Memoirs of a Karate Fighter Part 2

It had taken half a can of WD-40 to get my old car to start. The Hillman Avenger, never reliable in the cold or damp, had once again caused me to let out a string of curses which only ceased when the engine finally roared into life. Grim-faced, Clinton was sitting on his doorstep waiting for me. "You're late," he said.

I was still annoyed about the car's starting problems. "I know, I can tell the time," I replied, irritated that he would grumble, considering I was the one who had decided to bring him along, despite Leslie's protests. Three minutes later I turned the car into a quiet residential area and Leslie was out at the first beep of the horn. He slid onto the front seat of my car, wearing his trademark sly smile and exchanged greetings with me, but he ignored Clinton. After a short distance I drove into the car park of a tower block, not unlike the one in which I now lived. Leslie seemed more energized than usual and ran to the intercom at the flats' entrance. After the briefest of discussions he returned to us with a wide grin that made me feel uneasy. "The two of them will be down in a minute," he said, as he retook his seat.

"Only two? What am I going to do?" asked Clinton.

"Not my problem," said Leslie. "I wasn't the one who asked you to come out with us in the first place. You and Ralph can share, or you can get out and get yourself a life."

I gritted my teeth: Leslie's harsh remark was more evidence that what remained of our childhood gang was fracturing still further. My cousin Trevor and a couple of his friends were the first to fall away as four of us joined the YMCA; they had neither the inclination nor the necessary discipline to subject themselves to the harshness of karate training. Cousin Errol kept at it for a while but at green belt stage he discovered he liked cars and girls a lot more than being kicked and punched.

A rap on my window broke my thoughts and I was surprised to be confronted by a very voluptuous figure straining the seams of a very skimpy garment. Leslie laughed and opened his door before he tilted his seat forward and offered a hand to the two women who clambered onto the backseat alongside a bemused and wide-eyed Clinton. "This is Ruth," said Leslie, as the bigger of the two got in. She stood at least six inches taller than Leslie. Her friend was small in comparison; it was the first time I had laid eyes on her but she made an immediate impact. Her tight white dress hugged her body and contrasted with her cool dark skin. The long, braided hair complimented her angelic face. "And this is Cleo," Leslie added, before he retook his seat.

It took a while for me to get the car moving. Whatever Leslie's shortcomings, he was a truly amazing master of psychology and these were not even the same girls we had taken out on our previous double-date. Just as he could get under a man's skin and have him bawling out in frustration, he could also charm good-looking (and tall) women into doing exactly what he wanted. He made use of this gift during his compet.i.tive career to gain a psychological advantage over his opponents, once getting a world champion so worked up that by the time Leslie met him on the mat he was already a beaten man.

I was looking into the rearview mirror for a glimpse of Cleo when Leslie said, "Right, let's head for the Rising Star."

The presence of two such young and attractive women had the three of us competing over which one of us could hold their attention for the longest. Of course, Leslie's charisma meant that he was winning, and he had all of us in st.i.tches. But the laughter came to an abrupt halt when he shouted at me to stop the car. I slammed on the brakes, frantically looking around and half-expecting to see a cyclist or a pedestrian sprawled out in the road. Without a word of warning, Leslie was out of the car and running across the road to a bus that had just pulled up to a stop. It was then I saw who had attracted Leslie's attention. All of us watched in silence as Leslie raced down the aisle of the bus, before, in one motion, he swung on one of the hand rails and kicked a young man in the head. There was a brief flurry of kicks and punches and the next we saw of Leslie was as he sauntered back towards my car. "C'mon, Ralph," he said nonchalantly, "drive."

Cleo ruined the angelic image I had of her by letting out a string of profanities as she demanded to know what was going on. For the remainder of the journey, the girls did not so much as utter a word, but I could tell that they were unsure if it had been wise to accept Leslie's invitation to go clubbing with us.

I knew exactly what had happened and why. I had spotted the young man at the bus stop as Leslie had run across the road. He was the ex-boyfriend of a girl who Leslie's charm had lured away. Not being brave enough to take out his frustrations on Leslie, he had made threats of violence and stalked the girl or so Leslie had told me. But like the two girls in the back of my car, I was not impressed by Leslie's course of action. I couldn't help thinking that he was showing off.

After reluctantly taking turns to dance with the three of us, the girls made out that they were going to "powder their noses" and slipped away. Leslie did not notice; he was too busy talking to the likes of my cousin Trevor and his friend Albert and I knew by the way they were laughing that he was describing the incident on the bus. Up until then I had liked to think that any violent actions of a YMCA member outside the dojo were not only justified but admirable. The club we were spending a night in was a testament to the good things karate could produce. Such was the Rising Star's reputation for now being trouble-free that coach loads of people made round trips of hundreds of miles to spend a Friday or Sat.u.r.day night at the club. I saw a n.o.ble quality in those YMCA men who had sorted out a gang who had defrauded a blind woman of her savings; in the colleague who had saved a life by knocking out the three guys with knives who had just left a man without his spleen; and in the black belt who had beaten a gang leader and ensured that he would enter a plea of guilty for his crimes, as his violent reputation for grievous bodily harm and rape had previously intimidated witnesses into not coming to court to give evidence against him.

