Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (14 page)

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 Japanese
budo
; it was a culture that had filtered down from the samurai, who had certainly shown no mercy to a wounded foe. The Japanese attitude to waging war had horrified westerners during World War Two, but those Japanese 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 passed 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 Cox, 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 Japan 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.

In reality, it was the new management who had caused the confrontation with the Hell's Angels. Offhandedly, the manager had decided that he no longer wanted the bikers' patronage, and it was left to Declan Byrne to turn two of them away at the door. They did not take their barring from entry graciously, and as they got back onto their motorbikes they angrily shouted that they would return – and that they would get in, one way or another.

The roar of the motorbike engines which heralded the arrival of the Hell's Angels had our fingers, arms and shoulders flexing more vigorously. Tongues dabbed at lips that dried instantly, jaws became set and eyes hardened. There was a loud thud at the door, and Eddie nodded in the direction of Declan, who opened it slightly. A huge man stood in front of him. “Not tonight, mate,” Declan said through the gap.

“We're coming in,” growled the giant, as he tried to push the door open, but two of us were already braced against it.

“Personally, I don't give a damn,” said Declan, “but the management says you can't come in.” The big biker then invited Declan to step outside, but he replied that he was happy where he was.

This only provoked the Hell's Angel to put his shoulder to the door again, this time with two others behind him. He was roaring for us to come outside, and once they had stopped pushing against the door Declan opened it slightly. “Look, mate,” he said in a conciliatory tone, as the man stepped back in preparation for another charge, “we don't have any argument with you fellas. Why don't you ring the manager in the morning and see if you can sort it out with him? If he says you're in, then you're in.”

Something must have registered. The man did not charge the door, nor yell back any threats, and there were murmurs amongst the men gathered outside the narrow entrance.

“You want to be grateful we're not coming out and teaching you a lesson!” Trog called over Declan's shoulder. A split-second before booted feet thudded against it, the door was slammed shut again, but it seemed that it was about to come crashing off its hinges at any moment. We readied ourselves for when they would come bursting through. My pulse quickened with anticipation as the door shook, but somehow it remained in place. The thudding halted abruptly and Declan said, “Hey Eddie,
I think these fellas are thinking about ramming the door with one of their bikes.” Eddie Cox shot a spiteful glance at Trog and ordered us to stay where we were as he tore open the door to confront the men. He stepped forward and the bikers at the entrance backed off. I could hardly believe that not only had Eddie walked into the midst of twenty bikers – but also that they had all made space for him in the middle of the road. We watched from the open doorway, ready to spring to his aid, as Eddie began to talk to the bikers. It could have been bravado but from where I stood it looked like one of the bravest things I had ever seen. We exchanged disbelieving glances inside the club as, within minutes, the Hell's Angels were lining up to shake hands with Eddie before getting on their bikes and riding away.

“That's that sorted,” said Eddie Cox, smiling as he re-entered the club. “Some of those guys know me and they've promised they'll never cause any trouble in here. And I've told them that I'll tell the manager to let them have a bikers' night once a week.”

Once Eddie Cox had headed for home, I remarked that it did not always take violence to sort things out. Declan laughed and said that violence had sorted matters, it just so happened that the violence had occurred seven or eight years before. It was then I remembered the tale I had heard at school about a fight that had taken place in a bar after the Hell's Angels had taken exception to Eddie Cox and a friend having a drink on their way home from training. I had heard that several bikers had been rendered unconscious, and right then I felt exhilarated that the story had not been a figment of a schoolboy's vivid imagination.

Happily, I told Don Hamilton that he could now put away the bat. “What?” he asked abstractedly.

“The bat,” I said, “you can put it away now that they're gone.”

Don let the baseball bat slide across his palm and said it was not the bikers that had made him consider using it but rather Trog and his big mouth. I laughed at the thought, but in reality I was laughing more out of relief that we had emerged unscathed and that I would soon be going home to Hilda.

PERHAPS WINNING IS not always a good thing. It can change people – and not for the better. Britain had triumphed over Argentina in the Falklands/Malvinas and the victory had brought with it flags hanging out of many windows in the tower block in which I lived and on the lampposts which lined my normal route to work. The gang of skinheads held noisy celebrations somewhere in the flats above me – as though they themselves had won the war. I was keeping an eye on them, without saying anything about it to Hilda, as I had put them at the top of my list of suspects for the theft and burning of my car. In truth, part of me wanted them to be guilty so I could vent my anger on them. I had watched them from a distance strut around the place with a swagger I had not seen before. There were reports of them beating up a couple of lads during their revelry because they looked like ‘Argies' – more likely they were a pair of unfortunate Asian men. When I heard that I gave up trying to understand just what was behind their hatred of people they did not even know. It was as I was packing my
gi
that it occurred to me that they had been caught up in an atmosphere that must have been similar to that which pervaded Japan in the 1930s. Could it be that Hironori Ohtsuka and the other martial artists who had joined the Black Dragon Society – and who had been revered by so many generations of followers – had a similar outlook on life to the bigoted gang of skinheads who lived above me? It was a sobering thought, and one I chose
not to dwell upon.

