Memoirs of a Karate Fighter Part 3

As I walked from the tower block where I lived, I saw signs of disrespect for people of my background everywhere. In the short time since I had moved to my flat there had been a proliferation of racist graffiti and National Front stickers that were plastered over empty shopfronts and h.o.a.rdings. Most of this activity was due to local council elections, and as part of its campaign the NF was blaming immigrants for every social ill. Rising unemployment and crime levels and the poor state of the health service were all supposedly the fault of people like my hard-working, law-abiding parents. It made me furious and frustrated, as I had yet to see anyone actually putting up a National Front poster, or scrawl one of their slogans: like nocturnal animals, they only seemed to appear at night.

At nine o'clock on every Sunday morning Mr Kovac, one of my neighbours who lived in the flat directly opposite mine, would make the slow and steady walk down to the newsagents in the nearby high street. He was an elderly Hungarian man who did not appear to have many friends and he always expressed delight when I accompanied him. Often, he would have me spellbound with stories from his youth, in what he called the "old country". Occasionally, I would try to match him with colourful events that had happened in my life but they always seemed pale in comparison.

On hearing the familiar clunk of his front door, I simultaneously opened mine and he greeted me in his harsh Hungarian accent that had never softened, despite the years he had spent in England. We walked together along the murky landing and I wished bad luck on the person who had stolen yet another lightbulb from the pa.s.sageway. While we waited for the lift, we made small talk about the weather. "Are you going karate chopping today?" he asked, changing the subject while making a swiping motion with his hands in gentle mockery.

"Not today, we don't start running again until next week. But that doesn't stop you coming training with me. You're not too old for me to give you a beating, you know." I replied jokingly. Mr Kovac laughed and said he had enough trouble keeping his wife from beating him when he misbehaved. "How is your wife?" I asked, "I haven't seen her around lately."

"Her legs are playing up," Mr Kovac replied. "They hurt sometimes. She is resting and getting her strength up for her visit to Hungary next week."

"Are you going too?" I asked.

He answered falteringly, "Hungary is my home, my beloved country, but I can't go back."

His face showed signs of great pain, and I decided not to inquire about why he could not return. From our previous conversations, I knew Mr Kovac still carried the scars of experiences from his younger days and they were matters best left untouched. "How long is your wife going for?"

"Two weeks. Her sister died recently."

The lift doors opened and I saw how dried blood speckled its walls. I took a hesitant step inside, chilled by the sight.

"It's only a little blood. It won't hurt. I saw plenty of blood as a young man. Some of it was the blood of my friends," Mr Kovac said, as he pushed the b.u.t.ton for the ground floor.

"What's all this?" I asked, seeing what I thought was more than 'a little blood'.

Mr Kovac looked at me quizzically, and then he said, "Probably from those wild young men on the top floor. They are always cutting themselves or each other."

"You mean those skinheads?"

"Yes, those poor boys covered in all those tattoos. They are lost souls."

"I can't believe you call them 'poor boys'. I hate them," I snarled. "If they had their way, I would not even be in this country. And believe you me, you'd be on the next boat."

On hearing the anger in my voice the old man shook his head. "You don't understand what I said. They should be pitied; they are being used by others. They are not so different from you or me. Just like so many of you people, they have slipped through the cracks of society and they are often pushed to express themselves through violence. They are young, they are uneducated."

"These skinheads are all in the NF and want to hurt innocent people," I protested. "You know the Front was trying to organize a march the other day, just to stir up more trouble, don't you?"

I had the feeling that Mr Kovac did not always understand me. "Don't forget most of them are ignorant of the real world," he said. "They, like so many young people, only know the little world they see and live in. And isn't England a country of free speech? Maybe it is better to let them march and vent their frustration that way."

The lift doors slid open. "But you shouldn't be free to stir up hatred with lies," I said.

"Yes, yes, I agree," said Mr Kovac, as he moved stiffly beside me, "I've seen it all before in my country with the Jews. They felt they could not a.s.similate with other people because they were hated by a few, but their religious beliefs kept them separate too. This kind of separation feeds on itself, it feeds suspicion and gives one group a reason to hate the other and stay apart. And so many of them fail to recognize that we share the same humanity until it is too late."

