Rob was born in ’60, right in the heart of Amsterdam’s working‑class neighborhoods. Like most Dutch kids, he chased a ball around the cobbles, dreaming of a World Cup spot. At 17 he stumbled into a brawl outside a local bar—two guys named Lucy and Carbine were throwing elbows like they were auditioning for a Thai movie. Rob saw a low kick land clean on a thigh and thought “That’s the kind of pain I want to give not take.” He quit football that night and ran straight to Jan “The Father” Plas, the man who was stitching together what we now call Dutch kick‑boxing.
Plas taught him to blend Western boxing footwork with Thai low‑kick brutality. Rob’s first sparring session felt like a thunderstorm: the gym smelled of sweat and cheap incense, and a trainer shouted “Kick like you’re cutting a mango!”—a tip I still use before every heavy bag session. The Dutch style blossomed from that chaos, and Rob became its poster child.
By the early ’80s Rob was already racking up European titles. He didn’t just win; he annihilated opponents with a leg‑crushing rhythm that made Thai fighters whisper “He’s a white elephant.” In ’84 he clinched the world middleweight belt in a bout against an American named Blinky Rodriguez—yes, that’s his real name. The fight turned into a low‑kick ballet: Rob’s left roundhouse slammed into Blinky’s right thigh and the crowd went wild, chanting “Low‑Kick! Low‑Kick!” It was the moment the nickname “Mister Low‑Kick” stuck like a permanent tattoo.
Side note: If you ever want to feel a real low‑kick try kicking a sandbag while standing on a wobble board. It’s like trying to balance a plate of biryani on a moving train—awkward but oddly satisfying.
The ’90s brought something no one expected: movie offers. Rob’s chiseled jaw and that infamous “mustache of death” landed him roles in cult action flicks—Bloodfist and Kickboxer 3 were the highlights. He’d stand on set delivering a perfect roundhouse, then break into a Dutch joke about herring. Directors loved his ability to switch from a brutal fighter to a comedic sidekick without missing a beat.
One night after filming a chase scene the crew asked him for a training tip. He pulled out a packet of instant noodles, boiled them in the trailer and said “Eat these after a spar; the carbs will make your legs feel like steel—until they’re not.” The whole crew laughed, but the noodles actually helped his recovery. I still keep a stash of them in my gym bag.
When K‑1 exploded onto the scene, Rob was already a seasoned veteran. He entered the heavyweight Grand Prix in ’93, facing a lanky Japanese fighter named Katsuhiro. The bout was a chess match of angles: Rob would switch to south‑paw, land a low kick, then snap back to orthodox for a jab. The Japanese tried to counter with a spinning back kick but Rob’s leg was already buzzing from a previous strike—like a bee trapped in a jar. By the third round Katsuhiro’s leg was wobbling, and Rob finished with a thunderous right hook that sent him sprawling.
Rob won the K‑1 Grand Prix four times, a feat that still makes younger fighters choke on their protein shakes. He never relied on flash; his strategy was simple: break the opponent’s legs, then break their will.
There’s a weird piece of kick‑boxing folklore that says Rob once knocked out an opponent by aiming his low kick at the opponent’s ankle instead of the thigh. The story goes that the guy’s ankle gave out like a cheap sandal, and he fell flat on his back. No one’s ever verified it, but it’s a favorite bar joke in Dutch gyms. I tried it once on a sparring partner—he laughed, I laughed, and then he kicked me in the shin. Moral of the story: aim for the thigh, not the ankle unless you want a punch‑line instead of a knockout.
Even legends stumble. In ’96 Rob faced a brutal defeat against an up‑and‑coming Thai named Kiat Sangri. Sangri’s clinch game was ferocious; he caught Rob’s leg mid‑kick and twisted it like a pretzel. Rob hit the canvas, his vision blurring and the crowd fell silent. He spent months rehabbing, sipping ginger tea and watching cricket matches to keep his mind off the pain.
When he returned, he did it in Japan, where the crowd roared “Mister Low‑Kick!” as he entered the arena. He faced a French heavyweight named Jerome Turkan. The fight was a back‑and‑forth of low kicks and body punches. In the final round Rob landed a perfect left roundhouse to Jerome’s lead leg, and Jerome crumpled like a house of cards. The victory felt like a personal redemption—proof that a broken leg could become a stepping stone.
Rob always said “Train hard but train smart.” He mixed traditional Muay Thai pad work with Dutch boxing drills, and he never skipped the conditioning. One of his most bizarre recommendations was to practice kicking while holding a cup of water on your head. The idea Keep your balance, improve core stability, and if you miss you’ll spill water on yourself—instant humility.
I tried it once on a rainy evening, slipped and the water splashed all over my new shoes. My roommate laughed so hard he choked on his chai. Still, after a week of the exercise my kicks felt tighter, and my balance improved. Worth the mess I say.
Rob retired from active competition in the early 2000s, but he never left the ring. He opened a gym in Amsterdam, where he trains youngsters who idolize him. One of his star pupils, Sammy Shield, now boasts four K‑1 titles and credits Rob for teaching him the art of the low kick. Rob’s seminars travel the globe—Tokyo, Bangkok, New York—where he shares stories, demonstrates techniques and always ends with a cup of chai for everyone.
Side note: In a recent seminar in Mumbai, Rob taught a group of kids to do a low kick while chanting “Om” in perfect sync. The sight was both terrifying and beautiful—like a yoga class gone full‑metal.
Rob’s influence stretches beyond the ropes. He helped shape the Dutch kick‑boxing style that dominates modern MMA, and his low‑kick philosophy lives on in every fighter who tries to cripple an opponent’s mobility. Even after his passing in early 2024 his spirit lingers in gyms, in video archives, and in the occasional “Mister Low‑Kick” chant that erupts when a fighter lands a perfect leg strike.
So here we are, the rain has stopped, the cricket match has ended in a tie and my chai is now lukewarm. I’ve walked through Rob Kaman’s life like a low‑kick through a thigh—fast, relentless, and a little messy. His story isn’t just about titles; it’s about a kid from Amsterdam who turned a chance encounter with a Thai fight into a global legend, who laughed on set, wept in the hospital and kept kicking until his legs finally said “enough.”
If you ever get the chance to watch an old Rob Kaman fight, don’t just look at the knockout. Watch the way he sets up his low kicks, the way he switches stances, the way he smiles after a hard round. That’s the real magic—raw, chaotic, human. And remember, next time you train, pour a little extra chai into your water bottle. You never know when a low‑kick will need a little extra hydration.
Until the next round of fights, keep your legs strong, your chin up and your chai hot. Cheers, friend.