The horrified expressions of the two young women as they sat on the backseat of my car stayed with me; like them, I did not think that I had witnessed anything very n.o.ble that night.

Chapter Six .

You must not be influenced by the opponent. Train diligently.

Miyamoto Musashi The Wind Book.

I HAD RESTED from training for almost two weeks, but I had become so used to exercise that it had become like a drug for me and without it I felt lethargic and dull. So I did not allow myself to go into 'withdrawal'. I continued to stretch my hamstrings as I moved around my flat because I was not one of nature's most flexible creatures, though I did not count that as proper training as I had not broken into a sweat.

When I finally returned to the dojo to train once again, I detected that there was something different about the atmosphere: with only a few days to go until the British championships there was an air of antic.i.p.ation, rather than apprehension. Excluding myself, everyone looked as fit and as prepared as they could be. Confidence was at its usual high level: the YMCA entered every tournament expecting to win. All that was left now was the selection of the teams. I prepared to hear my name amongst those who would make up the second team but the sensei simply announced all the names of those he wanted to report to the dojo on the morning of the championships.

The British Karate Federation Clubs' championships were to be held at the Aston Villa Leisure Centre in Birmingham not much more than twelve miles away and we had the relative luxury of setting off at 9:00 am, instead of at the crack of dawn, as we had to do when travelling to tournaments as far away as c.u.mbria or Crystal Palace.

As usual, the schedule was unraveling, and half an hour after the planned departure time I continued to stand, with several others, on the corner where young women had touted for business only hours before. Despite my irritation with the latecomers, I carried on with preparing myself mentally for the upcoming contest and refrained from indulging in the teasing carried out by Leslie, who usually targeted the most nervouslooking amongst us.

I did feel apprehensive but I still had a positive frame of mind as I had prepared as well as I could despite my injury. It was usual for me to abstain from all my usual vices and have no less than eight hours sleep the night before a compet.i.tion. In the morning I would always eat a considerable breakfast before setting out, as usually I would not eat for the rest of the day. But the most important part of my preparation was in the hours before a compet.i.tion, when I always visualized winning.

Another advantage of the tournament's venue being so close by was that there would be no arguments about whose turn it was to drive. Normally, there would have been a heated debate that usually started with the better-off amongst us giving many reasons why their pristine cars could not make a long journey and then electing someone else to subject their vehicle to the wear and tear.

As the last of the team members arrived, Leslie offered to take me and a few others in his recently acquired Mark II Ford Escort that he had at last made roadworthy. But the invitation was not extended to Clinton, who had wandered off and stood beside his brother Ewart's car. He stood silent and motionless. I thought he was doing so because he did not want to be beholden to Leslie. But in hindsight, I now realize it was another warning about the changes taking place within my cousin and closest friend.

We arrived late in Birmingham but the event, in common with almost all karate tournaments, was running behind schedule. There was a buzz from other compet.i.tors as we walked into the changing room, and whispers of our arrival echoed along the walls that were lined with white ceramic tiles. Pretending not to notice the stir we had caused, we began to change into our karate gis. Fighters can be very superst.i.tious and although no one at the club would admit to any such thing, it was not difficult to see it in those getting changed. Some would remove clothing in a set order or tie their coloured belts in a particular manner. I would never allow my shin and foot-pads or my hand-mitts to be washed, no matter how dirty or bloodstained they became. To do so would have diluted their acquired magic.

All the top compet.i.tors knew each other and some of them came over to greet the senior members. Like so many in the second team, I was only considered worthy of the briefest of nods, it was the type of greeting that said: Yeah, I've seen you fight, you've got promise but you're not there yet. I had been trained to go into a bout expecting to win, and with this came a certain amount of arrogance. Along with the rest of the second team, I viewed most fighters from other clubs as inferiors. While any conceit or boastfulness in victory was frowned upon, there can be no room for humility in the mind of a compet.i.tor who wants to win: he has to enter a bout confident in his own ability to emerge as the winner of any fight he enters.

When we entered the cavernous sports hall, it seemed to us that the other clubs had collectively conjured up the theory that if they went out of their way to shake our hands and wish us luck we would go easier on them. I would have respected them more if they had just come out and said what they felt: I hope I have it in me to give your backside a good kicking today.