We walked in silence for the rest of the short journey to the shop. We had our newspapers and were making our way back to the flats as I continued to try and work out if I agreed with or even properly understood what Mr Kovac had said. The lights of a pelican crossing changed for us and a car pulled up; I was still figuring out how I should reply to him while we were crossing the road, and did I not pay much attention to it. A blast of 'Land of Hope and Glory' from two large speaker horns on the car's roof startled me and turned my head. A call of: "ENGLAND FOR THE ENGLISH REPATRIATE NOW!" accompanied the music.

I stopped in the road and glared at the man in the pa.s.senger seat who held the microphone handset. At first he smirked, but it soon gave way to a grimace. Staring at him, I experienced a similar hatred to the one I had previously felt for the skinhead leaving the lift. But now there were no boxes in my hand to prevent me from acting. I turned and spat onto the car's bonnet. The two men in the car made nervous smiles as I trembled with anger. I made to rush to the car's door, to rip it open but a strong hand grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me back.

The car sped off and my elderly neighbour asked, "Are you a special kind of stupid? Can you not see they are taunting you, to get you to react ... I've seen it all before with the n.a.z.is.... Nothing changes."

We reached the other side of the road as the car continued to spew its venomous message, and I was not sure if I should have felt glad that Mr Kovac had intervened to stop the situation from escalating. As if he were reading my thoughts, he said, "Don't let them upset you. You were right to move away. You could not have won. Maybe you could punch them around but the courts would make sure you lost." Pa.s.sers-by, who had witnessed the incident, were staring at me before hurrying on as if to avoid the gaze of a mad man. "They have to be fought in other ways," continued Mr Kovac. "They are out because there is an election; if you really want to stop them then make sure you vote for one of the parties who oppose them." I did not have to say it, my neighbour could tell by my expression that I had not even registered to vote. He rested a hand on my shoulder and said, "But you are still young, Ralph, and one day you will find out that not even your karate will allow you to win every fight."

It would be some time before I would learn how right Mr Kovac had been during that Sunday morning walk.

Chapter Nine .

Without the correct principle the fight cannot be won.

Miyamoto Musashi The Wind Book.

MY FIRST FORAY to a foreign land was to Scotland, and as we set off that morning I really did not know what to expect. The journey Clinton, Leslie and I made by train was so long and tedious that it felt as though we were travelling halfway across the globe and several time zones to a location that should have been a lot more exotic than Glasgow, given all our efforts to get there. Leslie could not keep still and spent most of the time walking from carriage to carriage, but Clinton was a lot more laidback, spending the hours peering out at the flickering countryside. As time went by he became less responsive, and for a long while I watched how he impa.s.sively stared out of the window, as if he were completely oblivious to my presence. I wondered what was on his mind, for although I had known him most of his life he had never been easy to read. He could do some strange things and p.i.s.sing through a fence at a group of men who were armed with clubs, as he had done when we were kids, was by no means the most peculiar. But more recently he had withdrawn not only from me, but other family members and friends, especially Leslie. At least I could always get some response from him, with a bit of effort, but there were times when he would completely ignore everyone else around him. I was about to raise the question that had been preying on my mind for some time when Leslie entered the compartment and asked if we were going to get something to eat. I was hungry and got to my feet immediately, but Clinton did not respond until I touched his shoulder and asked if he were coming with us. His head turned slowly and then jerked back as if he were surprised to see me. "Coming for some food, Clint?" I asked him. He smiled weakly and muttered that he was not hungry. Leslie grumpily told me to leave him to starve. He had always been low on empathy.

On finally reaching Glasgow we caught a taxi to the hotel that had been mentioned in our letters. As the driver chatted incessantly, in an accent that none of us understood, the three of us took in the sights. They did not leave us greatly impressed, as the grey and overcast sky made the surroundings appear grim and forbidding. Once at the hotel, we were allocated rooms and given a sheaf of papers that included a timetable, directions to the stadium and a list of prohibited activities. One which stuck in my mind was the rule against leaving the hotel after 5pm; but the list of restrictions only served to remind me that this was no holiday excursion.

