Memoirs of a Karate Fighter Part 4

You must thoroughly cut down the enemy so that he does not recover his position.

Miyamoto Musashi The Fire Book.

THE NEWS OF my European silver medal drew copious congratulations from Mick Davies at the factory. His reaction was in sharp contrast to those I had encountered back at the dojo. My team-mates found it hard to be so effusive because they knew how disappointed I was with second place. The one exception was Trog; as usual, he had plenty to say. He grinned broadly as he 'congratulated' me on making it to the final. "Getting beat when you were so close must've been hard to take, eh?" he chuckled. But Mick could only see my medal as a great achievement, and urged me to announce the result to the rest of the factory by displaying my medal in the canteen. Perhaps he was trying to make amends for the indifference displayed by the other guys seated at the long table in the maintenance department.

"Go on," Mick said, as we headed to the stamp shop.

"Go on what?"

"Go on and bring in your medal. Before you say no, a bloke in the machine shop is always bringing in his fishing trophies, and the darts team is always sticking newspaper cuttings on the notice board. Go on, Ralph, lots of people would like to see it. You must be the first person from the factory ever to represent Britain in anything."

Maybe he was appealing to a vanity I denied possessing but for the first time I began to consider bringing my medal to work; that was until we reached the machine we were to repair. Four men were standing around drawing on scrawny roll-up cigarettes as they waited for us. Mick dropped his toolbox, and to the oldest one he said, "Bert, I was just saying Ralph must be the first bloke in the factory to ever represent Great Britain in any sport."

Bert, a fat man with a silver Teddy-boy quiff, blew smoke from the side of his mouth. I had always been aware of a certain malevolence in his eyes but Mick remained completely oblivious. "Oh yes?" Bert said. "What sport, exactly?"

Embarra.s.sed, I bent down and pretended to be looking in my tool box as Mick replied, "He was fighting for the British karate team at the European championships at the weekend and won a silver medal." I wished Mick had kept quiet as I straightened up. There was a scornful twist on Bert's lip as he said, "Fighting for Britain. Well, there's a thing." He turned to the others and said, "Did you know he was fighting for Britain?"

"I thought he'd be fighting for Jamaica or some other African country," one laughed.

"You daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I growled, "it was the European championships. In case you didn't know, Jamaica's a Caribbean country ... A long, long way from Europe."

I hunkered down next to Mick and began to work on the machine, but the response I waited for never came. I thought someone might say: "Never mind where Jamaica is, you couldn't pa.s.s for an Englishman." There had been a few snide comments after I had fought for England in the match against Scotland, stuff like: "I didn't realize you qualified for England, Ralph", or "Nice to hear you were defending our English heritage for us against those b.l.o.o.d.y Jocks." It was those sorts of comments which had made it so difficult for me to put on that tracksuit top before the medal ceremony.

Mick had heard the comments too and told me to take no notice of them. It was not as easy as that for me. At some point during my life the concept that I was an outsider had crept into my consciousness and I did not know if the idea were mine, or if it was a reflection of how I was perceived by others. The local National Front was doing its level best to foment conflict by continually handing out provocative literature around where I lived, and had me retreating behind some kind of mental barricade. Similar stuff had been put up at work, but it was quickly taken down by the management who made it clear that any employee who was found in possession of such inflammatory racist material would be instantly dismissed. I straightened up once the repair was finished and each of the four men looked at me in a manner that made me wonder which one of them had put up a National Front poster in the washroom.

It should not have affected me, but the reaction of Bert and his three mates had got under my skin and the prospect of another forty-five years of work was starting to get me down. If karate had provided me with many of the highs, every day I spent at the factory was beginning to feel like a low. I sought comfort in the notion that I had only a few months of my apprenticeship remaining, and provided I pa.s.sed my exams at night school, I would then be fully qualified and free to move on.

Perhaps losing in the final had been no big catastrophe in the grand scheme of things, but it was another straw of misery that threatened to make the load I felt on my young shoulders much harder to bear. Questions about Clinton's state of health remained on my mind, work was doing its best to suck any vitality from me, and returning to an empty flat did nothing to lighten my mood. Before the European championships I had called on my childhood sweetheart in an attempt to break the monotony of my solitary lifestyle. Hilda was very pretty, intelligent and the object of desire for many guys I knew. We had originally split up because her mother had gone out of her way to make things very difficult for us. But seeing Hilda again had only increased the feeling of loneliness and not diminished it.

It was a Friday evening when I thought about contacting her again, but there was a beauty contest at the Rising Star and I did not think Hilda would appreciate a night out with me as I ogled a score of local women in swimsuits. I slapped on some aftershave and thought I would see if I could rekindle our relationship just a little more but not on a 'boys night out'. Hilda could wait for another night.

The club was packed out and I was doing my best to find a better view of the stage when a tap on my shoulder turned me around. It was Ewart. He had a look on his face that communicated that there was trouble afoot, and with a nod of his head he indicated for me to follow him outside. I expected that there was a gang of rowdy young men who were unwilling to accept that the club was full, but except for Jerome and a couple of regular customers the foyer was empty. Ewart told Jerome he would see him in a while and went outside. Pete, a karateka who had remained a green belt since the day I began training, was waiting for us in his car. Ewart got in next to Pete and with a pair of eyes that were blazing with anger, he signalled that I was to get into the back.

