Memoirs of a Karate Fighter Part 1

MEMOIRS OF A KARATE FIGHTER.

Ralph Robb.

Acknowledgements .

I owe a great debt of grat.i.tude to the scores of young men who trained at the Wolverhampton YMCA karate club over the years. Their personalities and experiences have inspired many of the characters and plots in my novels. Unfortunately, editorial and other constraints make it impossible to include the names of everyone, or the many, many anecdotes about their time at the YMCA. So as well as offering my thanks, I also extend my apologies to all those I have failed to mention.

Foreword .

KARATE, AS PRACTISED in j.a.pan, had its 'golden era' in the lead up to World War Two. It was a period when, impelled by ultra-nationalist fervour, karateka trained to the very limits of human endurance. Many of j.a.pan's young karate exponents never returned from the war, but of those who did survive, some went on to teach their art throughout America and Europe. The karate master Tatsuo Suzuki had been frustrated that he had been too young to enlist, but twenty years after the war ended he began establishing a style of karate known as Wado Ryu throughout Europe. Initially, the type of karate he taught was similar to the uncompromising sort in which he himself had been tutored. But karate had entered vastly different cultures and after initial calls in the British popular press for it to be banned, it was inevitable that the fighting art he had brought from j.a.pan would alter as time went by.

I began my training during British karate's heyday. In 1975, Britain defeated j.a.pan in the final of the world championships in Long Beach, California and would go onto to dominate the world championships throughout the 1980s. While Britain was the foremost team in international karate compet.i.tions, a club called the Wolverhampton YMCA was, for a period, the top club in Britain. Therefore, by most objective reckonings, it was, during that time, one of the finest karate clubs in the world.

The YMCA club was, in many ways, a freak of nature; a series of coincidences brought together some outstanding fighters who just so happened to want to learn the art of karate at around the same place and at the same time. Their collective att.i.tude could be summed up as: go anywhere, fight with any other martial style, under any rules and use whatever referees you like. The team won so many tournaments that it would be impossible to record them all, but amongst the YMCA's greatest achievements were two British All-styles t.i.tles, five national Wado Ryu championships and, in 1976, a national Shotokan championship they became the only team, in the history of British karate, not to practise the Shotokan style ever to do so. Hirokazu Kanazawa, arguably the greatest-ever Shotokan karateka, magnanimously led the applause as the YMCA triumphed over a team of his own students in the final. While watching the contest, Kanazawa sensei may have been reminded of the brutal fights that had taken place between rival schools while j.a.panese karate was in its infancy: the 1976 Shotokan Karate International championships had been, by many people's reckoning, one of the bloodiest compet.i.tions ever to have taken place in Britain. A year later the tournament was made exclusive to Shotokan teams as the inter-style rivalry had led to so many injuries that it was considered unsafe to continue with its 'allcomers' policy.

Within the YMCA's ranks were one world, three European and twelve national champions and it was my privilege to train with them. But their fights were not limited to what happened on the compet.i.tion mat or within the dojo and many of the YMCA karate team were involved in situations of real ferocity out on some very mean streets, some of which I witnessed first-hand. My intention is not to glorify any action or person, but to simply recount, to the best of my ability, the type of training and experiences I underwent to become a karate fighter.

The practise of martial arts is often characterized as a route to self-enlightenment, and this book is a record of the path I walked as a much younger man, and of the personalities, the triumphs, the adversities and the pitfalls that I encountered along the way.

Ralph Robb June 2006.

Chapter One .

Under the sword lifted high

There is h.e.l.l making you tremble;

But go ahead And you have the land of bliss.

Miyamoto Musashi (1584 1645).

THE BIG GUY had a knife. This was not a film shoot, nor a rehea.r.s.ed demonstration or a sporting compet.i.tion. This was real, this was a matter of life and death. But the man he faced was a big guy too: Jerome Atkinson was six-foot-five and weighed in at two hundred and fifteen pounds of almost pure muscle and unfortunately for the man with the knife he also had the innate fighting ability that one day would make him the all-styles karate heavyweight champion of the world.

There weren't too many people around who were physically bigger than Jerome, but the man with a black t-shirt stretched over his muscular chest was huge. I figured that he must have been from out of town because he was not the sort of man you could easily forget and, judging by his behaviour, he obviously knew nothing of the reputation of the two men dressed in black suits and ties at the nightclub's door. The big stranger had ignored the queue and led his gang to the entrance. He claimed to be a relative of the owner, but my cousin Ewart Campbell had told him and his gang to get to the back of the line. Ewart was nowhere near as big, but at a little more than six feet, his lean frame reminded me of the world champion boxer and kayo specialist Tommy Hearns, though perhaps he carried even more explosive power in his fists. One of the group shouted that no man could treat them so disrespectfully and live. People in the queue immediately began to shuffle back, some tripping over in their attempts to get out of harm's way. Angry shouts echoed amid the thudding ba.s.s that filtered out from the dance floor and into the balmy night air. A young woman screamed as she saw a blade being drawn.