Once we had deposited our bags in our rooms we went downstairs where the Scottish karate officials gave us a welcome that contrasted with the cold and drab afternoon. We had headed north thinking of ourselves as representing the YMCA, but as the evening wore on, it was obvious that our hosts saw us as part of the people they referred to as the 'Auld Enemy'. I had been sent an England badge that was to be sewn onto the jacket of my karate gi with the letter confirming my selection, but even though I had thrown mine into the rubbish bin, I was still identified as a member of an 'invading force' that the Scots told us they would take great pleasure in repelling. As a few more drinks were downed by our hosts, it became plain to me that all the talk about our being 'part of the enemy' was not all light-hearted banter: there was real venom behind the words. I was feeling the first stirrings of a minor ident.i.ty crisis: while I had been born in England, I had never considered myself, nor ever felt I was regarded, as English. Neither Clinton nor Leslie seemed to be troubled in the same way; to them our selection for the England under-21 team was simply an opportunity to enhance our compet.i.tion skills and to compete at European junior championships. They were confident that the Scots would not be much opposition but I was not so sure.

Scotland, given its small population, had always been disproportionately successful at karate. Jerome Atkinson had often talked with great respect about his Scottish team-mates in the British squad, such as the world champions Jim Collins and Pat McKay. While he had beaten Hamish Adam (who had been a member of the team that had won the world championships in 1975) to win his first European Wado Ryu t.i.tle, Jerome had often mentioned how hard a fight the much smaller Scotsman had given him. I had also overheard Jerome sing the praises of a fighter named Davy Coulter, and Declan Byrne recount how the five-foot-eight Scot had downed a German opponent, who was at least a foot taller, with one of the best techniques he had ever seen performed on a compet.i.tion mat.

The following day, as we headed off to the compet.i.tion venue, I stepped out of the hotel and a very large pigeon dropping splashed onto my head. It proved to be a source of great amus.e.m.e.nt for Clinton and Leslie all the way to the stadium, but I just hoped that it was not a bad omen.

Before a compet.i.tion, it was standard procedure to report to a doctor for a very basic medical to make sure that we were fit enough to fight. My heart rate was deemed to be very slow, but that was not out of the ordinary for someone so fit. Leslie also pa.s.sed with flying colours, but there was a problem with Clinton. Shortly after his blood pressure was checked, he began to complain of pains in his chest and lay down on the floor. The doctor examined him but could not find anything wrong. However, after a brief consultation with the compet.i.tion's officials, Clinton was told that he would not be allowed to fight and that he should get a thorough medical checkup once he was back home.

The news that Clinton was not competing unsettled me. Leslie dismissed the episode as a matter of Clinton losing his nerve, but I knew that could not be the case. Physically, at least, Clinton was about as fearless as any person I had ever met, to the point when he had at times displayed a reckless disregard for his own safety. Like the rest of his family, he had that certain 'something' that made him a natural fighter. He was still on my mind as I prepared for my first fight.

Roared on by a partisan crowd, the Scottish compet.i.tors lined up at the edge of the mat. As the subsequent bouts would prove, point-scoring was only a secondary consideration for them, the main objective was to dish out as much punishment to the 'Sa.s.senachs' as the rules would allow.

Although it was not without its uncomfortable moments, I revelled in the hostile atmosphere the spectators had created and managed to win all my bouts. But the same could not be said for all of my team-mates, and I left the stadium with the rare feeling of being part of a losing side. I was also a little bruised. My first taste of international compet.i.tion had been a painful reminder of how much more training I needed to prepare for the European championships.

In the three weeks following our trip to Scotland, Clinton did not visit his doctor to find out the cause of his chest pains. Before he had left for home an official had told him that if he were to compete at the European under-21 championships he would first have to produce a medical report giving him the all-clear. Something about my cousin had changed. Physically he seemed fine again, and I started to think that perhaps Leslie had been right and Clinton had simply let the occasion get to him and he had temporarily lost his nerve. That he had not bothered with seeing his doctor might have been due to an awareness on his part that there was nothing physically wrong. Certainly, there was nothing to prevent him from returning to work obsessively on his car. The old banger still remained outside his house, and despite not getting it to move an inch he was spending what little savings he had on it. I was worried mostly that he no longer shared my ambition to succeed in the compet.i.tion arena and that the car was distracting him from getting back to our harsh training routine, much like how our cousin Errol had never returned to the dojo once he had discovered girls and cars. Takamizawa once said that if you are finding karate easy, then you are not doing karate. Karate training is hard, unnaturally hard, and it becomes a constant battle in which the mind has to overcome the body's inclination to take the path of least resistance the method which involves less pain and effort. Many of the karateka I knew who had finished completely with training did so after an injury, or after a summer holiday, when a week or two without training turned into a month, and despite promises to do otherwise, every pa.s.sing day made returning to the rigours of the dojo that bit more difficult, until it finally became impossible to return. Clinton had been told to rest for a couple of weeks, which had already turned into three, and I was determined that he would be back training before it became a month.