I still had not closed the door as the car shot off down the road. I had yet to find out what this was all about but I knew that violence was imminent. As we sped towards another nightclub, Pete gave a brief outline of what had happened. Vernon, who was still at school and the baby of the Campbell family, had persuaded Ewart to get him a job as a gla.s.s collector that would provide him with a little pocket money during the weekends. Unbeknown to Vernon, a notorious gang of thugs were in the club that night and looking for trouble. The gang was made up of black and white guys, but nothing positive came out of this alliance, rather they became a feared 'crew' of football hooligans who became notorious after one of their number had stabbed a man to death in the town centre. Vernon had lifted a gla.s.s from their table that he thought was 'dead', but high on drugs and belligerence, one of the gang had s.n.a.t.c.hed the gla.s.s from Vernon's hand and then thrust it at his head.

Pete's car screeched to a halt right outside the club's entrance and brought a doorman out to wave us to the far end of the car park. As soon as he saw who was in the car he backed off. Ewart also worked at this club and all the bouncers had seen him in action: they knew better than to try and stop him while he was in this mood. Ewart ignored the outstretched hand of Earl, a large doorman, as he entered the foyer. Earl knew why we were there and began giving his version of what had gone on. With a finger jabbing at a very large chest, Ewart responded by chastising Earl and the rest of the doormen: if they had been doing their job properly the gang would not have been allowed entry in the first place. Earl replied that they had ejected the gang and then got Vernon to the hospital. "Ejected?" snarled Ewart. "After what they did to my brother, he's the only one who ends up in hospital?" He did not have to say what retribution would have been meted out if he had been there. 'Gla.s.sing' was a terrible crime that often led to permanent disfigurement but it was frequently treated with undue leniency by the legal system: the police rarely visited the crime scene and if a case did get to the courts the perpetrator often escaped with a few months in jail while the victim suffered the consequences for the rest of his, or her, life. "I want names!" Ewart demanded.

Sheepishly, Earl pointed to a group of men and women standing in the car park. "That's some of them," he said. Ewart frowned bad-temperedly, as if to ask everyone present that if they were some of the guys who were responsible for attacking Vernon, then why was it that they were still conscious?

I went out with Ewart and Pete into the car park. The tallest of the group was a black man who was pulling on a cigarette as he briefly looked over to us as we approached. They were chatting amongst themselves and seemed so unconcerned that I did wonder if they could have been the ones who were responsible for attacking Vernon. Ewart beckoned to the tall man who sauntered over to us. "What?" he sneered. It was obvious that no one around the place intimidated this man; he clearly thought of himself as untouchable. Perhaps he figured that as a member of the town's most dangerous gang he had the safety that was afforded by its reputation.

Ewart said, "I want the names and addresses of those who did the gla.s.sing."

The man put a piece of gum into his mouth and let out a disdainful chuckle as he started to chew. I thought then that he was making a very big mistake it was not as though he had been given a right to silence in this regard. Ewart struck the man's throat with a technique called toho, which uses the hollow between the forefinger and thumb, before his fingers took hold of his throat. He simultaneously performed ashi barai to sweep away the man's legs from under him, followed by a stamping kick to the chest. There was a terrible beauty about Ewart's technique that I could not help but admire: he had employed exquisitely controlled techniques that were hard enough to bring down the man but not so hard as to knock him unconscious. "I want the names and addresses of those who did the gla.s.sing," Ewart repeated.

Gang members had a rule that they did not squeal on one another that was how they had got away with so many crimes. Maybe it was down to a primal instinct but every one of them knew that their notion of strength had its origins in a misguided unity and that without it they had nothing. The man put his health in grave danger when he refused to answer Ewart's question. He was about to take a vicious blow when a young woman screamed that she would tell Ewart what he wanted to know. She managed to stammer one name and address there was more than one involved but one name would be enough, for now. Ewart hauled her boyfriend upright and then threw him over the roof of a parked taxi. There was a terrible cracking noise as the man landed out of our line of vision, but Ewart did not seem concerned as we headed back to Pete's car.

We got to the Campbell household shortly after Vernon had arrived there from the hospital. His head was swathed in bandages but thankfully the lacerations were away from his face. His reflexes had saved him from facial disfigurement and the gla.s.s had struck him to the side and rear of his head. He filled us in with what had happened and although he had escaped with relatively minor injuries, Ewart was still bent on vengeance. In response to his older brother's question, Vernon said that he was fit enough to travel and that he would accompany us to the address the woman had provided.

Pete and I peered though a hedge as Ewart and Vernon went up to the front porch door. A heavy-set youth with tattoos on his arms, and dressed in only his boxer shorts, opened the front door, but he was streetwise enough to keep the porch door only slightly ajar. He was c.o.c.ky too he knew that there was little chance of Vernon and Ewart pulling the door open before he locked it again. I could hear Vernon verify that he was one of his attackers and the tattooed man respond that the two of them had better leave his premises or there would be 'consequences'. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman appeared at the man's rear; she was drunk and screaming that she did not want her son bringing trouble to her house again before slamming the front door shut behind him. Now he was trapped inside the porch. Even from where I was standing, the terror on his face was obvious. Vernon took advantage of his momentary lapse and yanked the door open before punching the man squarely in the mouth.