I watched from the foyer, and like the rest of the onlookers, I was excited and fearful all at once. But no one was looking at me; I was not a player in this unfolding drama but just a kid of seventeen who was out for a good time with a couple of friends. Panic pushed the crowd out onto the road, but the chance to see a genuine street fight kept them hovering; like the crowds who had once flocked to the gladiatorial contests in ancient Rome, they were drawn by the spectacle of violence and the scent of danger. I may have been inexperienced but I felt compelled to step forward and help out my two fellow karateka: as formidable as they were, a ratio of six to two did not seem fair. Again, no one seemed to notice me as I sidled up to Jerome and Ewart.

The sight of the blade that had caused the woman's scream had me transfixed until a flurry of activity drew my gaze away. One of the gang had thrown a punch at Ewart, a British light-heavyweight all-styles champion, and had rapidly paid for his rash action when he hit the ground with a sickening thud. Another of the gang brushed past me to intervene and without any conscious thought, my arm went across his throat. He struggled and lashed out. Now oblivious to the melee going on around me, I managed to put him into a chokehold. He was unconscious within seconds and I lowered him to the ground just in time to see the man with the knife standing in the middle of the street ranting and spitting threats while moving toward Jerome. Jerome took two languid steps forward. It was a response the man with the knife had not expected. By this time five men were on the ground and the crowd had spread across the street in a large arc; I sensed that a good proportion of them were still silently baying for more blood. I was concerned for Jerome's well-being, but like the rest of the onlookers I was curious too. This, after all, was what we trained for; this was the life-or-death situation we were told to imagine while punishing our bodies in the dojo. This would be a moment of truth.

The big guy was yelling again as he made his move. With astonishing speed Jerome moved forward to meet his attacker, and then, with perfect timing, he sidestepped and the knife went past him. I recognized his movement as a variation of a basic technique I had been taught in the dojo. The j.a.panese call it irimi (entering) and when combined with kawashi (avoiding) the result can be devastating, as the attacker's own momentum is used against him. I heard a grunt and the sound of the blade dropping onto the road as Jerome's open hand hit the big man's throat just below his Adam's apple. The man straightened and then a fist crashed against his jaw. The crack brought a gasp from the onlookers and two large hands spread over a disbelieving face, moments after blood and teeth had sprayed from the big man's mouth. His legs folded, as if he were about to sit on an invisible stool, before an instinct for survival straightened them again. He swivelled and staggered down the road like a drunk with another three groggy men following him, one of them falling down twice as he went. The man at my feet coughed and slowly stood up. He swayed and scratched his head as he tried to figure out what had gone on. He did not even look at me, but the sight of Jerome and Ewart and his fleeing comrades was enough for him to take off after them.

My initial apprehension had been instantly turned into exhilaration. There was a clarity to the technique Jerome had used that had previously eluded me. I promised myself then that I'd practise this move over and over again in the dojo. This was the first time I had seen it executed with such brutal perfection. I said as much to Jerome. He smiled down at me and shook his head as he told me it had been far from perfection because his foot had slipped slightly as he threw the punch, otherwise it would have knocked the big man unconscious. Ewart was pumped up and said to Jerome that he should not have let the big guy get away, but should have run after him and finished him off. He pointed at the man who had taken the first swing; he was still lying awkwardly against the concrete steps. If it were not for a trickle of blood from the man's ears, I would have thought he was sleeping peacefully. Ewart was deadly serious when he said that anyone who drew a knife on him would be waking up in a hospital ward. The fight summed up the men's differing att.i.tudes: Jerome had been content to disarm his opponent, but Ewart would only have only been satisfied with the armed man stretched out in the road. Part of me wanted to say that I had rendered one man unconscious, but neither Jerome nor Ewart seemed to be aware of my contribution and as I looked across the street to the police station I thought it would be for the best if I said nothing about it. Two policemen had witnessed the whole event and were laughing to themselves. They looked across to the man who had yet to regain consciousness and applauded I thought sarcastically and I feared that they might be waiting for backup before coming over to arrest the three of us. I was back to being apprehensive again: how would I explain my arrest to my parents who did not even know that I was going to a nightclub?