Karate is far from being the only activity in which one has to overcome the instinct to avoid pain; for example, long distance runners have to confront their bodies' aversion to being tested to the limits over many miles in all sorts of weather and conditions. I thought it no coincidence that the greatest karate compet.i.tor I knew, Jerome Atkinson, had also run a number of marathons. Karate and marathon running have a lot in common as it is as much about the condition of the mind as it is of the body, and I thought the best way to get Clinton training again was to get him to run with me.

He had spoken no more than a few words since we began running from his house. He was such a good athlete that if he wanted, he could talk effortlessly while running, but as we headed through the prosperous suburbs his grim silence again turned my mind to what was going on inside his head. Perhaps his quietness was of an easy, companionable sort, or perhaps it was an indication of his determination to succeed. Or maybe it meant something more serious: I had a suspicion about what was wrong with Clinton but it was so awful that I spent a lot of my time convincing myself that I was wrong, particularly when the cousin I knew reappeared. However, the Clinton I had known since we were both small kids seemed to appear less and less frequently. As I had done during our train journey to Scotland, I wanted to ask him about his state of mind, but I did not know how to broach the subject without offending him. The incident in Glasgow continued to concern me, but every time I wavered, my doubts and fears were pushed back further into a recess in my mind, which made them much harder to voice.

Clinton began to accelerate, and made it clear that my overall physical fitness needed to be taken to a higher level. It was the one weak link in my preparation. Weight training had left me stronger than I had ever been and I had learnt during the fights with the Scottish compet.i.tors that if I wanted to succeed at an international level, it was necessary to concentrate on improving my techniques by way of even more hours of constant repet.i.tion. Running the six-mile course was the first step in a programme I had devised to increase my stamina.

My pace quickened to match Clinton's. He responded in kind. Now our arms and legs were pumping furiously and for a few fleeting seconds we were rapt in the exuberance of our own physicality until I suddenly realized that the gate that kept the beast of number 52 at bay had been left open. Our feet thundered on the concrete; we were going too fast to stop. Every time we had run past number 52 the German Shepard had attacked the gate while barking viciously. Someone at the dojo knew of a white man who had trained his dog to attack only black people, but it was not until the day a blonde, pear-shaped woman in a primrose jog suit had ambled on ahead of us without drawing so much as a yap that it occurred to me that the brute did reserve its performance for black pa.s.sers-by. Or maybe it simply smelled my fear. Before I had time to come to a conclusion, it was upon us. Finding a speed I never knew I possessed, I left Clinton behind; but the German Shepard chose to stay on my heels. I was across the road and without a second's hesitation, or looking for the traffic, I scrambled onto the bonnet of a parked car. As the gnashing teeth closed in, I climbed onto its roof.

Seeking easier prey, the dog turned its attention to Clinton. But he was putting what I later described as my 'diversionary tactic' to good use by ripping a wooden fencing pole from a front garden. Instead of running away, Clinton screamed while he raced towards our four-legged tormentor with the piece of wood raised above his head. The large mutt seemed momentarily unsure of what to make of the approaching phenomenon and then turned tail as the pole made contact with its backside. With a mixture of relief and annoyance, I screamed curses at the dog and its owners as it fled back to the sanctuary of its own yard. Dropping the fencing pole, and without a second glance at me perched on top of the car, Clinton continued with his run.

Before the dog had a chance to rediscover its courage, or the owner of the car caught sight of me and the damage I had caused, I scampered off the deeply dented roof and sprinted to catch up with Clinton. It took some distance before I reached him and as I drew level he stopped suddenly.