It was truly amazing what fear was enabling this man to do: within an instant he had recovered from Vernon's punch and barged past him and Ewart before vaulting over a hedge that was at least five feet high. Pete and I moved to cut him off as he hurdled over three-foot picket fences. He was moving with the speed and grace of an Olympic hurdler until he saw that we were about to cut off his escape route. The tattooed man pivoted and started to go back over the fences he had just cleared only to run into Ewart. The gyakuzuki was technically brilliant: it had both speed and weight transfer; his rear foot, hips and shoulders had all turned in unison. The man was rendered unconscious the moment Ewart's knuckles connected with his chin, and as he flew backwards through the air and through a bay window he was blissfully unaware that he had just been taken out with a masterful technique.

All around, lights were being switched on as we drove away, and it did cross my mind what the inhabitants of the house with the broken window would have to say as they found an almost naked man lying senseless on their living room carpet.

I did not fully appreciate then just what I was being drawn into. Blood, in this case my cousin Vernon's blood, had been spilt and I did not give my subsequent conduct a second thought. In the following weeks, despite several of them going into hiding, every gang member, whether they had been present in the club during the attack on Vernon or not, was found and dealt with and I felt every action taken against these men was entirely justified. Years later, I read an interview with one of the country's most notorious football hooligans in a British national newspaper. It turned out he was the leader of the gang who had gla.s.sed Vernon. In proclaiming his toughness he omitted to tell the journalist of the time when he had finally been found by Ewart, how he had cried and begged for mercy and how he consequently spent a lengthy period in hospital. I thought then that the reputations of men such as these were built up by people who were easily impressed, or intimidated.

Chapter Twelve .

To all ways there are sidetracks.

Miyamoto Musashi The Ground Book.

THE ATTACK ON Vernon and its aftermath had some unexpected results: my cousin Clinton was back to his old self. It was as if he had never been away. In taking part in the tracking down of his brother's attackers and then delivering the beatings that were deemed appropriate, Clinton seemed to forget about his own troubles. He also, thankfully, seemed to forget about that old wreck he had bought, and now the evenings were drawing in, he was once again back to training in the dojo at every opportunity. I was now content that his health scare had been only a temporary aberration.

In a bizarre role reversal, I was the one who was falling into contemplative silences and he was asking me what was on my mind. We were in the changing room next to the dojo when Clinton asked me again about what was wrong. I had been struggling to tie my belt, which was something I had managed to do correctly for five years without too much trouble, when I took a deep breath and said, "Hilda. She's having a baby. Make that, she's having our baby."

Clinton's face lit up and he shook my hand vigorously. "And there were rumours that you weren't up to it," he laughed.

I did my best to join in with him but the laughter died in my throat. Hilda had called to my parents' house after I had failed to respond to the calls she had made to the factory and they had guessed the nature of the news she had for me. They both liked Hilda very much and thought she was a stabilizing influence on me, and my dad had made it plain that he hoped that once I became a father I would stop my karate training and live up to my responsibilities. When I met up with Hilda again, I was still unsure about how I should react to her news. I was barely twenty years old and had just made up my mind to finish working at the factory so I that could do some travelling. I had fantasized about going to j.a.pan and training at all the top dojos and then perhaps heading to Hong Kong and finding work in a few kung fu films. They were only daydreams to get me through the day at the factory but Hilda's pregnancy had robbed me of even those harmless flights of fancy. There were big, life-changing choices ahead of me and I needed more time before I came to a decision.

The talk amongst the students before the lesson began was of the final installment of retribution that had been handed out by Ewart to the leader of the football hooligan crew. When Ewart had finally found him, he suggested that they go for a drive. Away from the glare of his comrades, the so-called hard man disintegrated into a flood of tears as he was driven out to a secluded wood; Ewart did not want the screams to be heard and risk having the terrible lesson he was about to dispense being disturbed.

As we lined up for the bow, Eddie c.o.x scrutinized all those who made up the front row. He did not seem happy and I got the feeling that he wanted the extra-curricular activities to end. He was initially sympathetic and was prepared to tolerate the odd incident but what had happened over the previous month had been a sustained litany of very public beatings often in someone's front garden involving members of the YMCA karate club. During the ensuing two hours he and Declan Byrne had us practising basic techniques and kata and made it clear throughout the lesson that we were not up to scratch.

With so many tournaments around the country and invitations for members to attend British international squad training there was a danger that the training in the dojo was becoming too compet.i.tion-orientated. While both instructors had been successful as students, they had retired from compet.i.tion karate at relatively young ages because they were not prepared to sacrifice what they considered the true essence of karate in return for success on the compet.i.tion mat. In compet.i.tion karate only a small percentage of a vast range of techniques is used, and the most dangerous and most effective are banned, but in Wado Ryu that percentage is even smaller because it is a fusion of Okinawan karate and j.a.panese jujitsu, the locks and throws of which are totally forbidden in karate contests.