After an ambulance had taken away the man on the steps, I had wanted to leave but felt duty-bound to stay in case there was more trouble. I was also convinced that if the police did not turn up, then the big guy would be back with reinforcements. Jerome and Ewart carried on as if completely unconcerned. Either they were very good actors, or they genuinely didn't share any of my worries. As it turned out, they had correctly guessed that the troublemakers would be spending at least one night in Accident and Emergency, and that one big man would be having his broken jaw fixed with wires.

It had not been the first time I had seen a knife used in a fight, nor would it be the last. I grew up in an area of town where there were a lot of fights; it was a place where a large number of immigrants from the Caribbean and the Indian subcontinent had settled and there was often trouble between them and the local white youths. My parents had arrived from Jamaica three years before I was born and I was followed into the world by three sisters. Consequently, most of my leisure time was spent in the company of my male cousins and friends. Violence, or the threat of violence, was a constant companion as I made my way along the streets to meet up with the rest of the gang. As a child of no more than twelve years old I had witnessed brawls between kids of my own age that were fought with serious and violent intent. One vivid childhood memory was of my young cousin Trevor smashing a bottle during a fight with the intention of pushing it into the face of another kid, who only two minutes before had been his best friend. But that was an extreme episode and usually violence amongst the local youngsters was more low-key-arguments over trivial matters that had turned into fights, such as a foul while playing soccer, or the alleged theft of a sweet.

But there were also more serious threats in the town in which I lived: it was common back in the 1970s for a black man or boy to find himself being chased by groups of white men wielding sticks or knives for simply having the nerve to walk along a street in a particular area. Many of my friends and relatives had experienced that sort of frightening encounter and as a result there were parts of town that my friends and I refused to visit. But this att.i.tude was by no means exceptional, nor simply down to race or colour: for young men it was often about gangs and territory.

The nuclei of our little gang were my cousins Clinton, Errol and Trevor, our friend Leslie and me. Whether or not it was simply the hostile atmosphere about the town that turned us into fighters I am still not sure. Clinton and Errol had older brothers whose greater experience of the world had led them to conclude that we had to 'toughen up'. Part of this toughening up process involved arranging fights for me with other boys at the local park. Ewart and Kingsley let it be known that they had placed money on the result and did not expect me to lose. Frequently, they would give me a taste of what to expect from them if I did. Once, when I refused to fight, they staked me out in the park and let me bake for hours under a blazing sun. Such were their reputations that no one dared to rescue me. It was a tactic they had picked up from some western movie in which Jimmy Stewart, or perhaps John Wayne, had been similarly tethered in a baking desert by Apache warriors.

Besides real fights, the gang's free time was occupied with the fantasy fighting of kung fu movies. Errol, Clinton and I spent our Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights at the Colosseum cinema where the audience would be ninety-nine percent male and one hundred percent black and boisterous. Kung fu movies were all the rage when we were teenagers and the rat-infested cinema was always packed for its late-night weekend shows. The atmosphere in the Colosseum was always very different to what I would find at the cinemas in the town centre, as there were always plenty of people in the audiences who were willing to supply a running commentary on the action.

Of all the kung fu stars, w.a.n.g Yu was the favourite at the Colosseum. But why kung fu movies and why w.a.n.g? For black guys of my age the badly scripted, poorly dubbed Cantonese films were a cheap escape from the grind of daily life; their carefully ch.o.r.eographed fight scenes acted as a release for people who were otherwise preoccupied with thoughts of real violence. It was easy to fantasize about thrashing either the cops who ha.s.sled us, or the thugs who attacked us, as simply as w.a.n.g dispatched his foes. As for w.a.n.g Yu himself, his popularity was, in part, due to his name: it had not been corrupted with a 'Bruce' or a 'Jackie', from which we surmised that he had not 'sold out' - back then a significant phrase for young black people. This later turned out not to be strictly true, and as w.a.n.g's popularity grew his name became 'Jimmy' w.a.n.g Yu. But this uncomfortable truth was not allowed to get in the way of unalloyed hero-worship. His fighting style was also admired as it was more traditional than Lee's and less clowning than Chan's. Furthermore, as his films only featured Chinese people we were transported to another world in which the hero wasn't always a white man, and it was the j.a.panese, rather than black men, who were the stereotypical bad guys.

One Friday night, shortly after we had left the Colosseum, Clinton, Errol and I had been chased by a gang of white men armed with clubs. Probably frustrated that they could not find an unaccompanied victim, they had decided to stop their car and chase three teenage boys. We scattered and I ducked into an alley that led into back streets and rear gardens. The men must have sensed easy prey and followed me into the dark. I couldn't understand it; I was a good athlete but my legs refused to respond, it was as if I were running in a tank of treacle. Breathing hard, I rounded another corner and something hit me. The impact was severe; arms and legs violently clashed as our bodies collapsed onto the hard ground. Fearing imminent death, I screamed out loud.