"What's up, Clint?" I asked, as he folded and gripped his knees. His whole body was shaking, and I immediately thought he was having some sort of seizure. It was only as he straightened that I realized that it was laughter that had sent him into convulsions.

Gasping for air, he said, "Do you remember when Leslie fought that one-legged man?"

It was an incident at a tournament in the north of England that all those who had watched it could hardly forget. Leslie had been drawn against a young man who had an artificial leg, and the referee had approached Leslie before the contest to ask if he would make it more of an exhibition bout as the youth had entered the compet.i.tion as more of a gesture about overcoming a disability rather than with any real notion of winning. Leslie nodded, but when the bout began he made it into an exhibition of his ruthlessness. Within seconds he had swept the artificial leg from beneath the youth and followed up with a punch as his opponent lay spreadeagled on the mat. He did this not once but twice, to the horror of his instructor, his team-mates and the spectators, and he was duly awarded the fight. When I later asked him why he had been so cruelly efficient he replied, "He wanted to be treated just like any other person, didn't he? So, I treated the guy like everyone else. And besides, I wasn't going to take any chance of losing to no one-foot boy because I took it easy."

"But, Les," I began to protest.

Leslie was having none of it. "Ralph, karate isn't easy," he said. "Life isn't easy and a guy with only one leg should know that already."

And they say there is no cruelty in karate.

Clinton was still laughing as I finally answered his question and told him that I could never forget what Leslie had done that day. "Well," he laughed, "I was thinking that dog almost made you into another one-footed fighter and wondering what Les would've made of it."

We continued with our run, and I grunted a few things about the possibility of racist dogs, but he did not respond. Within a matter of yards he had withdrawn again behind an impa.s.sive expression and as we returned to our starting point he ran into his house without a word of farewell. I thought about following him inside. I hovered for a few moments trying to work out what I would say to Clinton about his behaviour but the sweat was already growing cold upon my skin and I retreated to my car. Reluctantly, I turned the ignition: whatever there was to say to Clinton would have to wait for another day.

Chapter Ten .

Make your body like a rock and ten thousand things cannot touch you.

Miyamoto Musashi The Fire Book.

FOUR DAYS AFTER my run with Clinton, Mr Kovac, my Hungarian neighbor, met me at the front door of my flat. He looked down to the floor and saw that I too had been posted National Front leaflets, even though the local elections had long gone. He told me that everyone on our floor had received one and that I had not been singled out. I told him that I did not even bother to pick them up, never mind read them: they would go out with the trash. Almost apologetically, he added that my dad had called around and had asked him to pa.s.s on the message that a relative of mine had been admitted to hospital with pains in his chest and head. I immediately knew who it was.

At least a dozen family members were at the hospital by the time I got there. After a few hours of hearing no news on Clinton's condition, some of them left, saying they would return later, and asked those of us who remained to telephone them should there be any developments. I pa.s.sed the time at the vending machine and chatted to a few of the nurses. I had been in the Accident and Emergency Unit so often, either as a patient or accompanying a fellow karateka who had been injured in the dojo, that I was on first name terms with quite a few of them.

A grim-faced doctor finally emerged from behind a curtain and announced that we could all go home. He said that Clinton was feeling a lot better and although no evidence of any physical ailment could be found, he would be kept in overnight for observation. The news was received with a collective sigh of relief from the family but I knew that every one of us secretly shared a suspicion about what was wrong. Most took the easy way out by accepting the doctor's words, but I remained sceptical. I had heard the way he had used the word 'physical' and I had seen it all before in Scotland. Like the doctor, I felt that Clinton's condition was due to something more than a physical illness.

While some of the family made phone calls, the rest chose to linger and create a jubilant atmosphere, which was totally at odds with the disinfected surroundings. Clinton was being cared for in a small cubical that had curtains at each end and I waited for a nurse to step out before sneaking in to find him lying on a bed. He was perfectly still and appeared to be sleeping. Quietly sitting beside him, I held his hand as I saw the streaks that had been left by the tears than had run down his cheeks. His eyes opened and he greeted me with a smile. "Feeling any better?" I asked.

He squeezed my hand. "Yeah," he said softly.

