By Ker Munthit
The Associated Press

"This is a Khmer kickboxing family — from father to son to grandchildren," Sao Thin said. "My heart is in love with this sport, and I'm afraid it will disappear when I die."

With his extended family of 14, living in a shack in Battambang, a town 155 miles northwest of Phnom Penh, Sao pursues his self-declared mission to restore kickboxing to its former glory. The family is poor, but the lessons are free.

He could have been a contender. But he fought only nine matches — four victories, three losses and two draws — before the Khmer Rouge came to power in 1975. The radical communist group stamped out the sport, along with virtually every other popular tradition, while slaughtering an estimated 1.7 million of their countrymen.

Sao's son, Sao Bunthoeun, scored one win and one loss before the four-year horror began.

In 1980, soon after the Khmer Rouge regime was toppled, they picked up where they left off. Together they have coached more than 100 students including five of Sao Thin's grandchildren.

The father is 65 now, and the son 46, barely eking out a living. Their 25 students are from poor families, donating some of the money they earn in tournaments to help support the club. The tiny training yard floods during the rainy season, forcing them to move to higher ground.

Neighbors marvel at their perseverance.

"No matter what, they just keep struggling along with their students," said one neighbor, 54-year-old Eng Vary.

Battambang is the heartland of kickboxing, and many of Cambodia's most serious contenders hail from the province. But sports in Cambodia suffer from a lack of money and training facilities, and Cambodian teams usually are trounced in international competition.

Still, kickboxing "in practical terms, is far ahead of other sports," said Oum Youran, president the Cambodia Amateur Boxing Association (CABA). It is hugely popular with Cambodians, with fans turning out at arenas and tuning in on television, he said.
 
 

About 1,200 kickboxers are training at 57 clubs across the country, Oum Youran said. A national championship is held each year, the next scheduled for November. Nonchampionship tournaments take place in the capital every weekend.

Three Cambodian TV stations organize matches on their premises with commercial sponsorship.

Cambodian fighters have taken on foreign rivals, particularly from neighboring Thailand where the sport is hugely popular, but their celebrity generally is limited to their country.

Top-class winners can collect up to 400,000 riel ($100) and losers half that amount, although even the $30 purses in the lesser categories go a long way in a country where the per-capita income is less than $1 a day.

Thaing Sitharn, a 19-year-old student of Sao Thin's club, said he does odd jobs such as construction work when he's not in training or competing.

Sao Bunthoeun, the trainer, works as a porter at a nearby market. Today, though, he is overseeing profusely perspiring students as they practice in swirling dust under a broiling afternoon sun.

"Knee! Direct punch! Knee! Direct punch!" he shouts.

One pair of boxing gloves has been used for so long that its top layer has peeled off.

Thoeun Chanry, Sao Bunthoeun's 16-year-old daughter, began training two years ago.

"Boys in the neighborhood used to say to me that as a girl I shouldn't do this," she said. "But I told them why not, since I have arms and legs just like them."

When not training she baby-sits and cooks for younger kin. She said she wants to quit the ring in five years and become a trainer.

Her cousin, Pheap Sophea, has fought 51 bouts — including one across the border in Thailand — since he was 7.

"I love Khmer kickboxing, and I want to be famous," he said. He's 11.