"Shut up," croaked a familiar voice, "this way." It was Clinton: he had returned to help me.

After a short distance we had to scale a high wire-mesh fence. Within moments the men were on the other side, furiously growling obscenities and shaking the mesh, but we all knew that there was no way they were going to get over the fence. As they continued to hurl their threats I wanted to get away, but Clinton stood his ground with an air of contemptuous indifference. I stared on in disbelief as he opened his flies and began p.i.s.sing through the mesh. Almost hysterical with rage, the men jumped back, as if Clinton's urine was a deadly acid.

On trembling legs, I ran back to the cinema with Clinton hoping to see Errol and to look for the safety of a crowd. "So, Ralph," he said to me, as we slowed down to walking pace, "are you going to start training with the rest of us?"

At first I was too angry, or too scared, to speak. My lungs were still burning and my legs shaking as adrenalin continued to course through them. I paused before responding. The training he referred to was in karate at the local YMCA. At first I had been dismissive when Clinton and Leslie started training: I was supposed to be the tough guy of our little group, the one who took part in bare-knuckle fights in order to win money for Clinton's older brothers, and I had already told him that I did not need this martial arts stuff. But in truth I was wary of getting involved. The YMCA karate club had a fearsome reputation, and I had heard tales, recounted in the most reverential tones, about the instructor who had once beaten up a gang of h.e.l.l's Angels and had knocked out a genuine Chinese kung fu master; about the tough men including Clinton's older brothers who trained there; about injuries; about journeys to the hospital; about guys who thought they could handle themselves but who had quit after just one session. "No," I had previously told Clinton, "I'll stick to my athletics." But now such a response seemed pathetic because I knew that behind Clinton's question was the idea that we should have stood and fought, that we should have levelled the club-wielding white guys in a fashion similar w.a.n.g Yu's.

A week later I enrolled at one of Britain's toughest and most successful karate clubs. In retrospect I am now keenly aware of just how much that decision changed my life, because it was not until I left school and entered the adult world that I fully appreciated just how perilous the place in which I grew up could be.

Chapter Two .

There is timing in everything. Timing cannot be mastered without a great amount of practise.

Miyamoto Musashi The Ground Book.

"ICHI ... NI ... SAN ... SHI ..." The sensei's calls were rhythmic and hypnotic. For more than two very intense hours we had punched and kicked up and down the length of the dojo. It was an exercise that was punctuated with exchanges of techniques with a partner before we returned to our lines and started all over again. "Ichi ... Ni ... San ... Shi ..."

The instructor who was putting us through all this agony was Eddie c.o.x. He was a broad figure whose demeanour gave him a presence that made him seem far more powerful than anyone else in the dojo. Years before, when I had first joined the club, the first thing I had noticed about him was the thickness of his hands. Protruding from the sleeves of his heavy canvas gi, they resembled great lumps of black iron that had been forged in one of the local foundries for only one purpose: to inflict pain. With his dark skin and broad features, he looked like a shorter version of a young George Foreman only something in his eyes made him look a lot meaner. The rumours about his toughness that I had heard while I was still a schoolkid had not done him justice. But it was not just karate that had hardened him. He had been the toughest kid in the toughest school in town before he had ever started training. Until the day it was closed down, St Joseph's had a reputation for turning out more criminals than academics and was nicknamed 'Joey's Jailhouse'. Most of the boys attending the Catholic secondary school were of Italian or Irish backgrounds and Eddie was one of only a handful of black pupils an experience that had left its mark. In an inst.i.tution in which you were either predator or prey, Eddie decided it was better to become the king of that particular jungle. The tales about the severity of the training sessions he ran had been no exaggerations either. There had been many occasions when I had cursed my cousin Clinton for talking me into accompanying him to the YMCA, mostly as I was helped from the dojo nursing a pulled muscle, a sore abdomen, or a bruised face.

After more than five years of dedicated training, Clinton and I were brown belts and it felt as though we had become members of a larger family unit. A few of us within this extended family were on the fringes of a promotion that would put us on par with some of the black belts. Still in our late teens, we were so sure of ourselves that we brashly thought that, on a physical level, we were already as good as the dan grades. The harsh training regime had made our bodies strong and hard, but our youthful limbs kept us flexible and fast. In order to rearrange the established 'food chain' so that it was more in keeping with our own inflated self-image, there would have to be a confrontation. I would have done well to remember one of my mother's favourite adages: Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it!