I felt my lip tremble. "What's the matter, Clint?" I asked. "You had us all worried again with those chest pains."

"I don't know exactly ... Sometimes my chest hurts ... Mainly it's my head ... I sometimes get confused." His fingers tightened around mine. "Hey, Ralph, I'm frightened. I just want to go home."

"Do you mind?" boomed a voice from behind me. "You will have to leave. All of you. Those outside as well, you will have to go home. There's nothing you can do here."

I was led out of the cubicle by the ward sister, who then herded me with the rest of the family toward the exit. From behind the curtain Clinton laughed. Despite my worries, my heart was warmed by the happy sound from inside the cubicle. Clinton's laughter continued to cut through the sterile air as I made my way outside, but the fact that the laughter was so prolonged made me grit my teeth and I went home feeling scared for my cousin Clinton.

It looked like events had conspired to disrupt my preparations for the European under-21 championships. Although my overall physical condition remained good, I had received st.i.tches above my eye courtesy of a punch during a particularly hard training session. Eddie c.o.x had told the cla.s.s to divide into three groups of ten karateka, one of whom would stand ready in a fighting stance against a wall while the other nine made a line and took turns to attack to him. There could be no retreat, only movement to the side, or forward to meet the attack. When nine attacks were completed, the person at the front of the line would take his place against the wall. We would go round and round, sometimes having to act as the defender four or five times. It was an exhausting exercise for the defender, who was not allowed to rest, while those who were attacking were not only resting as they waited for their turn but also scrutinizing the defender's tactics and then plotting a means to catch him out as they made their way to the front of the line. It was almost impossible not to take at least one hard blow during this exercise, and Trog took full advantage of my attempts to regain my breath after taking a powerful kick to the stomach from Clinton, of all people. It had been a couple of weeks since his scare, and although he had been given a clean bill of health and was back training I was saddened, but not surprised, when he told me that he would not be coming with me to the European championships in London. I had been hit by two consecutive attacks Clinton's kick and Trog's punch but I still had to defend myself against another four before the change came and I went to the back of the line. The sight of my blood seemed to spur on the karateka in front of me. Their punches and kicks came faster and harder as they tried to take advantage of my weakened state. But I did not take it personally, they were only doing what they were trained to do.

At Crystal Palace I reported to Doctor Canning, the medical officer for the British team, who was still fretting that the cut over my eye would stop me from fighting. The st.i.tches were still in place but the skin was healing and he said that I would be okay to compete. "A word of advice, Ralph," he said as I left him, "just don't get punched there again."

The championships were to be held over two days. I stayed at one of the hotels close to Crystal Palace with other members of the squad. One of them was a black guy from the Afan Lido club in Wales named Bird; he had also been selected to fight in the heavyweight category. Despite the trouble we both had in understanding each other's accents, we had struck up a friendship. Bird was fast, and had a great range of techniques, but I had fought him in the past and thought I could beat him again if the gold medal were at stake. He was also tall, but it was not until I faced my first opponent that I realized that his height was not exceptional in the heavyweight division. But I was not intimidated; I stepped out onto the mat for that first fight almost bursting with pent-up aggression.

I returned to the hotel satisfied with my efforts after the first day of the compet.i.tion. Not only had I (along with my roommate) reached the semi-final stage of the individual tournament, but so had the team of which both of us were members. The disparity in size had not counted against me, and my aggression and my ability to antic.i.p.ate my opponents' attacks had enabled me to comfortably win all my bouts. As I retired to my bed, Bird said, "You fought good today."

I said, "Well, Birdie, I saw you fight. You were brilliant." He laughed at my recognition of his attempt at a good-humoured mind-game. We had watched each other's progress with interest and had figured that there was a strong possibility that we would face each other in the heavyweight final.

Once the lights were off, I began to imagine what glory the following day might have in store for me. A change of tactics would be needed aggression would not be enough if I were to progress to the final. The other three fighters who remained in my category all looked capable of winning a gold medal and, more importantly, had seen the way I fought.

The second day of the championships progressed quickly and it did not seem long before I was called to the mat for the semi-final. My prize was now tantalizingly close: two more fights and the t.i.tle of European under-21 Heavyweight champion would be mine. Bird and I were to face two Italian fighters, the tall Guazzaroni brothers. Both of them would become top cla.s.s compet.i.tors and one would win a world championship seven years later. My fight would be the first of the two semifinals and I thought it was a blessing as it gave me less time to be nervous.