Before the final bow, c.o.x sensei announced that there was to be a grading in a little more than three weeks' time for the brown belts. Because of the regulations of Wado Ryu's governing body, examinations of grades above fourth kyu had to be taken with a j.a.panese instructor and so the brown belt gradings usually took place in the dojos of either Kuniaki Sakagami or Peter Suzuki and I knew which one of the j.a.panese senseis everyone in the front row would have preferred. Mick Bryan could not restrain his curiosity. "Where is the grading going to be, sensei?" he asked on everybody's behalf. A smirk twisted the lips of Eddie c.o.x. "At Peter Suzuki's," he said, prompting an audible hiss of displeasure to escape from us.

On a rainy Sat.u.r.day morning I drove to Peter Suzuki's dojo in Birmingham with Clinton. The other karateka who were eligible to take a grading examination had decided to opt out and wait for a later opportunity with Sakagami sensei. Sakagami was considered far more amiable and consistent than the mercurial Peter Suzuki. While the personalities of the j.a.panese instructors were factors for some, for others it was down to the lack of available time in which they had to rearrange their training regimes. Clinton and I agreed that the change in our routines had done us good. As with all constant repet.i.tion, there is the inherent danger that you may continually reproduce the same mistakes but the practising of a range of kihon and renraku waza (basic and combination techniques) and kata had made us more aware of how our bodies were moving as we executed techniques that we had neglected over the months.

As karate emerged from the 1970s, the tension between being a traditional karateka and a compet.i.tor had grown. I had read in one of Mick's magazines that Billy Higgins, a Shotokan instructor who had come second in the 1972 world championships, reckoned that you could be a good karateka and not be a good compet.i.tor but you could not be a good compet.i.tor without first being a good karateka. But as compet.i.tion rules changed and it gradually became more about speed and touching an opponent rather than hitting him with a controlled strike, I was starting to understand Eddie c.o.x's view that the sporting side of karate was growing ever less relevant as a measure of how good a fighter you actually were.

The woman at the desk on the ground floor of Peter Suzuki's dojo took our grading fees and our licences which were merely a record of our grades and not a means of registering lethal hands with the police, as commonly believed before Clinton and I climbed the short flight of stairs to the changing room. The dojo was up yet more stairs and I entered it with a little apprehension.

I could not think of any karate student who actually liked Peter Suzuki; mostly he was feared and loathed in equal measure. He was a tall man for a j.a.panese and pudgy with it but it was his unpredictable character that had made him less than popular with a lot of the black belts in the area. The exception being Eddie c.o.x. Peter Suzuki also liked Eddie, ever since that first time he had knocked him unconscious in Sakagami's dojo. Eddie was only a green belt at the time, but already had a reputation for being a better fighter than any of the black belts. Suzuki had travelled from his school in Ireland and had watched Eddie train before saying that they would spar together. This was a great compliment but it put Eddie in something of a dilemma: Peter Suzuki, as with most j.a.panese instructors, hated displays of cowardice or lack of spirit as they called it and if Eddie held back during the sparring his restraint could be interpreted as an absence of courage. However, if he went in hard this would almost certainly provoke a response that would result in the student being put firmly back into his rightful place. Eddie c.o.x decided that he might as well go in hard and at least emerge with some honour. The green belt more than held his own against the fifth dan black belt until Peter Suzuki called 'Yame!' and Eddie promptly halted, only to be knocked out cold by a technique that he never saw coming. When he was brought around, Peter Suzuki laughed, and gave him a lecture about zanshin and always remaining aware of an opponent, no matter what. Later that year Suzuki moved to Birmingham and started to teach at the Temple Karate Centre alongside Toru Takamizawa. Eugene Codrington, another world championship runner-up and twice European heavyweight champion was a student there and undoubtedly the best compet.i.tor. He was the favourite of the slightly built and nimble Takamizawa; but for Peter Suzuki, the burly brawler Eddie c.o.x was the number one student. As far as an att.i.tude to combat went they were kindred spirits, and when Eddie was awarded his first dan Suzuki had a specially embroidered, extra wide black belt sent to him from j.a.pan.

The floor of Peter Suzuki's dojo was not of the traditional sort. Instead of the polished wood a.s.sociated with j.a.panese dojos it was covered with a green carpet, and while the soles of the feet could cope, it often burnt any softer skin that rubbed against it. It looked much larger than it actually was because two walls were covered from floor to ceiling with mirrors. While seeing your own reflection is sometimes useful while practising a kata, I found it disconcerting Bruce Lee entering the mirrored maze in Enter the Dragon came to mind. Clinton and I got on with our stretching exercises as more and more students came into the cramped dojo. We were wondering just how many more could get in when Peter Suzuki arrived just behind a fl.u.s.tered young man wearing a white belt.

The dojo fell silent as we saw Suzuki's expression: he was in a foul mood. I was busy looking at his arms as there was a rumour that one was a good deal shorter than the other. The story went that the teenage Suzuki was continually getting involved in brawls in the rougher parts of his hometown in order to test out his techniques. One day his instructor decided to teach him some humility, and once the rest of the cla.s.s had held down the young braggart, the instructor promptly broke his arm. I did wonder if it were true but one of his arms did look shorter. We were called into lines: brown belts at the front, purple and green in the middle rows and white belts at the back. It was an example of inverted logic as it seemed more sensible to me to have the beginners at the front so they could see more of what the instructor was doing. With our heels together and hands by our side, we stood to attention and waited for the command to kneel, but Suzuki had some other business to attend to first. He called the young white belt who had bustled in ahead of him to come to the front of the cla.s.s and ordered him to stand to attention. Without another word, Suzuki slapped him across his face. The young man stood there perplexed: was this some sort of test? The second slap was even harder and almost spun the young guy around. Again he looked at his sensei with confusion: was he supposed to block the strikes? The third slap had so much force behind it that it even made me wince and now the befuddled novice had tears streaming down his reddened cheeks.