The style of karate practised at the YMCA was Wado Ryu, which, according to modern translations, means 'way of peace school'. Wado was created by a j.a.panese jujitsu master named Hironori Ohtsuka who blended the art he had studied from the age of six with the Okinawan fighting system that only became universally known as 'karate' in the 1930s. When Master Ohtsuka visited the Wado Ryu United Kingdom national championships in 1975, the first year the YMCA had entered the tournament, he had commented to other j.a.panese instructors that out of all the karateka who were competing, it was Eddie c.o.x's team who had captured 'the true essence of Wado.' This was high praise indeed, and had probably been bestowed by the kancho (the head of the style) because of the att.i.tude of the YMCA fighters. Though it had roots in older philosophies and traditions, Ohtsuka had developed his style of karate during the period when j.a.pan was making military forays into China and Manchuria, and it was first and foremost designed to be a potent combat system.

Like many other j.a.panese budo masters of that time, Ohtsuka had been recruited into the ultra-nationalist and secret Black Dragon Society, the members of which had worked as spies and a.s.sa.s.sins for their government in Chinese and Russian territories. Collectively, their minds were set on refining ancient methods of killing, and Ohtsuka unashamedly appropriated techniques from other martial arts if they were shown to be effective. But like his good friend Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of modern aikido, Ohtsuka knew that without the proper 'fighting spirit' as he had witnessed within the YMCA team that day all the good techniques in the world counted for little in a real combat situation.

After training for a decade with Gichin Funakoshi, the man credited with bringing karate to j.a.pan from Okinawa, Ohtsuka became frustrated with Funakoshi's rule that forbade his students to spar with each other; at the time karate was deemed far too dangerous. However, this did not sit well with Hironori Ohtsuka; he had been training in bushido (the way of the warrior) since he was a child and knew that without the element of sparring any combat system would be limited in its effectiveness. Initially, he and other like-minded students donned kendo armour breastplates and held secret sparring sessions. Then he did something that, to this day, remains unforgivable to some j.a.panese Shotokan karateka: he broke away and formed his own school. It was a move that was implicitly critical of Funakoshi's philosophy and methods. Not only that, following the suggestion of his friend and colleague Eiichi Eriguchi, he called his school 'Wado', which nowadays can be benevolently interpreted as 'way of peace', but in 1934, when patriotic fanaticism was sweeping through j.a.pan, it seems more likely that, given Ohtsuka's membership of the Black Dragon Society, Wado would have been more correctly translated as 'j.a.panese way' which again could be construed as a slight to the Okinawan-born Funakoshi.

But whatever Ohtuska's original motivations were, it seemed that Eddie c.o.x and the rest of the black belts had interpreted the Wado ethos as: 'there is nothing so peaceful as a man who is laid out unconscious.' In the time I spent training at the YMCA, more than a few boxers and pract.i.tioners of other martial arts had been drawn to the dojo by its reputation in order to test themselves as well as the members of the karate club and I had seen this ethos put into practice with frightening efficiency.

Always prepared to enter any sort of karate compet.i.tion, the original YMCA team were pioneers who travelled the length and breadth of Britain during the 1970s, when, fuelled by the sort of films I had watched at the Colosseum and by various Kung Fu television series, partic.i.p.ation in the martial arts had reached unprecedented levels. For many young black men of that era, carrying a knife as a means of self-defence, or partic.i.p.ation in an oriental fighting art seemed almost obligatory.

In keeping with the way Eddie c.o.x had been taught at the Temple Karate Club in Birmingham by his j.a.panese instructors, Toru Takamizawa and Peter Suzuki, I was introduced to jiyu k.u.mite (free-fighting) very quickly. The more senior members would go easy on me by giving me openings on which to capitalise; they rarely attacked and when they did their techniques were light and relatively slow. To some it may have seemed that they were toying with their prey, but I took it as their way of helping me to develop the correct techniques and selfconfidence.

The days of such easy lessons soon pa.s.sed, and as I became more proficient, every little advance in my technique was paid for with the pain of constant repet.i.tion, and on the occasions when I failed to concentrate, with blood and humiliation.

"Ichi ... ni ... san ... shi ..." c.o.x sensei continued to call out. Sweat ran into my eyes and down my back. Those of us on the second row did our best to match the black belts at the front for speed and power. I could see vapours of perspiration rise from them and the fuggy taste of sweat coated my tongue as I took in gulps of air. Our white karate suits clung to our skin as we did our best to focus our minds, while silently wishing that our agonies would come to a halt after the next technique. "More snap!" urged the sensei, "just ten more." No one believed him; after that there would be a call for a 'last five'. The blood in my gums started to boil; my muscles felt knotted and spent. With a last determined effort my techniques became venomous - now I was imagining punching the instructor, the black belts in front of me, the person who had scratched my car, or anyone else who had upset me that day. "Good," said the sensei, "last ten!"

