Memoirs of a Karate Fighter Read online

  There was a heavy punch bag hanging in Mick’s garage but I resisted the urge to use it as it was as hard as concrete. Instead, I had Mick attack me with a few of the techniques commonly used in competition. To the dissatisfaction of many karateka, the rules were becoming increasingly restrictive because of safety concerns (as a result of a few deaths and very serious injuries during competitions) and also a hope that karate might one day be accepted as a replacement for boxing as an Olympic sport: apparently, members of the IOC were not keen on the sight of blood. Therefore, it was with some confidence that I could ask Mick to use no more than a half-a-dozen different moves, knowing that they would represent the majority of techniques I would come up against at the British championships. We spent the next two hours going to and fro and analyzing the effectiveness of particular tactics. My chest hardly hurt at all but the pace of training in Mick’s garage could not compare with that which was customary in the dojo. When we had finished in his garage we had something to eat while watching a kung fu video and debating if any of what we were watching would work in real life.

  “Maybe after the championships you might ask Eddie if it’s all right if I did some training at your club,” Mick said, as I was leaving. I had lost count of how many times he had said something similar to me and I was running out of excuses. “Maybe,” I replied, “some time after the championships.” His face brightened, but while walking away I said to myself that for his sake, it would be a very long time yet.

  *

  Clinton called on me and I asked him outright if he had ‘grassed’ on me. He vehemently denied doing any such thing. “Don’t think you can take Cox for a fool,” he said. “It wouldn’t take a genius to work out there’s something up with you. And I hope you’re not training with your mate at work, Ralph. You’ve got to ease up and in some ways that’s going to take more strength than you carrying on training. Rest and you’ve got some chance of fighting at the championships, carry on with what you’re doing and you’re letting everyone down, because there’s no way you’ll be fit.”

  He had played the loyalty card very well. To be British all-styles clubs’ champions would mean a great deal to the YMCA because all the best teams from other styles and governing bodies would be competing, and it would settle any remaining arguments about which was the top club in the whole of Britain. In its travels the YMCA had triumphed over most of them already but this was an event in which the opponents would be consistently of the highest calibre; there would be no easy matches and every one of us had to be at our best. “Yeah,” I finally conceded, “you’re right. I guess I’m being a bit selfish.”

  “Stupid was the word I was thinking of,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said, “try and be a bit more graceful in victory.”

  Before he left, I confirmed the arrangements for our Friday visit to the nightclub. As usual, I would be picking up Clinton and Leslie on the way to the Rising Star but this time there would be another two, more attractive, passengers also hitching a ride.

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  – Chapter Six –

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

  Miyamoto Musashi – The Wind Book

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

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

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  When I took a seat that overlooked the fighting areas that were made up of vibrant blue and red tatami (mats) and saw the number of fighters that had travelled from every part of Britain, the scale of the event produced an anxious jabbing pain in my gut. Our first team was amongst the favourites to take the title of British Clubs’ champions, but there were several other teams, with international competitors within their ranks, that were also strong contenders.

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

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

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