The few fighters we did not take exception to when they greeted us before the fighting began were from Toxteth in Liverpool. They were genuinely pleased to see us and took pride in a.s.sociating themselves with our club to the point that they would come and support the YMCA once their team had been eliminated. There was an affinity between us despite them practising Shotokan based on the most tenuous of grounds: that of skin colour. I was intrigued by this club as all its members were from one of the oldest black communities in England. Unlike our parents, their forebears were born in England, they spoke with a 'Scouse' accent, their skin tones were various shades of light brown and it was obvious that their parents and ancestors were a mixture of black and white and every shade in between. I detected that they felt a sense of alienation from British society that was similar to that experienced by people of my background, who were still perceived as relative newcomers to Britain's sh.o.r.es. What separated these guys from white Liverpudlians was not so much the physical results of their melanin levels but the different consciousness it produced. When listening to them talk of the prosegregation mind-set that prevailed in their city, I thought about the similar att.i.tudes I had become aware of in the area in which I now lived.

When I took a seat that overlooked the fighting areas that were made up of vibrant blue and red tatami (mats) and saw the number of fighters that had travelled from every part of Britain, the scale of the event produced an anxious jabbing pain in my gut. Our first team was amongst the favourites to take the t.i.tle of British Clubs' champions, but there were several other teams, with international compet.i.tors within their ranks, that were also strong contenders.

As even more fighters entered the hall, Eddie c.o.x ordered us to take ourselves to the far end of the bleachers so that we could be away from all the distractions and relax. While some of the others continued to limber up, I lay down and closed my eyes as I reflected on the long road I had travelled in getting to this point and the sacrifices we had all made for the YMCA. The anxious pain in my gut began to fade and before long my mind began to wander and I recalled my very first bout as a fifteen-year-old novice yellow belt.

In 1977 karate compet.i.tions were still a very tough and macho affair: women and children were precluded from fighting and could only vent their compet.i.tiveness in the kata events. But at fifteen years old I was fairly big for my age, and as a result of the bare knuckle fights I'd had, I was confident that I was ready to enter a fairly small local tournament. It was not difficult for me to recall the fear I felt as I stood on the fighting area for the first time. There was a grown man standing across from me and I remembered my knees shaking as I tried to give off an air of confidence by staring at my opponent until his intimidating scowl forced me to avert my eyes toward my toes. I was still looking down when the referee called for the bout to begin with a shout of 'Hajime!' Screaming like a banshee, the brown belt raced toward me and threw a heavy front hand punch, which I evaded but I failed to see the following two-punch combination. There was a thud on my forehead and suddenly I was on my backside listening to the crowd cheering wildly. Through watering eyes I looked across to Eddie c.o.x, who just bared his teeth and clenched his fist. I clambered to my feet and made my way back to my line. My opponent stood red-faced and snarling as the referee awarded him a wazari (half point) before the bout resumed.

Again he rushed at me, but aware of his tactics, I retreated faster than he advanced and several times I was chased over the boundaries of the fighting area. This continued until the crowd booed and the referee warned me that I was at risk of being disqualified for not fighting. Eddie c.o.x crouched at the side of the area and called me over. The referee promptly waved him away but not before he whispered to me, "Someone just told me that the guy's a member of the National Front!"

I returned to my line. My opponent rushed forward to finish me off. Overcoming my fear and the natural inclination to retreat, I pushed forward, determined to meet him halfway. Squeezing my eyes shut, I punched as hard as I could and felt the impact travel down my arm while simultaneously I heard a sickening impact amid groans from the crowd. I opened my eyes to catch the last of his descent to the floor, blood oozing from his mouth and nose. The referee restrained him as he temporarily lost his composure, as well as his senses. He struggled to tear away the blood-soaked rag from under his chin and I swallowed hard at the thought of what he might do to me when the bout restarted, but to my great relief I was promptly disqualified. Walking from the area, I saw Eddie c.o.x laughing to himself and I knew then that he had probably lied about the political inclination of my opponent. I had lost, but defeat had tasted strangely sweet at that moment.

My eyes opened as a hum of excitement filled the building. Over the tannoy one of the officials called for the coaches to submit the fighting orders of their teams. As I got to my feet, Eddie c.o.x beckoned me over to him and that pain in my gut came back again. I antic.i.p.ated that he was about to tell me that I had been relegated to the reserves of the second team because of the training sessions I had missed. "Ralph," he said, "you'll be fighting number three for the first team."

The surprise left me barely able to talk. "Do you think I'm ready?" I mumbled, as the first feelings of self-doubt crept in. "Is Declan injured or something?" I had expected that Declan Byrne would retain his place in the first team upon his return from a year in Ireland, especially when he had joined in with the fighting cla.s.ses. But unknown to me, he had told Eddie that he no longer felt the urge to compete. He had boxed with some success while he was away and had become even more disillusioned with the changes in the rules of compet.i.tion karate which further restricted the amount of contact a compet.i.tor could make. Along with many others, he was of the opinion that these alterations were diluting the combat system's effectiveness. Eddie c.o.x smiled. "No," he replied, "he isn't injured, he agrees with Jerome and Ewart that you're ready for the first team. Just do your best."