Ten? It was never a last ten! To a man we were outraged. Without any instruction to do so, we started to shout with every punch and kick. Disregarding the signals from our sinews that silently begged for mercy, we dredged up the strength to move with renewed vigour. For a few moments nothing else existed other than the challenge to get to the end of the session without collapsing.

The concrete floor had become slippery and the vapour on the cold gla.s.s condensed and formed little rivulets that ran along the rusted metal frames. The misty windows not only indicated the intensity of our efforts but also shielded us from what was happening in the world outside and, more immediately, the distracting activities of the prost.i.tutes who peddled their wares on the street corner. I often wondered what someone peering in at us would make of the scene. To those who had never had the dubious pleasure of putting on a karate uniform, or gi as it is called in j.a.panese, it might have appeared that we were engaged in some sort of bizarre ritual or an elaborate dance as we reacted in unison to our partners' movements. It was a dance designed to expose the weaknesses of each partner, a dance that was periodically punctuated with a violent exchange of punches, kicks, strikes and throws amid a cacophony of loud shouts kiais that echoed around the hall's cold, whitewashed walls.

Finally, our efforts were brought to a halt with a shout of "Yame!" The sensei then sent those of us who were not black belts to kneel at the margins of the concrete floor. We would have to wait, anxiously, for our turn. I exchanged a nervous smile with Clinton. Leslie looked untroubled; he knew his diminutive size (he had stopped growing at five-foot-four) would probably protect him from what lay ahead for some of us. The tiredness of my limbs tempted me to sprawl out onto the floor, which was ominously painted blood-red, but it was a temptation I quickly overcame; such a course of action would certainly have led to some sort of painful reminder of correct dojo etiquette. Fifty press-ups on the knuckles was a favourite punishment.

We watched the six black belts perform a series of crisply executed techniques. I did not know how they were doing it, but their high-velocity punches snapped and their fast kicks cracked as sinewy limbs cut through the air. They shared a lot in common: they had been awarded their dan grades by j.a.panese masters; they were in their mid-twenties and at the peak of their powers; and, with the exception of Declan Byrne, they were black men who had been born in Jamaica. They were the first team, the elite, and although some of us who were kneeling had recently won the Chester and North Wales Open and the Northwest of England Open championships, we were still only considered good enough for the second team, which left a bitter taste in our mouths. Clinton and I longed to be in the first team, and by our reckoning, given that there were five fighters and two reserves in a karate team, there was at least one place up for grabs.

The YMCA had established itself as the top Wado Ryu club in Britain during the previous five years and in recognition of this Eddie c.o.x had been appointed as national Wado team coach, although a j.a.panese instructor continued to hold a nominal post. And while the YMCA had triumphed at almost every other 'open' compet.i.tion, winning the newly-inaugurated British Karate Federation Clubs' championship would make its status as the country's top club official. The tournament was fast approaching and the YMCA would be entering two teams, but along with Clinton, I no longer wanted to be in the 'B' team. It would be only a matter of time, maybe only minutes, before we would get our opportunity. There were thirty other students to choose from, but if Clinton and I were called to fight one of the black belts we would know that we were being considered for a first team place.

"Yame!" the sensei shouted again.

The black belts immediately ceased their actions. All eyes followed Eddie c.o.x. He began to talk of the fighting techniques that had just been so expertly demonstrated and of the upcoming tournament. But his words were indistinct to me: I was so tired that all I could do was to listen for any mention of my name. The sensei began to pace in front of us and pointed to those he wanted to pair off with the five black belts who had remained in a line. Three were already on their feet before he pointed to Clinton and me.

I respected them but I had no fear of any of the black belts. I was apprehensive about which one of them I would be matched with but only because of how it might affect my chances of selection for the first team. All the black belts had a different style of fighting that in some way reflected their personalities and every one of them had won some sort of national t.i.tle. Eddie c.o.x and Declan Byrne had the most traditional outlook on karate training. The two men were very similar in many ways: despite one being a black Jamaican and the other a white Irishman, both men had very good karate techniques and a vicious streak that lay well hidden under gregarious personas until they donned a karate gi or were faced with a real life combat situation. Although their approach did not best suit compet.i.tion karate (as both were of the opinion that sport was something to be played and karate was something that had to be lived) they had both won British t.i.tles at junior level and were members of the original team that had won so many tournaments. Declan and Eddie had worked side by side as electricians and had on occasion been compelled to use their martial arts skills while working on building sites. Men who were familiar with Eddie c.o.x's reputation and thought little of it sometimes challenged him to a fight. On occasion they were told if they could get past Declan (and they never did) he would fight them, but if he and Declan were pressed for time and had work to do, Eddie would knock them out if they persisted with their challenges. As well as working together they were as of one mind when it came to karate. They attended seminars that were organized by Tatsuo Suzuki and the other j.a.panese instructors, and when the time came for Eddie to take his third dan examination, it was Declan who had accompanied him for the week-long course in London. The club's two outstanding compet.i.tors were Ewart Campbell and Jerome Atkinson. Both Ewart and Jerome competed at an international level and had the exceptional confidence found in real top cla.s.s fighters. Just below them as compet.i.tors were Chester Morrison, who was an all-styles lightweight national champion, and the much broader Hugo Robinson, who had won a national Wado Ryu t.i.tle.

