Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I promise, Brenda.”

She rummaged through her medicine cabinet and then placed two tablets onto my palm. “Take these for the pain. They act quite quickly,” she said.

“I'd rather take the pain. I don't like taking pills unless I really have to.”

She shook her head, as though unimpressed with my show of youthful machismo. “It's your choice,” she sighed, and then with a hint of a menace she added, “but I think I should warn you that I'm about to make you scream.”

As she unwrapped the rolls of bandages, I studied her expression. She pursed her lips in a way I imagined a person would do when contemplating doing something unpleasant to another living being. I then looked down at the tablets in my hand and said, “Can I have a glass of water with these, please?”

It had been a long and frustrating day at the factory. Several key breakdowns had meant that I had had to work overtime, but at least the pills that Brenda had given me had taken the edge off the pain. It was late in the evening when I left to drive home. My route did not take me far from the
dojo
, and the closer I got to the club, the stronger was the temptation for me to abandon my plans of going to my doctor's surgery. If Brenda was correct about my sternum being cracked – and I thought she was – I couldn't see the point in seeing a doctor. I supposed he would tell me that there wasn't much he could do for me but that I would need to rest. My priority was to make it into the team, and such was my motivation that I would have considered training that evening had fate not conspired for me to be late. So I figured, reluctantly, that some greater power was telling me to take the evening off.

After removing my shoes, I entered the
dojo
. The damp, sweaty smell of endeavour hung heavy in the air. Following
dojo kun,
or etiquette, I made a bow, and then, trying to remain as discreet as possible, I stood at
the edge of the floor.

For several minutes it seemed as though my presence had gone unnoticed, until the sensei approached me. He said, “Mr Robb, if you can't be bothered to train for such an important competition please wait outside.” I could tell that he was angered by what he thought was my indiscipline until he saw the pained expression on my face. Perhaps it reminded him of the heavy kick I had taken the previous session. “Never mind,” he added, nodding at a solitary chair, “just sit down and watch, you might learn something.”

Even though I knew I had a legitimate reason for missing training, there were those who were close by who could not resist whispering taunts saying that I thought myself too good to need to practise. From a black belt I would have accepted it as a gentle reprimand, but from a fellow or lesser grade I considered such a remark as an attack on my dedication. Rivalry, and simple naked ambition, were behind the snide comments; after all, competition for places in the team was not only fierce but it was also encouraged and often some students would use whatever means they could to score a psychological point.

But it was not long before I became engrossed in what was happening in the
dojo
. While training, I only had time to concentrate on my own technique and that of my partner as we went through a series training drills. The YMCA placed a particular emphasis on working in pairs, and Eddie Cox had us training in that manner from the first lesson. Techniques executed up and down the hall or in a
kata
were not undervalued, but it was the pair-work which taught the sense of distance, or
maai
, and what it is to receive as well as deliver a technique. I watched the training grow in intensity and saw how we were also being taught a mastery over fear. Lower-ranking students had been paired off with the senior grades and faced spiteful kicks that whipped through the air and punches that snapped and cracked. But it wasn't only the higher grades who were executing techniques with such proficiency. Clinton was having a difficult time with a
karateka
who was a couple of grades lower than him: a purple belt nicknamed Trog. I was surprised, as up until that point I had thought that Clinton had never looked better; his poise, balance and sheer speed made him an excellent fighter; but now he was being caught with blows from a much bulkier and less talented
karateka
. As the session went on, I shifted uneasily on my chair and my eyes were increasingly drawn to the lower grades. Previously, I had figured that I was competing with my fellow brown belts for a place in the first team, but now I realized that there were others who were also in the running.

Toru Takamizawa, Cox sensei's old instructor, had said that while training there is no cruelty in karate. He was of the opinion that to hold back with a technique, or purposely miss with a kick or a punch, was to do a great disservice to a fellow student as then there could be no way of telling if a defensive technique needed correcting. Therefore, it was a kindness to strike your training partner, as it was much better to be hit while in the
dojo
rather than while out on the streets. The YMCA
dojo
was full of cruel kindnesses that night. On seeing the lower grades partnering the brown and black belts I had expected their blood to be spilt, especially when they were instructed to disregard their natural inclination to retreat as fists and feet flew towards them. But they did as they were told, they stepped in to meet their attackers, and through the fear, to counter the techniques that were thrown (now I was looking at them from the sidelines) with frightening velocity.

Amongst the orange and green belts the levels of success varied greatly. Danny Moore, a wiry and tough green belt, was performing well and throwing counter-techniques with unfailing accuracy. The Bryan brothers, Mick and Neville, looked sharp, as did Flash, a stick-thin green belt whose smile was the only thing about him that could be described as broad. Don Hamilton, only an orange belt, never missed an opening. He had joined the club at the age of sixteen and had entered the
dojo
with the cockiness of an accomplished street-fighter. As a boy he had taken on three grown men who had racially abused him and he had turned up at the club with a fraction too much self-confidence for his own good – but it only took a front kick from one of the black belts to correct his attitude. Don had only been training for two years but he was already looking like an accomplished karate fighter. It was only when Eddie Cox brought the lesson to an end with the two ceremonial bows that I noticed that one of the best green belts was missing. Dalton was an ex-soldier who had joined the club three years previously to hone his fighting skills. I recalled that as a sixteen-year-old I had tried to ‘win' my manhood the first time
I had encountered him. The sensei had probably thought he had found a remedy for my own cockiness by putting me to fight with Dalton.

I was just out of school and he had recently left the British Army. He had a large physique and his punches were very hard. For several minutes I refused to be overwhelmed by this outsider, before the sensei, with a cruel smirk on his face, called an end to the bout. Dalton came over and congratulated me on my tenacity. Little did he know that within those several minutes of fighting he had almost succeeded in rearranging my internal organs. It was an exercise that made me recognize that I was still an adolescent, and left me passing blood in my urine for a week. Years later I would begin paying an annual visit to a renal specialist, and while I cannot say it was all due to Dalton, I think it is safe to assume that he had played a part in the unhealthy state of my kidneys.

The buzz amongst the students in the changing room was due to the news that Dalton had been arrested for armed robbery. It was strange how what happened in the YMCA unwittingly replicated events in Japan, where in some minds karate is regarded as a low-level fighting art that is indelibly linked with the criminal activities of the
yazuka
. Perhaps this is due to karate being a fairly direct martial art without the nuances of the more traditional aikido or iaido schools. Also, some private karate
dojos
were situated in areas of Japanese cities where criminal gangs were located and the type of person attracted to enrol at these schools would have naturally reflected this. The YMCA's
dojo
was in the middle of a red-light district; the hall was very basic and with very few facilities. The training fee was small – and sometimes overlooked completely. The young men who joined the YMCA were automatically drawn from the rougher parts of town: some of them were criminals before they ever started training, while others became criminals once they had mastered, in part, the control of fear and the ability to keep a cool head while under pressure. But at the YMCA no criminal had ever got beyond the rank of brown belt and there seemed to be a lesson in that fact for me and my young friends: get to the rank of black belt and enhance your chances of living a life without the appendage of a criminal record.