Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (13 page)

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 flustered 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 kumite
(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 scraped a pass. 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
competition, 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 Japanese 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
kumite
. 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, Cox students,” he said.

Clinton and I passed 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.

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 Japan 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 Japan 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 passing 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 Cox 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 competitions too: women and children were now being allowed to fight, but for some of the diehards this was another indicator that competitive 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 competition: 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 competitive 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 Japanese 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 Cox sensei put it, we could not select the manner in which an assailant came at us if we were attacked in the street; we would simply have to adapt or be beaten and the same went for competition 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 Japan 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 principal 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 title 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 competitive 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 title. 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
competitions
. 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 unassailable 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 competitor.

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 Cox 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 passed since Eddie Cox 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 passed 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 petite 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 canal bank.”

It was then I realized that it was the absence of my car from its usual parking space 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' class 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 basement 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 Cox, 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 Hell'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 Cox 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 Cox 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 scrape, 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 glass in the door. Declan and Ewart knew the noise of breaking glass 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.