"And Clinton?" I asked.

"He's going to be the first reserve, okay?"

"Okay," I mumbled, suppressing my urge to cheer out loud. This was the moment for which I had endured years of mental and physical discomfort. But there was no time for any celebration now I had to prove to myself, and to others, that I was worthy to line up alongside some of the best karate fighters in the country.

As the day progressed, the team advanced much as predicted. With win after win, my confidence in my new role grew. Drawing strength from the others, I felt totally at home fighting at the number three position, as opposed to fighting as number one for the second team, where there was far more pressure to get the team off to a good start.

Conceitedly, I felt surprised that the second team had not only survived without me but were performing better, much better, than anyone had antic.i.p.ated. Danny Moore, Don Hamilton, the Bryan brothers, Trog, Leslie and Flash were beating teams that were made up of far more experienced fighters. By the evening, both YMCA teams had progressed to the semi-finals. No one dared speak of the possibility of the two teams making it to the final for fear of breaking the spell.

Throughout the elimination rounds, Jerome and Ewart, fighting in positions one and two, formed a formidable opposition for any team. Neither of them lost a bout and it is hard to recall if any of their opponents even scored a point against either of them. That changed somewhat when the YMCA fought in the first semi-final. The opposition was a team coached by a man who had trained with Eddie c.o.x at the Temple Karate Centre in Birmingham. We regarded his team as our inferiors, a 'compet.i.tion' club, whereas the YMCA trained for combat first and only later were students introduced to the idea of fighting within rules.

Jerome had already gone out and won his fight in his usual efficient, no-nonsense manner, when Ewart, in his overly confident way, strolled lethargically onto the mat. It was evident he regarded his opponent with disdain. His bout started with the less experienced fighter moving around and feinting attacks in order to draw a reaction. Ewart sometimes used a style of fighting in which he planted himself on one spot, head slightly tilted to one side, almost trance-like, like a gangly carnivorous insect waiting to strike at its prey with lightening speed. Suddenly, his opponent feinted another attack and when it again drew no response he followed up with a mawashigeri jodan (roundhouse kick to the head) that slapped Ewart hard on the side of his face. The referee could not award an ippon fast enough, such was his delight.

Ewart's arrogance, on and off the mat, had won him few friends. There were many, even amongst his admirers, who wanted him taken down a peg or two. A great roar went up as the referee's hand shot skywards to indicate a full point had been awarded. I began to worry that Ewart's dented pride was about to get him disqualified as he sought vengeance, leaving all the pressure on me to re-establish the lead. From behind me I heard Leslie making no attempt to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt: he could tell what was to follow. The fight only lasted another thirty seconds. Ewart scored three full points, the last one an excessively powerful punch to the solar plexus that folded his opponent as if he were made of paper. He returned to the team still scowling and when he glared at me I understood his unspoken command: nothing but an emphatic victory would suffice.

I was to face their best compet.i.tion exponent. He had won several tournaments and had a reputation for being cunning and cagey. In many ways he epitomized the nature of his club: point-scoring was everything. The contrast in the ethos of the two clubs was ill.u.s.trated when he had once made the mistake of visiting the YMCA and asking Declan Byrne to spar with him; the compet.i.tor had no chance against a fighter like Declan and he never returned to repeat his error of judgment.

My opponent started the bout by moving forward aggressively to intimidate me. I immediately reacted with a counterpunch that he just about evaded. As my fist brushed the side of his head, his eyes betrayed a sudden hesitance. I pressed on, combining feet with fists in my attack. In desperation he lashed out with an open hand and caught me squarely in the mouth, pushing my upper lip against the sharp edges of my teeth. The referee halted the match and called for the doctor to examine the small gash at the edge of my mouth. The doctor placed a plaster on the wound as he announced that the cut would have to be st.i.tched but it could wait until after the bout. The referee asked if I was okay to continue. I nodded, as I was sure I would have my opponent's measure once the bout restarted. The referee turned and gave a private warning about proper control to my opponent who then raised an apologetic hand in my direction. I merely glowered at him in response.

The delay in the resumption of the bout was agonizing for me. I felt embarra.s.sed that I had been caught out by a technique that had caused me a disproportionate amount of damage when compared to its feeble execution. All I needed was the opportunity to make amends.