"You cry!" exclaimed Suzuki. "You crybaby! I don't teach crybaby. You go ... Go!"

As the crushed and blubbering man hurried out, Clinton and I exchanged bemused glances as we silently wondered what was going on. It turned out that in the young man's rush to get to the dojo, he had brushed past his sensei on the stairs but in his haste he was completely unaware he had done so. The absence of an apology was viewed by Peter Suzuki as evidence of a lack of respect that needed correcting but I was of the opinion that Suzuki's method of reminding the novice of his manners was more reminiscent of a j.a.panese POW camp guard, rather than a man who made his living by teaching karate to students who paid him rather well.

Finally, Suzuki barked, "Seiza!" We went down onto our knees and then heard the word most western students hated to hear when in that position: "Moksu."

Moksu is supposed to be a period of meditation in which the mind is prepared for the exertions that lay ahead. For a j.a.panese person, kneeling is a normal position but after a few minutes most gaijin students find themselves struggling to retain a calm facade as pain shoots through the lower limbs, and at the YMCA we were only kept in that position for a short time. Peter Suzuki, on the other hand, kept us kneeling for fifteen long minutes, and there was a common exhalation of relief when we heard: "Yame." For the next twenty minutes we went through a farcical attempt of going through some basic techniques. Combinations of kicks were almost impossible because of the lack of s.p.a.ce, especially when a back-kick was involved. Those in the middle row risked getting their teeth knocked out by the karateka directly behind them. What was happening in Suzuki's dojo epitomized for me what could go so wrong with clubs that were run for the profit of the instructor: while having so many students at a grading was good for commercial reasons, it did nothing for anyone's karate.

Eventually, as the exercise became so obviously untenable, Peter Suzuki called a halt and told the brown and purple belts to take a break outside while he examined those who were taking grades up to fourth kyu. For over an hour we waited in the changing room, doing our best not to let our muscles stiffen. Glum-faced green belts were making their way downstairs as we ventured up to the dojo. Peter Suzuki was seated at a small desk scribbling on grading forms until he looked up and dismissively gestured for us to stand to one side. The woman who had taken our money and licences was now in a gi and called out our names. There were twelve of us in all: four purple belts taking their first brown belt grading; four third kyus taking their second brown; and Clinton and I with two others taking first kyu, the final examination before first dan, black belt.

The woman, who wore a black belt called out the techniques we were to perform up and down the dojo while Suzuki crossed his arms and looked bored by the whole affair. I did my best to block him from my mind but one purple belt got completely fl.u.s.tered and seemed to forget everything he had learnt up until that point. His confidence was further undermined when Suzuki made two theatrical strokes of his pen on the sheet in front of him.

The two other brown belts who were taking the first kyu examination with Clinton and me were up first to do their pair-work. With snap and precision in every technique they performed, they went through the sanbon gumite (three-step sparring); ohyo gumite (semi-free fighting); and kihon k.u.mite (the moves which encapsulate Ohtsuka's theories about budo and karate in particular). They set a very high standard. Clinton and I were a lot more perfunctory in comparison, and I thought we might have sc.r.a.ped a pa.s.s. Next was the kata; again the other two went first and gave a very controlled display in which they utilized kiais and pauses for dramatic effect, and used facial expressions to give the impression that they were really fighting four opponents. No YMCA karateka had ever entered a kata compet.i.tion, never mind win one and it would be fair to say that our kata did not reach the same standard of the other pair. Along with Hironori Ohtsuka himself, most of my fellow members were of the opinion that kata was a means to an end and not an end in itself. When Ohtsuka had originally established his own style of karate, the Wado Ryu syllabus contained only nine katas, which is remarkably few when compared to other styles. Later the number grew to fifteen, and according to senior j.a.panese Wado Ryu instructors, he had considered including a long Nahate kata called 'suparinpei' but forgot it halfway through and so did without it. While his detractors would point to the affair as evidence of Ohtsuka's lack of knowledge at that time, to me and many others, it showed where his priorities lay as he trained men in preparation for war.

"Right," called the woman, "all we have remaining is jiyu k.u.mite. Those of you who have pads may put them on if you wish."

The other two cast anxious glances our way but neither Clinton nor I had any intention of putting on pads for the free-fighting. The slim man, who looked like a bank manager, went and put on a pristine set of hand and leg pads, while the other one, who had less hair but more bulk, contented himself with a pair of hand mitts. Clinton was up first to fight the 'bank manager'. In free-fighting there is no stopping for point-scoring but there is an expectation that the techniques will be controlled so as not to cause serious injury. Clinton's opponent suddenly looked very feeble in comparison to the man who had so fearlessly tackled four imaginary foes during the kata. He made a great show of bowing low to Clinton in the hope that the subliminal message of submission would help him in the following few minutes. The balding man had shaken my hand before we stepped into the centre of the floor, but neither of the men's gestures stopped Clinton or me from fighting in the way we had trained to do. To an outsider what we did to our opponents may have seemed excessive, but neither Clinton nor I had it within us to go easy on the men. Yet there was no malice involved as far as we were concerned: if Peter Suzuki had got up to fight with us we would have behaved in exactly the same way and accepted the consequences.