When the fight got underway, I found that my cagey Italian opponent antic.i.p.ated my movements extremely well. He had obviously watched me fight and figured a way to counter my style. His offence, on the other hand, had me baffled. Attacks were launched from unorthodox stances and almost caught me off guard. On several occasions I only just managed to evade his punches and kicks, and the fear that I might lose a fight entered my head for the first time: it would prove to be a costly lapse in concentration. We continued to shuffle around the mat, and I thought about what tactic I should employ next when a lightening-fast uraken strike with his front hand slammed against the side of my forehead, close to my cut. My eyes smarted as the referee inspected my injury for any further damage before he gestured toward my opponent and awarded him a half-point.

He was gaining in confidence and looked to quickly capitalize on his advantage with another attack. I did not see it coming but instinctively I moved my head and the bottom of his heel sc.r.a.ped the other side of my face as he attempted to hit me with an axe kick. To add to my indignity, the judge's arm shot up to award an ippon, but he was overruled by the referee after a halt in the bout for a brief consultation. Now I was livid. "Screw the tactics," I growled under my breath. I had got this far by fighting to my strengths and now I was thinking too much about tactics. After all, in j.a.panese martial arts, the pract.i.tioner strives for mushin no mind when in a combat situation, so that the body can react without the conscious thoughts that make the actions too ponderous to be effective. In that instant I decided to revert to the aggressive use of the techniques that had been honed in the YMCA dojo. The referee called for the fight to restart as I thought about how I would make my opponent pay for trying to embarra.s.s me.

I threw a feint. He reacted. I smiled to myself; now I had him. Another feint and he pulled away slightly. The first two punches of my combination only met thin air but the third landed on his chest with a thud. "Wazari!"called the referee. I had found his weakness and no sooner had I been awarded the half-point that I was back at him. The stinging pain above my eye dictated my next move. Mimicking his technique, I hit him to the side of his face using uraken and immediately followed it up with another powerful reverse punch to his chest "Ippon!"

I did not allow him to settle after that and continued to force him back until the referee brought the fight to an end with a call of "Yame!"

The national team coach congratulated me as I left the mat but my satisfaction with winning the bout was short-lived, as he reminded me that I had to maintain my focus for one more fight. Relaxing between fights was something I did naturally, I'd even been known to fall asleep: but as I waited for the final I continually walked anxiously around the arena. Some team members offered words of encouragement as I walked by, but their words fell on deaf ears. It was then that I missed the support of my fellow members of the YMCA club. Most of all I missed Clinton's presence.

After what seemed an interminable wait, it was announced that the final was about to get underway. My heartbeat quickened. I approached the mat and paced the perimeter of the fighting area, trying not to look across to my opponent. I was to fight the second Italian for the t.i.tle, as to my surprise, he had convincingly beaten Bird. He too was pacing the floor despite his trainer beckoning for him to sit down and relax. The British coach said something to me that I could not make out as I exhaled heavily through rapidly drying lips. I walked toward my line. After bowing to the referee I faced my opponent. His bow toward me was far more gracious than the perfunctory nod I gave him. My legs and arms started to tingle as the referee took a step back. He motioned with his two hands and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down the hollow of my back. My calves tightened as I readied myself to spring from the line and with a shout of "Hajime!" the referee signalled for the bout to begin.

The fight started with furious exchanges. We shared a similar aggressive style of fighting. He scored first with a punch, gyakuzuki; I equalized shortly after with a maegeri that drove the air out of him. He quickly recovered his breath and scored again with another punch to the body; I did likewise. He changed stance and fought with his right foot forward, his hands constantly moving. I attacked, and another punch landed on my body, high up near my shoulder, but it was still adjudged to have scored. He tried to press home his advantage and attacked with a high kick. I sidestepped but he had moved out of reach by the time I threw a counterattack that brushed his gi. He bounced around on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, still moving his hands in a threatening way, but he made no attempt to attack. He was playing for time; time that was rushing by now that I was behind in the scoring. I moved forward, throwing punches to his head and body. He swayed and parried. My ashi barai swept his front leg away and had him tumbling to the mat but I failed to follow up with a clean scoring technique. Back on my line, the muscles in my legs were coiled to push me forward for one last attempt to score, when the bell sounded. The referee shouted that the bout was at an end before turning to check the score. He then moved back to his line and stood with his hands at his side. For a few moments of aching intensity, I willed the score not to be what I had counted, and for his right hand to shoot out in my direction, or at least signal a draw. But it was his left hand that was raised after he had announced that my opponent had won by three wazaris to two.