Sweating profusely, I worked hard, perhaps too hard, to land a technique, but he wouldn't stand and fight me and I failed to register a score. A bell sounded and a disembodied voice announced that there were thirty seconds remaining. Again I attacked and he retreated. Determined to win, I sprang forward and delivered a solid punch that landed just below his throat. He yelled out and confused me as I was sure the blow had landed away from his windpipe. Holding his fist in the air, he raced back to his line. The referee at first appeared confused, before he awarded a half point to my opponent! Shocked, I looked back to my team, having no idea of what technique he was supposed to have landed on me. With only a few seconds left, he easily avoided my desperate attacks and won the bout.

The two remaining YMCA fighters, Hugo and Chester, won their fights, giving us a four-to-one victory but as I made my way over to the doctor to get my mouth st.i.tched I felt deflated. Declan Bryne took the time to give me a few words of encouragement. "You learn more from your losses than you do from your wins," he said, slapping my shoulders and drawing an admonishing glare from the doctor. "Don't worry, you were the better fighter, but he conned the referee. That kind of carry-on is why I packed up competing. When you've finished here, Ewart wants to see you."

He wandered off to watch the other semifinal in which our second team was facing the Shukokai club coached by Eddie Daniels. When the doctor had finished with me, I hesitated about going over to see Ewart. The feeling of dejection brought on by my defeat remained and, as I walked toward my cousin, Declan's words repeated over in my mind: "You learn more from your losses."

To my surprise, Ewart was more rea.s.suring than critical and told me that I had fought well all day. Like Declan, he thought my more experienced opponent had kidded the referee. It was approaching midnight as we went back into the almost empty arena for the final. Most of the spectators had already started their long journeys home, back to towns and cities across England, Scotland and Wales, as their teams had been eliminated. In the final, we were to face the Shukokai team, which included Livi Whyte, another Jamaican fighting for Britain, who had been a runner-up in the 1980 world championships. He was a popular man with the YMCA: tough and uncompromising, but always fair. By the time the teams lined up for the final I had already worked out where I had gone wrong in my only loss of the day. I knew my opponent but I had failed to block that out from my mind and unwittingly I had made allowances for his style but that meant he had gained a psychological advantage and I had not fought in my usual way.

The next few minutes were a blur because I fought my final bout of the tournament in exactly the way I had been trained to do: without conscious thought and thereby allowing my body to react in the manner in which it had been conditioned over many years of practise. At the end of the bout the referee raised his hand in my direction and with that the YMCA had an una.s.sailable lead.

Warm water cascading from a showerhead was the next thing I remembered. The banter in the changing area centred around Jerome's fight with Livi Whyte. It had been the fight of the championships. Jerome and Livi were friends and colleagues in the British team and knew each other very well. The Shukokai champion was a large man of immense strength and deceptive speed, and the fight had ebbed and flowed until a superbly timed front-hand punch from Jerome had upended the oncoming Livi and put more than two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle onto the flat of his back. The YMCA teams had come first and third in the British Karate Federation Clubs' championships and even our fiercest rivals now had to concede that we were the best karate club in Britain.

Chapter Seven .

Know the smallest things and the biggest things; the shallowest things and the deepest things.

Miyamoto Musashi The Ground Book.

THE MAIN BOILER lay dormant and awaiting its annual summer repairs. It stood, mostly obscured by shadows, in a small, isolated building that was a small distance from the main factory. An old mattress positioned on a mezzanine above and to the back of the boiler was the ideal location for what Mick Davies called 'the retreat'. Impossible to see from the front of the boiler house, it was a site where a select few who knew about it recovered from a night out at a party, or rested bruised and aching limbs, or simply evaded work. I intended to stay right there for the afternoon after what had been a very tiring morning.

The day had started badly. A charge of adrenalin and the visions of victory had kept me awake for most of the night and I had only nodded off in the early hours. My alarm clock woke me with a jolt, and for the first time, I felt exactly where my opponents' blows had landed on my body as I eased my way out of bed. It was a small source of consolation that my sore mouth distracted me from the dull ache in my chest. But as the adrenalin had dissipated, I was left not only feeling pain but also drained of any enthusiasm for work; it was if I had awoken from an exciting dream and then stepped into someone else's drab and mundane life.

Mick couldn't get enough of the stories of the championships, including the one about how I got the st.i.tches in my mouth. He found that one to be a great source of entertainment but he was bewildered by how little I made of such an achievement and he constantly scolded me for not bringing in the winners' trophy for everyone to see. It was a tradition in the factory for the workers to bring in any sort of award they had won usually they were for fishing or pigeon racing and put them on display in the canteen. Finally, I had to put his mind at ease by revealing that it was more than likely that the local evening newspaper would publish a photograph and report of the YMCA's victory during the week. It was a source of irritation for Mick that the YMCA had shunned publicity for so long, and he had often commented that if his club had achieved a fraction of our victories the local newspapers and the various martial arts magazines would have been bombarded with reports of their triumphs at almost every major karate tournament in Britain. But it was not the way of the YMCA to court publicity. I did often wonder about the wisdom of such a strategy, especially when it seemed that every week I was reading of boastful karate instructors whose egos were only matched by their inflated, often self-awarded, grades in a magazine or local newspaper. From very early on, Eddie c.o.x and the other senior members had decided on a course that relied on actions speaking louder than words. At the YMCA, victories were accorded the briefest of handshakes when back at the dojo although a first win by a junior member was usually given a mention at the start of the following session and then it was on with the training, the grinding and repet.i.tive training.

