A STORYBOOK JOURNEY CONTINUES FOR KICKBOXER.

Byline: Dan Raley Seattle Post-Intelligencer 

The tale begins with an abandoned child from a faraway world.

Discovered by a caring couple, this youngster is adopted and raised in a quaint, rural American setting.

The child becomes an adult and turns to wearing brightly colored costumes and fighting villains all over the world. At the same time, this person maintains a separate identity, mixing with others in a quiet, unassuming manner.

In the comic books, this is Superman.

Kim Messer, 30, a world-champion kickboxer, also lays claim to this existence. She answers to the nickname ``The Fireball,'' but is hardly a fictional superhero.

Her story is true.

Messer is one of 15 women recognized as a world champion in kickboxing, each ruling a different weight class in a sport derived from an ancient martial art that mixes blows delivered by the hands and feet.

She now tours the world, surrounded by her husband, Mark, arenas full of appreciative fans and often ESPN2 cameras.

But there was a time when Messer was alone, frighteningly alone.

At age 3, she was found wandering through a train station in Seoul, South Korea. There was no note. No identification. Nothing.

She was taken to an orphanage outside of Seoul. It was home for the next two years.

``When I talk to other people and they talk about their childhood memories, I have one,'' Messer said. ``I remember dirt streets, all muddy, a big wall, enclosed, and inside was the orphanage. All of us slept in one room.''

That changed when an Oregon couple, wishing to raise a Korean child, spotted her in a photo album put together by an international adoption agency. She was crying; they were smitten.

Messer had a Korean name, Kee Soon Baik, and a birthday, April 28, but she assumes this information was arbitrarily assigned to her by the orphanage.

She became Kimberly Sue Sanford, the daughter of a nurse and a seed-plant manager in Silverton, Ore., a town of 1,200 - which, in size and tranquility, could have been mistaken for Superman's fictional hometown, Smallville.

She adapted easily to her new surroundings. In high school, she played softball, volleyball and tennis, and was a gymnast and a cheerleader. She danced ballet for eight years, played piano for five.

``She has always been very inquisitive, very independent,'' said Marlys Sanford, her mother. ``She just appealed to us.''

Messer also was interested in karate, but the nearest school was 18 miles away in Salem. The commute was too much. Besides, her mother wasn't keen on the idea.

Enrolling at Salem's Chemeketa Community College in 1985, she signed up for several classes, including tae kwon do, a Korean-style martial art.

Mark Messer, her future husband, was a student instructor. She quickly became hooked, both on the sport and him.

Their interests gradually shifted to kickboxing, Kim training alongside her soon-to-be husband in a male-dominated sport. Seeking serious competition, they moved first to Vancouver, Wash., then the Seattle area. In between, they were married in her parents' backyard.

Kim Messer made her professional kickboxing debut in Toyko on July 18, 1992. Matched against a world champion, she lost.

But Messer was impressive in her first try. She landed a head kick on her highly regarded opponent, a feat comparable to an unsung rookie slam-dunking on Michael Jordan.

By day, Kim Messer works as a waitress at Duke's restaurant in Bellevue. The clientele usually has no idea that the pleasant, petite young woman behind the menus can land a blow with the best of them.

An elderly couple was aghast one afternoon when an ESPN2 broadcast replaying a recent Messer fight flickered on inside the restaurant and the connection was made. That's you, they echoed.

``I'm probably one of the household names in the sport,'' she said, ``but people around here just don't know me.''

On the screen, the 4-foot-11, 113-pound Messer demonstrated the aggressive, relentless style that has earned her the nickname ``The Fireball,'' helped her build a 17-5-2 pro record and made her a cable TV favorite.

It's jab, jab, jab with her gloves, then in for the kill with a snakelike strike with a bare foot.

``Kim likes leg kicks and can kick the head very easily, so she's entertaining to watch,'' said Robert Mason, president of the International Sport Karate Association, which is based in Plantation, Fla.

``It's like any sport, you're looking to build heroes. We're featuring Kim a lot.''

Messer is one of about 1,000 women in the world, 100 in the U.S., who are considered elite kickboxers. Four of her fights have been televised by ESPN2 over the past 18 months, and replayed several times, giving her a large following. She won her third world title in her last fight on Sept. 21, beating British opponent Cheryl Robertson in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

With her long black hair and high cheekbones, Messer looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine, an image that runs contrary to the sport. Short hair and puffy, fight-worn faces are the norm.

Messer intends to capitalize on her unscarred appearance. It's one reason the TV cameras have been regularly trained on her. She is so good at what she does, a black eye has been her worst injury.

``I have been given an opportunity because I'm still feminine,'' she said, ``and I look like a woman.''

Fight payoffs for women kickboxers ($5,000) still pale considerably when compared to what the top men receive ($200,000). But there is a pervasive thought that the sport is headed for a boom, for both sexes.

Kickboxing, which originated in Thailand, is now considered chic in the United States, both as an athletic competition and an aerobic exercise. Television ratings are on the rise. The sport is beamed into 30 million households per week, second only to ice hockey on ESPN2, according to Mason, the ISKA official.

To advance Messer's kickboxing career, her husband has curtailed his own athletic pursuits. When not working as a parcel courier, Mark Messer works out with his wife and has assumed a role as coach and promoter, though she has an agent in California to arrange her fights.

``I can relate it to Jackie Joyner-Kersee, where her husband is supporting her,'' Kim Messer said. ``But I'm a big fish in a small pond. He would have been a small fish in a very, very big pond.''

They live in a Bothell, Wash., apartment north of Seattle, but spend most of their time at the AMC Kickboxing gym in Kirkland, Wash., across Lake Washington from Seattle. Their goal is to make enough money to open their own gym and train the next generation of world-class kickboxers.

Meantime, Messer's mother prefers not to watch at all. She is supportive, yet from a distance. She has never seen her daughter compete in a live kickboxing competition, often going for a walk outside an arena while the fighting takes place inside.

``I admire her for pursuing it in spite of the fact her mother doesn't like it very much,'' Marlys Sanford said. ``A mother's fear is her child is always going to be hurt. I have come to terms with it. She is doing what she wants to do. That's important to me. She's happy at it.

``As far as I know, she's good.''

Messer has returned to Seoul a couple of times, once with her adopted family and once through a trip arranged by the adoption agency. On the second excursion, she was 18 and returned home to the U.S. carrying a Korean baby, delivering the child to new waiting parents. Much like she was.

She has revisited the orphanage, talked to the director. She has embraced her Korean heritage with pride. But she has refrained from engaging in any prolonged search to uncover her roots. What's the point, she asks.

Messer has a family and an existence that has made her content. After all, she has conquered the world that seemingly tried to destroy her.

``I'm satisfied with who I am and where I'm at,'' Messer said. ``It's a good fairy tale. It has the ending I want.''