Once the free-fighting had finished, Peter Suzuki smiled. "Ah, c.o.x students," he said.

Clinton and I pa.s.sed but the other two failed their first kyu examinations. "More spirit" was all that Suzuki said to them.

On the way home Clinton and I reflected on the year, which was nearing its end: it had had its fair share of ups and downs. "Have you made up your mind about Hilda?" he asked me.

I had thought about little else since she had told me she was pregnant. Karate had taught me to reach down and find reserves that I did not know I possessed, to face up to challenges and never think of them as insurmountable. I could not walk away from this one. "She's moving into the flat next week." Clinton gripped my shoulder and told me that he was glad.

Chapter Thirteen .

The teacher is a needle, and the student is a thread.

Miyamoto Musashi The Ground Book.

THERE WERE MANY CHANGES for me during the first months of 1982 but I was feeling positive about the year ahead. Despite having to put aside my plans to leave the factory and travel the world, I was now looking forward to having a family. In a matter of weeks Hilda had transformed my bare, unattractive flat into a proper home. There were few, if any, negatives about my new domestic situation as far as I was concerned, and despite my father's hopes to the contrary, I was planning to continue with my karate training with even greater vigour.

The new year was only a matter of a few weeks old when news filtered through from j.a.pan that Hironori Ohtsuka had died at the venerable age of 89. Speculation was rife that Tatsuo Suzuki, the head instructor of Wado Ryu in Europe, would be soon returning to j.a.pan after seventeen years to take up the post of kancho. Mick Davies thought otherwise; his knowledge of karate history and what had taken place within Shotokan after Gichin Funakoshi had died led him to believe that Tatsuo Suzuki's accession to Wado's throne might not be so straightforward. It did occur to me on hearing the news of Ohtsuka's pa.s.sing that a man whom I had never met, whose language I did not speak, whose culture and outlook were so different to mine, had impacted on my life in a way few others had done.

The setup in the YMCA dojo was also changing. Eddie c.o.x and Declan Byrne, in an attempt to capitalise on the YMCA's successes and growing reputation, began to set up clubs in other towns, and this meant that the other black belts were now taking a greater role in the training at the dojo. There were changes in karate compet.i.tions too: women and children were now being allowed to fight, but for some of the diehards this was another indicator that compet.i.tive karate was moving yet further away from its budo roots. Many traditionalists forecasted that in seeking to accommodate women and children, the range of permissible techniques and the amount of contact would become even more restricted. Some karateka were already disillusioned, and switched over to other forms of compet.i.tion: some took the route of full contact karate or kick-boxing, and others went the way of semi-contact bouts. A number of YMCA members had boxed, kick-boxed and taken part in various other compet.i.tive formats but always returned to the dojo. This was in part because the club continued to enter tournaments organized by different styles of karate: Shotokan referees had their preferences and style of officiating, as did the j.a.panese instructors at the UK Wado Ryu championships, which were different again to the referees at national all-style tournaments but rather than pick and choose, the YMCA entered them all and expected the fighter to adjust accordingly. As c.o.x sensei put it, we could not select the manner in which an a.s.sailant came at us if we were attacked in the street; we would simply have to adapt or be beaten and the same went for compet.i.tion karate. And whether we liked it or not and a great many did not the traditional format was the only one in which there was a proper world karate championship, one which brought karateka of every style and from every continent into one venue to compete. For those who wished to follow in the heroic footsteps of the team that had beaten j.a.pan to win the world championship in 1975, there was only one route to take. But there was another factor that brought karateka back to the YMCA dojo: its first princ.i.p.al was identical to that of the late Grand Master in that the training was primarily geared to produce an effective method of combat and all other aspects of karate, including its role as a sport, were secondary.

As far as my karate was concerned, I did have ambitions to fulfill in the coming twelve months: a national t.i.tle and a black belt around my waist. Clinton was training with me regularly again. Because he felt he had missed out on opportunities to progress in his compet.i.tive karate during the previous year, he now seemed even more determined not to miss out a second time. On occasions he trained like a man possessed.

In the run-up to the 1982 British Clubs' championships the YMCA club had received a fillip when Jerome Atkinson won the European all-styles heavyweight t.i.tle. But amid the congratulations there were questions about why Ewart Campbell had not joined him at the European championships, as he was by far the best fighter in his weight in England at that time. All manner of reasons were put forward, from personality clashes with the coach to inter-club politics the YMCA's dominated of the domestic scene. Another reason could have been that while Ewart had been so superior at national level, he was either unwilling or unable to shift up a gear to be as successful in European compet.i.tions. But wherever the truth lay, it was an experience that had left my cousin feeling snubbed and a snubbed Ewart could be a very mean man indeed.