My insides felt as though they had collapsed with the weight of disappointment. The customary handshake at the end of the bout was dispensed with as my opponent rushed over and hugged me. He was ecstatic, but I just stood there with my arms hanging limply at my side, hardly believing that I had been beaten. It felt as though I had briefly held the gold medal in my palm only for someone else to s.n.a.t.c.h it away before my fingers could curl around it.

Losing was something I had never considered during all my long and tortuous preparations for the compet.i.tion and although the notion had briefly entered my head in the semi-final I had banished the thought from my mind and had managed to win. I took my inspiration from Jerome Atkinson, who while a very modest man, had complete faith in his own ability and it always came as a surprise to him when, on very rare occasions, he lost. Deflated and frustrated, I had to compose myself, as I would be competing in a short while in the team event. The British under-21 team bristled with raw talent and such was our standard of performance during the qualification rounds that I could not see any other team preventing us from winning the gold medal, which would be of some small consolation to me. But for some reason the team coach changed the line-up that had previously done so well and inserted fighters from his own club. Not only were the new fighters not as good as those they had replaced; the move undermined the spirit of those of us who remained. Although I won my fight, the team lost its semi-final and was only good enough for a third place and a bronze medal. My frustration was turning into anger and I went and took myself away from my fellow squad members so I could be alone with my thoughts.

I was sitting morosely with a towel over my head, replaying the only fight I had lost in two days of compet.i.tion when an official from the British squad told me to put on my tracksuit for the medal ceremony. Without uncovering my head, I told him that I did not have a tracksuit. "Ralph, it's part of the dress code," he said, by way of explaining why he was still standing over me.

"I never got a tracksuit," I said.

"And you never got a badge to sew onto your gi either?" He was referring to the small embroidered Union Jack that I had thrown into a bin, as I had done with the England badge, before the match with Scotland. My reluctance to display a national allegiance had obviously been noted. "It's on my other gi," I replied, "I brought this one by mistake. Don't worry about the tracksuit, a lot of the fighters from other countries don't have one."

"It's our code," he insisted. "No tracksuit, no medal."

"That's okay with me," I said.

From under the edge of my towel I saw him flounce away in his grey flannels and navy jacket, which had a badge on its breast pocket that proudly proclaimed his allegiance to Britain, or at least to her karate team. I imagined that whoever he was talking to would put my truculence down to the bitter disappointment of losing in the final, but the shrewder amongst them would read something else into my motives. I saw the flannels and a tracksuit approach. I lifted the towel to see the team coach with a tracksuit top in his hand. "Use this one for the ceremony, eh, Ralph?" he said, as he thrust it toward me. I gazed at its little embroidered flag and there was a moment in which I paused and thought about handing back the tracksuit. It was the same emblem I had seen on the car that had carried around men from the National Front; it was the flag that appeared on the literature they had pushed through my door. It had become a symbol of hate, and the sight of it turned my stomach. When the moment pa.s.sed I guessed my gesture of refusing my medals would be lost on most of the people gathered in Crystal Palace and it would be characterized as the action of a sore loser. After a heavy sigh I put on the tracksuit top and made my way to the podium.

Watching the Italian flag being raised above the Union Jack filled me with a c.o.c.ktail of conflicting emotions. It was only then that it truly hit home that I had lost. But at the same time I was glad that there was not about to be a rendition of 'G.o.d Save the Queen' because of my efforts. After another hug from the affectionate victor, I stepped down from the platform before another embrace provoked me into doing something that could set off an international incident. By the time my foot touched the floor I was already taking off the tracksuit top and within moments it was back with the coach. I knew he did not understand, but the tracksuit had simply added insult to to my injured feelings.

Chapter Eleven .