than the usual fight-week questions, so I asked him what this fight really meant to him. “This fight is really about proving to myself and my rival,” he told me. “It’s about testing myself against him.”
The first fight was painfully close for some. “The result wasn’t exactly in line with the judges’ decision,” he admitted. But overall, it’s still part of the sport. Personally, I feel I did well, but at the end of the day, everything came down to the judges. It was a confident response from a man who seemed intent on silencing any lingering doubts.
When I asked about the challenge of fighting in enemy territory, he shrugged. “The fight is almost here, so fighting in Venezuela is no pressure… but honestly, I want to win here more than back home in Thailand.”
At 33, what keeps him going? “The confidence in my abilities. “I want to push myself as a fighter — it’s all about growth. “And the difference between this and any other fight? “This is one step closer to a bigger fight. Every opponent adds value. This fight will be exciting.”
As I got up to leave, he smiled and added, almost off-handedly, “Actually… this time I feel good.” It wasn’t much, but it carried weight, a quiet confidence, the kind that tells you a fighter knows exactly where he is.
Tomorrow, we’ll visit the Poliedro de Caracas, a venue steeped in Venezuelan boxing history. For now, CPF is calm, Chatchai is quietly sharpening his edge, and the city hums around us, ready to host a rematch that feels bigger than just a fight.