"That means everyone will see you," said Mick, on hearing of the probable visit by the local press.

"Only if they buy the newspaper," I said.

"Well then," he said, as though I had just proved his point, "you might as well bring in the trophy tomorrow and give us all a look."

I refused. The last thing I needed was questions regarding the 'karate chops' that featured in 'Hai Karate' aftershave adverts, or the supposed martial arts expertise of David Carradine, star of the Kung Fu TV series. By lunchtime I was struggling to keep my eyes open, prompting Mick to suggest that I should spend the afternoon in the seclusion of 'the retreat' while he covered for me.

Once I lay on the grimy mattress I found it hard to doze off. As I had done in my own bed, I replayed the fights of the previous day. It was only the cut in my mouth that caused me to feel anything less than total satisfaction about how the day had gone: I had fought with and against the cream of karate compet.i.tors, not only in Britain but possibly in Europe. And I had acquitted myself well, although I knew that I still had a way to go to be ranked along with the very best. Next to the mattress was a stash of Mick's ageing martial arts magazines. I found one from 1976 and again read over an article that then rated the YMCA only joint third in a subjective league table of the top fighting clubs in the country. The victory at the British Clubs' championships was the culmination of five years of hard work to prove that we had been the number one club all along.

There was also a magazine that contained an article on 'race'. Because of the proliferation of black champions in the martial arts, it tried, in pseudoscientific terms, to explain why black fighters were more suited to karate than their white counterparts; citing everything from longer black limbs infused with twitch fibres, to eyes being s.p.a.ced further apart to give better peripheral vision. As far as I was concerned, it was an article riddled with backhanded compliments which were calculated to reinforce racist stereotypes.

In the past, the question of race had periodically cropped up between Mick and I. He was inclined to believe the not-so-natural selection explanation, claiming the slave ships sailing across the Atlantic had weeded out the weak for shark food, leaving the slave masters to increase their chances of breeding physically superior beings by cultivating stronger specimens from those who had survived the arduous voyages. I told him it sounded like he had got most of that stuff from the 'Roots' TV series. But I did not take offence at Mick's views, as I had heard similar arguments raised by black people I knew. I countered with the argument that it was more nurture than nature, and that the environment played a large part in why, like so many of their boxing counterparts, many karate champions were black. After all, teams from the Caribbean or Africa were not winning world championships; the top teams in international karate compet.i.tions were Britain, The Netherlands and France, all of which contained a high proportion of black men who were now living and training in Europe. To me it was about the opportunity to train with the best teachers, as well as the circ.u.mstances in which they had grown up, that had led to the proliferation of so many great black fighters, whether in martial arts or boxing. Declan Byrne was a case in point: although his skin colour was different to that of his colleagues, he had a lot in common with the rest of the YMCA in that he was of immigrant stock and had spent most of his life in one of the roughest council estates in the town. A big factor in Declan's success at karate was the att.i.tude that such an upbringing can create but he was the first to admit that for many young black men there was also the added factor of racism which could be manifested in anything from daily name-calling to random physical attacks. It was in this kind of hostile atmosphere that many people were forced to confront aggression and think about defending themselves. It was the added dimension of racism that propagated a mind-set which must have been similar to the one that was found amongst the young men who had trained in j.a.pan's dojos before World War Two: a martial art for them was not a sport, nor merely a method of keeping fit, for some it had become a matter of life and death.

Top-level instruction from j.a.panese karateka, who were then amongst the best in the world, also played a part in Britain's success. But, ironically, it was the latent racism within j.a.panese karate that had made the British team so successful in international compet.i.tions, from the mid-1970s right up until the 1990s. After a brief period of condescension in the 1960s, when it was considered that the gaijin student did not possess the innate qualities, nor the martial arts tradition to really learn karate, the j.a.panese then set the bar so high to achieve a black belt that in many cases a European third dan ended up having a far greater range of techniques and knowledge than his j.a.panese equivalent. And yet, when given the choice, many clubs in Britain chose a j.a.panese instructor to do their grading examinations, as it had been so firmly implanted into their subconscious that the belts they awarded were somehow 'more authentic'. j.a.pan's defeat in World War Two also influenced how some instructors taught their art. Once, when slightly worse for drink, a j.a.panese instructor confided in Eddie c.o.x that he would never teach an American or English karateka all he knew. They could speak the language, profess a love for the culture, even marry a j.a.panese person and train diligently, but there was no way he would impart to them the ogi (secret techniques) of Wado Ryu. The irony only struck me after years of training: many of my peers had become involved in karate as a reaction to the racism they faced on a day-to-day basis, and yet many dojos were not the sanctuaries from intolerance they had sought but often hothouses of prejudices based on grades, style of karate, nationality and race.

