Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (10 page)

“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 Within a matter of yards he had withdrawn again behind an impassive expression and as we returned to our starting point he ran into his house without a word of farewell.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.

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 pass 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 passed 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 stitches above my eye courtesy of a
punch during a particularly hard training session. Eddie Cox had told the class 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 stitches 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 competition. 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 anticipate 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 title 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 class competitors 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 anticipated 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 scraped 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 Japanese martial arts, the practitioner 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 embarrass 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 title, 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 balls 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.