We lined up in front of the black belts and I found myself facing Chester Morrison. I was momentarily happy that I was not facing either Ewart or Jerome. Chester tended to treat sparring as an exercise and kept his punches light, unlike Hugo Robinson, a bear of a man whose front hand punch would leave indentations in the flesh of his opponents; and most definitely unlike Eddie c.o.x, or Declan Byrne, who were unpredictable and sometimes treated sparring in the dojo like a brawl in an alleyway, or the fights they'd had on building sites.

Eddie c.o.x inspected the two lines. "No, no," he said, "Clinton, you go with Chester. Ralph, pair up with Jerome." I suppose it made sense. Clinton was closer to Chester's weight than I. But although I had grown close to six-feet tall and weighed around a hundred and ninety pounds I was a midget compared to Jerome. We bowed with the command of "Rei": the coloured belts bending from the waist whilst the black belts responded with a curt nod of the head. This was followed with a shout of "Hajime!" and the sparring erupted all around me.

With an opponent of my own size and ability I sometimes took chances in order to draw him out. My tactics would vary depending on the adversary: I could fall back into a defensive mode and give him a false sense of security; or I could be aggressive and attempt to intimidate him by throwing fast and hard combinations of punches. These were the same combinations I practised with Clinton in my backyard, or with my friend Mick at the factory, the same punches I threw at an always-compliant reflection in my bedroom mirror.

Against Jerome, no such options were available to me. He was the dominant one. I tried to attack, but whatever I threw at him was returned with interest. It was not long before my attacks were halted by powerful counter-punches to my body. I thought briefly about Declan Byrne, who trained with Jerome on a daily basis: while I had a growing admiration for his ability to absorb punishment I did begin to have suspicions about his sanity. When he was not taking blows from Jerome, he would spend his leisure time smashing his fists against a wooden post called a makiwara that he had erected in his backyard, when (in his words) there 'wasn't much on TV'.

I tried another attack on Jerome but the techniques that had worked time and again in my bedroom mirror failed me when I needed them most. My composure was being eroded, punch by punch, block by block. All thoughts of strategy had vanished: it had become a fight for me to save face. I launched another attack in an attempt to stop the onslaught but Jerome's fist thudded onto my body and my own punches fell short. I told myself to cool down, to wait for him to attack, and then hit him with a counterpunch as soon as he moved forward. I looked into his eyes for an indication of his next move but they remained expressionless. Suddenly, he shifted his stance to attack; I moved to counter him and instantly realized that his manoeuvre was merely a feint. I was already committed and I had no choice but to follow through with my punch. I saw his rear leg leave the ground but my block was little more than a futile gesture. I braced myself for the impact an instant before I heard the sickening thud or was it more of a crack? For a second or two I remained transfixed; too frightened to move. I heard the students kneeling behind me sucking in air as they waited for my reaction. It was as though I had become an alabaster figure and they were expecting me to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. The next thing I heard was the sensei shouting for the sparring to halt. I also heard the concern in his voice. Jerome took hold of my shoulders and asked if I were okay. I nodded. It was difficult to speak but I was grateful that his concerned grip had stopped me sagging to the floor. The sensei approached and took a long look as I managed to tell him that I was only winded.

Satisfied that there was no more for us to give, the session was called to a close. The coloured belts were told to rise for the final bow and I was glad that I had managed to save some face by not collapsing onto the concrete floor as they had expected. As we made our way to the changing room, Clinton came over to me. He looked me over for a second and rested a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, Ralph," he laughed, "that was one b.i.t.c.h of a kick, man."

I responded with a wince. The road to the first team was going to be a hard and painful one to travel.

Chapter Three .

Today is victory over yourself of yesterday; tomorrow is your victory over lesser men.

Miyamoto Musashi The Water Book.