A couple of days later there was a pleasant surprise waiting for me at my parents' home when I called in one evening: there was a letter informing me that I had been selected to attend trials for selection for an England against Scotland match at under-21 level. I could hardly eat my dinner fast enough before I hurried to Clinton's house.

I found him lying under an old Ford Escort he had bought. His brother Ewart was a Ford mechanic and had told him not to buy it, but Clinton spurned my good advice. I told Clinton about the letter but he stayed under the car and grunted that he had received one too. The sound of banging and sc.r.a.ping of metal continued. I had antic.i.p.ated a different reaction: at first I had been fearful that my selection might provoke some envy but then I quickly discounted the thought as Clinton had never been jealous of any of my successes, in fact he shared in them as I would not have achieved much without him as my training partner. But when I heard that Clinton had also been picked for the trials I immediately expected more of an excited response, in which we would plan a training schedule together. When he finally emerged from underneath the old car, I saw a strange look in Clinton's eyes that I had not noticed before and it disturbed me. It was distant and disengaged. I was not sure what to do so I playfully punched him on the shoulder as I congratulated him, hoping it would bring him out of t h i s trance. Clinton looked at his shoulder and then slowly up into my face. He blinked, and as if slowly waking, a smile started to spread across his face. "Well," he laughed, "getting selected can't be no big thing, even Leslie got a letter."

I was still feeling a pang of concern for my cousin. "But you're feeling all right, Clint?"

He gave me a puzzled frown and gently poked my chest. "Better than you." He picked up his tools and said, "Come on, let's go inside and work out how we're going to fit in some extra training."

Chapter Eight .

Many things cause a loss of balance. One cause is danger, another is adversity and another is surprise.

Miyamoto Musashi The Fire Book.

I HAD ARRIVED early for the first cla.s.s on Thursday evening. During the previous session I had been told to turn up for the junior cla.s.s, which was for beginners and those students who were younger than fifteen, to help with their instruction. Through the door of the dojo I saw an ill-at-ease, wiry man pacing the floor. "Ralph, hurry up and get changed!" shouted a relieved Eddie c.o.x, "there's a man here who wants to take a photo."

Once I had my gi on, I hurried back into the dojo. Reticent about publicity, none of the senior members had bothered to turn up for the photo shoot so it was left to Don Hamilton, Mick Bryan, Trog and one of the younger students to line up with me and our sensei to proudly show off the British Karate Federation Clubs' Championship trophy to the readers of the local evening newspaper. The camera's flash lit up the hall half a dozen times before the photographer produced a notebook and took Eddie c.o.x to one side to ask a few questions about the tournament and those who were present for the photograph. Unused to such media attention, we gawked at our sensei and the journalist until Eddie c.o.x looked over and called out, "Mr Robb, please warm up the cla.s.s."

Trog was not happy as I put the cla.s.s through a series of stretching routines. He was much more supple than anyone else present and may have been a better choice, but I was the higher grade. Trog still believed that the position given to me in the first team had been rightfully his, even though I had vindicated my sensei's faith in me with my performances at the championships.

This was my first attempt at giving instructions and I was amazed at how uncoordinated the movements of the beginners were and yet I had performed the same exercises in a similar awkward fashion only five years before. The changes to my body and mind were incremental over the years of karate training and it was only after being confronted with the ungainly novices did I realize just how much I had changed.

The sensei returned and took the bow to formally begin the training session and as I was the most senior student present he told me to put the cla.s.s through the basic techniques. He was throwing me in at the deep end: up until then I had simply followed instructions and never a.n.a.lyzed the principles that lay behind them. It was then I grasped how much of a learning experience teaching karate is, as I did my best to explain how to perform a simple punch, the importance of breathing properly and how a kiai (shout) is used to enhance the power of a technique, in a manner similar to that of field athletes and weight-lifters as they expel air during a moment of intense exertion. But with the sensei and Trog scrutinizing my performance, I was becoming fl.u.s.tered as I tried to convey what I wanted the students to perform. I was glad when I was finally relieved of my duties. As I joined the rest of the students, out of the side of his mouth, Trog said, "You were confusing yourself, never mind the rest of us."

"Yeah," I replied, "like the time when my foot in your chest seemed to confuse you."