Just how mean was revealed at the British Clubs' championships. As a team we had fought well. Jerome, who came first in the team order, had been even more efficient than usual and though his status as the reigning European champion made his opponents try even harder to beat him, he had turned away every challenge with ease. Chester Morrison had been as dependable as ever, but had never been called upon as the fifth and last fighter to salvage a win for the YMCA as the team was always in an una.s.sailable position by the time a match got to his bout. This was due in some small part either to me, as I fought third, or to Danny Moore, who had been recently promoted to the first team to fight as number four. But it was the fighter who followed Jerome, my cousin Ewart, who had been at his malevolent best and the tournament's outstanding compet.i.tor.

Before the fighting began, an international fighter from another club had jokingly referred to Ewart's increase in weight and had said that he had better not be thinking of leaving the light-heavies to join the "big boys" in the heavyweights. This was akin to rubbing copious amounts of salt into the very raw wound of Ewart's failure to go to the European championships. Ewart was normally belligerent on the day of a tournament but on hearing that ill-judged remark, his mood instantaneously became even more cruel and spiteful. Any fighter he faced that day who wore a small Union Jack, or an English team badge, was made to pay for his injured pride with every powerful kick, punch and foot-sweep he threw.

After the arena had been cleared, Eddie c.o.x sat behind the wheel of the minibus quietly cursing. Like me, he was anxious to get home. The rest of the team seemed in no rush to leave the scene of another triumph and took their time getting changed. Leslie and Clinton were making their way across the car park when Eddie wound down his window and told Leslie to go back inside and tell the rest of the guys to hurry up. I had the trophy in my hands as Clinton clambered in. I had it raised to catch the light so I that could read the wording engraved on its polished surface, when I glimpsed his smiling face next to my own distorted reflection. "We fought well today," he said.

Without turning my head, I nodded in acknowledgement and was glad that he too felt proud that the YMCA had won the British Clubs' championships for the second consecutive year. Clinton also felt a sense of achievement: not only had he competed very well during the tournament, but his performance also signalled that he had overcome his troubles of the previous year.

Twenty minutes had pa.s.sed since Eddie c.o.x and I had got into the minibus, and still half the party had yet to leave the changing rooms. He shouted out that he was about to leave, and one of the stragglers immediately turned around and went inside to repeat Eddie's threat. Five minutes later we were on our way home.

I was one of the first to be let off the minibus. Very few responded to my suggestion that I would see them at Tuesday evening's training session. Clinton raised a hand as I stood at the roadside, and my gladness that he had performed so well returned, making my sense of achievement that much sweeter. As I walked toward the high-rise flats, something about the still darkness made me apprehensive. A feeling of foreboding came over me as I waited for the lift door to open, and for some unknown reason, I began thinking of the skinheads on the upper floor. Something was wrong, but I did not know what and I silently swore to myself as I stepped from the lift to find that someone had again stolen the electric bulb from the landing. In the darkness, I hastily I turned the key, only to find that the door would not open. Through the letter box I noticed a chair wedged under the door handle. An array of frightening scenarios immediately flashed through my mind and all of them were centred around the activities of flag-waving skinheads. Angry, and scared of what I might find, I thumped the door.

"Didn't you hear me?" I demanded, as Hilda eventually opened it.

I was still feeling angry. A silence followed and I immediately regretted shouting at Hilda. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap, but what happened and why was the chair against the door?"

She explained that she did not feel safe being on her own, and it was only then that I recognized how scared she was. I had forgotten how I had felt when first moving into the flat and my reaction to the atmosphere of menace about the place. It was not easy to ignore the racist graffiti daubed over the walls, but as time pa.s.sed I had mentally reduced the perceived threat to not much more than name-calling, which although unpleasant did not pose a physical danger: 'sticks and stones' and all that. But Hilda was a pet.i.te young woman, and the threat, real or imagined, was greatly magnified for her.

She followed me to the kitchen and stood in the doorway as I opened a can of beer. "The reason I'm a little bit on edge is that the police called around here today," she said.

"Police here? What for?" I spluttered, before wiping droplets of beer from my chin.

"Your car was stolen while you were gone and the police found it burnt out alongside some ca.n.a.l bank."

It was then I realized that it was the absence of my car from its usual parking s.p.a.ce that had prompted my feeling that something was wrong. "Did they catch anyone?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, the police reckon it was kids who were joyriding. They were saying that quite a few cars have been stolen around here lately. They want you to go down to the station and do all the paperwork for the car tomorrow."

Money had been scarce and the car was not insured and I could only hope that the fire had destroyed the tax disc that I had bought in a pub. My mind returned to the thoughts I'd had about the skinheads while travelling in the lift, and I suspected they were the ones who had stolen my car. Perhaps I had underestimated the threat. After initial thoughts of vengeance, two other matters were brought to mind: one, I needed another car; and two, I needed to get Hilda and our unborn child away from the flat as soon as possible. The car was fairly easy to replace; I did not have much money but one of the students in the beginners' cla.s.s had an old Ford going cheaply, and most of its components were virtually new, including the engine. Along with my father, Hilda hated the red Escort RS 2000 the moment she laid eyes upon it. It was a car which roared 'rebellious bachelor'.

Moving out of the flat would take a while longer, as it would require more funds than I had available, and the only means of earning any extra money by honest means was to take up an offer to work on the doors of a nightclub in the centre of town.