THE EARLY MORNING routine within the factory where I worked had not changed since my first day there. Harold, as always, arrived before anyone else, at least three-quarters of an hour before the buzzer that would sound for the shift to begin. After opening up the maintenance department he proceeded to make the tea in a huge, unwashed enamel teapot. It was hardly a ceremony, but Harold had his own peculiar way of doing things and to give the pot's encrusted brown interior anything but the briefest of swills in cold water was something approaching sacrilege. Editions of tabloid newspapers, the most intellectual reading matter in the canteen, lay waiting on the long table while faded pinups from the older editions adorned the unpainted cement block walls.

I had not had a decent sleep in the two days since my bout with Jerome. The pain in my chest was worse at nights as the darkness served only to amplify the pain. In desperation, I found lying on my back on my hard bedroom floor did offer a modic.u.m of relief. Breathing was the main problem because my chest could not expand without causing me intense pain.

Mick Davies, a fellow maintenance fitter, could see that I was not my usual self. When I told him that I would not be turning up for our fifteen-minute training session during break time he asked what was wrong. I told him that I had a bit of a muscle strain, rather than that my chest was feeling so tender that if he so much as touched me, he would for the first time see me howling in agony. He voiced his disappointment and playfully punched me on the arm. The tiny shockwaves travelled to the centre of my chest and had me grinding my teeth but I somehow managed not to show my discomfort until he had headed off to the canteen.

Mick was a few years older than I was but he had uncontrollable mousey-coloured hair and a cherub face that made him look more like a schoolkid. He was also well known around the factory for his prowess as a Shotokan karate black belt. When we had first met, I refrained from letting on that I also studied karate, but as we got better acquainted I confessed that I was a fellow exponent. Initially, my revelation was met with a hint of condescension when I mentioned the colour of the belt I wore but that quickly changed to almost overwhelming admiration when I told him that I trained at the YMCA.

It did not take long for our working relationship to turn into a friendship. Mick was born, bred and still living in an area that had a completely different ethnic make-up to the one in which I had been brought up. He once commented to others that I was the first black person with whom he'd had a proper conversation. At first I couldn't make out whether this was an expression of guilt or pride. But, as I later learnt, for Mick it was a simple expression of fact. My first encounter with him took place during my second day as a fresh-faced apprentice when he had ordered me and another new recruit to go to an isolated area of the factory. As we entered the large a.s.sembly room and made our way to report to the foreman, I sensed something was wrong. A group of hard-looking women began slowly encircling us, but a well-honed instinct for survival had me turning and running for the fire exit. I was only just through the doors when I heard the screams of the other apprentice. I later learnt they had stripped him of his garments and rubbed black grease over his private parts. I found Mick almost crying with laughter, but when he saw my terror he doubled over and his face turned so crimson with mirth that he looked in dire need of oxygen. Initially, I was not sure how to react, but as I had escaped the apprentices' initiation rite, I found it easier to forgive him.

I had thought about telling Mick about my injury but macho pride prevented me from doing so. Such was the reputation of the YMCA that to admit to pain seemed like an act of betrayal. Pain was something we had been trained to accept from the first day: the sort that was self-inflicted in order to push us to the very limits of endurance; and the type inflicted by others so as to ensure that in a fight we did not immediately collapse or surrender. But as the day wore on, I felt the urgent need to share my pain with someone. When it finally became too much to bear, I pretended that I was going to the toilet, but made a diversion to the first aid room when I thought no one was looking.

The factory nurse was Brenda, a short woman who was almost as wide as she was tall. Her face was as pleasant as her disposition, but there were times, as on this occasion, when her demeanour became that of an old fashioned, no-nonsense matron.

"You again, Mr Robb, what is it now?" she asked.

"The same as last time," I replied, "I keep hurting myself just so I can see you, Brenda."

Her stern face softened. "You are going to get me talked about. I see more of you than any other person in this factory," she chuckled. Then changing back to a more serious tone, she asked me the real reason for my visit.

"It's my chest," I replied. "I've taken a knock and now I can't breathe properly."

"Let me guess. You've been playing kung fu games again. When will you ever learn?" she said scornfully, before ordering me to take off my shirt and lie on the bed.

She began by examining my ribs. Her touch was gentle and despite my discomfort I smiled at her. Clearing her throat, she said, "Can't seem to find anything wrong so far."

Then, placing one hand on top of the other, she gently pressed down on my chest. It was if an electric current had shot through my entire body. My arms and legs stiffened as I let out a loud groan from between my clenched teeth.

She frowned and then said, "This is worse than I first thought. I think you've got a cracked sternum. I'm not equipped, nor am I qualified to treat it."

My first thought was of missing training and the British Clubs' championships. "Can't you just bandage it up for me?" I asked.

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll put on a couple of bandages for you, but you must promise to go and see your doctor today."