By the time the junior cla.s.s had ended only a quarter of the normal number of seniors had turned up. Despite the discipline in the dojo, in reality there is no compulsion in the martial arts. No one forces us to go training, we make the choice to do so and as Hironori Ohtsuka said: the first opponent we must overcome is ourselves. The black belts turned up and offered a series of lame excuses about why they had missed the photo shoot. It had taken a concerted effort by every member, and not just the seven fighters who had made up the first team, to secure the victory, and some were obviously still feeling the effects. But by turning up for training the black belts set an example for the rest of us. Each one of the senior grades had their own personal ambitions to drive them on; with so many t.i.tleholders in the club it meant that no one could rest on their laurels. Jerome Atkinson was the most outstanding example of this. He had won his first national and European Wado Ryu t.i.tles as a brown belt but he realized he needed a change in his training and fighting style to go up a level and win a national all-styles t.i.tle; and once he had experienced fighting at the 1980 world championships he became aware that his training regime had to be refined yet further if he were to succeed at the very top level. In many ways, he was re-programming his reflexes and 'muscle-memory' and was a model of extraordinary single-mindedness.

But it seemed some were taking longer than others to recover from the British championships. Clinton and Leslie were amongst the missing and I worried that their call-up for the under-21 trials had made them complacent. Clinton's absence caused me the most anxiety: he was my training partner and I felt it was my responsibility to get him back on track.

Clinton was underneath his old Ford again. He had been working on it almost every day in the two weeks since he had bought it and the car had yet to move from the front of his house. Clinton was nothing if not determined, but to me it was like trying to breathe life into a body that was long dead. I had driven by his place to see if he wanted a lift to the Sat.u.r.day morning fighting cla.s.s, but the moment I spotted him I knew he would be too busy with his car to come training. Cursing him and the car, I decided to save my breath and pressed on for Leslie's house.

Leslie's parents were on holiday in Jamaica, and because of previous experiences, when I rang the bell I was unsure of what I would find on the other side of the door. "Quick, come in," he said, eyes furtively shifting from side to side. As he closed the door behind me I noticed how tired he looked and that his clothes were askew as if he had dressed hastily. It did not take me long to work out that he had company. It turned out to be the tall girl to whom we had given a lift to the nightclub with her friend Cleo. After a brief moment of wondering about what girls saw in him and how the h.e.l.l he had won her around, I asked Leslie if he were coming training and he looked at me as if I had just asked a very stupid question. "But look, Les," I protested, "we have to get back into the groove. We've got the trials coming up, remember."

He was laughing as he said, "Next week, Ralph, we'll start next week. I'm just letting the injuries heal before I get back into serious training."

I drove to the dojo berating both Clinton and Leslie's lapses in dedication but part of me was regretting that I had not asked Leslie about Cleo; perhaps my commitment would be waning too if I had such an attractive distraction in my life.

The fighting cla.s.s was exactly that. After the customary warm-up exercises there followed an hour of sparring, starting off slow and light but normally finishing very fast and very hard. It still attracted karateka from throughout the area who were looking to improve their fighting skills. It must have been a daunting prospect for them, particularly for the visiting black belts who often found themselves struggling with the green belts and at the end of the line there were the more proficient and merciless black belts waiting for them. After watching the team win the British championships, a brown belt had travelled from Birmingham to train with us. He bowed, while politely asking Eddie c.o.x if he could join the cla.s.s. He was at least six-foot-four but his suit had either shrunk or he had borrowed it from a far smaller karateka. His first mistake was to give off an air of timidity and fear the very things that should not be shown when entering a combat situation. How much more fearful he would have been if he had seen the expressions of those who were looking on: we were like a pride of hungry lions who had just spotted our next meal. The trouble the brown belt had taken to visit the YMCA dojo should have been seen as a compliment, but for the majority of the low and middle grades it was an opportunity to prove themselves. Trog, as usual, was the most vocal. To the group of green belts around him he said loudly, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall!"

And the tall brown belt did fall many times during that morning's session. In the dojo, according to many instructors, there is no cruelty and pain is a lesson well learned; the YMCA karate club adhered to this maxim and did its best to teach everyone a lesson, no matter who they were. On one occasion, there had been a national Wado Ryu squad training session held at the YMCA dojo, and a young j.a.panese instructor, who had apparently won an All-j.a.pan Universities championship, had exactly the same sort of treatment meted out to him. He had hit the floor many, many times. To his credit, he kept hauling himself upright every time. The samurai had a saying of which the young j.a.panese champion was probably aware: 'Kikioji, mikuzure, futanren.' Kikioji is fear of an enemy's reputation; mikuzure is fear of how the adversary looks; futanren is inadequate training; and any one of these three is enough to lose a fight. The reputation, grade, or the way a visitor looked counted for nothing in the YMCA dojo, and in that way, everyone was treated equally. If a visitor held his own, as only a few did, he could walk from the dojo with a real sense of achievement and take with him the respect of the karateka with whom he had trained.