Arches was situated in a bas.e.m.e.nt in one of the town's back streets, and was about as dingy a place as I could imagine. I reported for my first shift to find the reception area was lined with familiar faces, including Eddie c.o.x, Declan Byrne, Trog, Don Hamilton, Ewart and a couple of past members of the YMCA karate club. But Ewart left as I arrived; he had work to do at another club. I felt more than a twinge of regret as I watched him leave; whatever his faults, he was a good man to have on your side in times of trouble and I had arrived to hear that trouble would be arriving very soon in the shape of a gang of h.e.l.l's Angels.

There had always been trouble at Arches since the day it had reopened for business. The YMCA had been involved with the nightclub ever since the new owner had approached Eddie c.o.x for help after hearing what Jerome and Ewart had done for the Rising Star. The door staff who had been employed by the previous owner were a range of shady characters who were led by an Italian family that were somewhat notorious and the new owner had been unable to find anybody who was willing to take their place for fear of violent repercussions.

After Eddie c.o.x had asked Declan Bryne to act as head doorman, it did not take long for the Italians to play their hand. One night, which was normally a quiet one in the club, they turned up, supposedly just for a drink, as did a steady trickle of more than twenty guys who did not look as though they were there for a sociable night out. Declan was working with a man, who while decent enough in a minor sc.r.a.pe, was not a trained fighter. It was obvious to Declan what was about to happen, mostly because of the staring matches he'd had with the men who ambled up the stairs on their way to the toilets. He could see his colleague was also aware of the situation and that he was getting more nervous by the minute. Backup was required, and Declan gambled by telling his fellow doorman that he would be of more use finding reinforcements while Declan remained on the door alone. Declan was by himself for what must have seemed an excruciating and dangerous hour, and when help did arrive it was only in the form of one man: my cousin Ewart.

Ewart had been there for only a matter of seconds before the rumble of a fracas came up the stairs. He ran down to the bar with Declan to find the Italians pointing to three guys who were being 'restrained' by the doormen after breaking up a fight. The whole thing was staged and an ambush was about to be sprung. The three guys supposedly brawling were handpicked 'hard-cases' who were there to test the doormen supplied by the YMCA. Declan and Ewart knew that they had to get the men away from the others and with the other doorman they quickly took hold of them and rushed them upstairs and outside. The three men were out on the pavement and the door was closed behind them before they could throw any punches. The first punch thrown was a fist through the gla.s.s in the door. Declan and Ewart knew the noise of breaking gla.s.s would bring the others upstairs, and that they had to get outside and deal with the three hard-cases, or find themselves sandwiched between two hostile groups.

The Italians and their cronies stormed up the stairs. Yet, even though only seconds had elapsed, they were only in time to see two of the hard-cases stretched out on the damp road and Ewart with the third in a choke hold. When Declan pointed out to my cousin that the man's tongue was now hanging from his mouth, Ewart let go and raised a foot above his head before he brought an axe kick down onto the man's face. Bones collapsed under the impact with a sickening crack and the man went into convulsions and began to gurgle on his own blood. Ewart stopped and smiled into the face of one of the Italians who had lined the pavement. "I'd get your mates to a hospital, if I were you," he said. "They don't look too good."

This was just how Ewart had taught karate in the dojo: stripped of pretence and the niceties of ritual. He had been clinical and ruthless, and in throwing that final technique, prevented further violence from the Italians, who after they had finished gawping, went away and never returned. As Ewart reminded us when training: what takes place on the mat or in a ring is a contest. Real fights are different; there are no rules on the streets, except to be prepared to do anything to emerge victorious. It was an incident that also showed how much we were caught up in the culture of j.a.panese budo; it was a culture that had filtered down from the samurai, who had certainly shown no mercy to a wounded foe. The j.a.panese att.i.tude to waging war had horrified westerners during World War Two, but those j.a.panese who were later tried for war crimes could not see how the way that they had prosecuted their campaign was wrong. After all, war is not civilised, it is the breakdown of civilisation. Don't be violent unless you're prepared to be extremely violent, was an adage I had often heard around the dojo. It may seem a callous statement, but I took it to mean that no one should get involved in violence over trivialities, and that before entering into a violent situation one should first consider whether it is really worth risking what might turn out to be very serious consequences.

More than two hours had pa.s.sed since Ewart had left Arches, and no further trouble had yet arrived. I noticed how to a man we unconsciously flexed our fingers and rolled our necks and shoulders. The tension was building. The cause of our apprehension was the unknown: we did not know how many men would be arriving; at what time they would come; and what sorts of weapons would be in their possession. It may have been a job for the police, possibly armed police, but none of us would have considered calling them. There was a job for us to do and we were not about to run to the cops for help when the going got rough.

"Okay," said Eddie c.o.x, once we had finished our drinks of orange juice, "they could be here any minute. Whatever happens, no one goes outside. They want to come in, so I don't see any reason why we should go outside." He turned to Declan and asked for him to take out the baseball bat and pickaxe handle. The sight of them did make me smile, as Declan had often said, while explaining a move in a kata, that both in Okinawa and j.a.pan empty-hand combat had only been used on the battlefields as a last resort. No samurai had put away his sword in order to use his jujitsu; just as no Okinawan peasant would have failed to use a tonfa, sai, or nunchaku if he had the opportunity.