The events during and in the immediate aftermath of the short war in the Falklands had only served to alienate me even further from many of the people who I lived amongst. When the Argentinian battleship ‘The Belgrano' was sunk, with the cost of hundreds of lives, a sizeable proportion of my workmates celebrated the news as if they had learnt of a football result. A plethora of Union Jack flags hung from the girders in the factory and made me wish that my life was as it had been only months before and that Hilda was not expecting our baby: that way I would have resigned or got myself fired. It may have seemed strange that as a person who studied an art that was borne out of warlike impulses I was opposed to the war, but in my twenty-year-old head the matter was a simple one: the people who I did not like also happened to be the people who were all too readily caught up in the jingoism and xenophobia, while the people for whom I had most regard, whi le they may not have been as open as I was in their opposition, were at least quietly questioning the morality of the war. The people who offended me the most were the likes of Fat Bert, who I had down as a member of the National Front, who came to work with a plastic bowler hat which was painted red, white and blue, and the small band of men who had tattoos of bulldogs etched onto their arms with ‘Falklands '82' underneath. Thankfully my mate Mick was not getting involved in the fevered nationalism: he had enough sense of achievement from his Shotokan not to bask in the reflected glory of a victory many thousands of miles away. That is if there was any glory, or victory, in what I perceived as an unjustified waste of human life.

Mick had warned me against being too vocal in my opinions as he feared that something would drop on my head from a great height as I walked through the factory, but on passing a queue of men waiting to clock out, I could not resist raising a fist and shouting “Viva Malvinas!” A torrent of abuse came back at me. Mick shook his head and muttered that he wished I had kept my mouth shut and that I was only bringing trouble on myself. I knew he was right, but rather than admit to it, I asked if he were coming to the
dojo
as planned. “You lot have kept me waiting long enough, and it's about time someone went down there and showed you some real karate,” he joked.

Supervised by Eddie Cox, I was putting the beginners' class through a simple combination technique while rhythmically reciting, “Ichi . . ni . . san . . shi . .” when I peered through a window and caught sight of Mick. He was standing by the wrought iron gates at the front of the building and taking in the sights. I tried not to laugh, but I could see him looking at the scrap of paper I had given him as he scratched his head and looked at the line of women standing across the road. He was greatly relieved to see men turning up in karate
gis
and tracksuits and followed them inside.

Mick had been trying to come and train at the YMCA ever since he had started a club of his own. I had cleared his visit with my sensei and made sure to put the word around that a friend of mine would be training with us. Not that Mick was in any great danger: since the club's second win at the British championships there had been a certain maturing of attitudes. A
karateka
coming from another club to train with us was now seen as a compliment, rather than someone throwing down a gauntlet that was to be picked up and slapped forcefully across his face. The Saturday fighting class would have been a different matter, but I was sure Mick would find one of the evening sessions challenging and
rewarding
. Although he practised Shotokan, the fighting aspect is common to nearly all the schools of karate (with the notable exception of Shotokai, which continues to adhere to Funakoshi's dictate that forbade sparring) and he hoped to pick up a few useful tips to pass on to the members of his club.

When Mick entered the
dojo
he fidgeted nervously as he felt himself being scrutinised by curious eyes. I wandered over to him and told him to relax. “I'm trying,” he said. “It's just so strange being amongst so many… you know.”

“Good fighters?”

“No … You know.”

The skin on Mick's face had become taut and pale. I hazarded another guess. “Black people?”

“Keep your voice down,” he replied, looking over his shoulder. “Is this what it feels like when you're amongst white people?”

“It's had its uncomfortable moments, but judging by your face, no, not really.”

He responded with a nervous smile as the sensei ordered us into lines. At first I did not know whether to admire Mick's honesty or be irritated with him: he had known of the racial make-up of the club, and I wanted to ask him why it had suddenly become an issue. It was neither the time nor the place for this sort of conversation but it did make me wonder about Declan Byrne's experiences when he had first entered the YMCA
dojo
, as, like Mick, he too had grown up in an area that was ninety-nine percent white. Prejudice is not a one-way street, and when Declan first arrived he had been given a hard time by the black patrons of the YMCA who were not even members of the karate club. There had been two occasions when groups of young guys had entered the
dojo
as he limbered up on his own and challenged him to a fight. A third confrontation never materialized after the first challenger received a broken nose, and the second was knocked out. His continued presence at the YMCA
dojo
served to confront many preconceptions.

On the command ‘
seiza
' we knelt down. Before the two bows, the sensei called out ‘
moksu
' and we dutifully closed our eyes as we supposedly cleared our minds, but all I thought about was Mick: his initial reaction, and the chances that he would get through the session unscathed.

When the lesson started, I found myself distracted by Mick's presence. From the corner of my eye I could see that although he was standing a good deal lower than the rest of us, he was coping with the repetitions of combination techniques. But his real test would come after we had finished moving up and down the
dojo
and started to practise with a partner. I moved to pair off with Mick, but failed to see Trog's nifty sidestep that put him in front of me. Trog was now a brown belt, and although he was two grades below me he still seemed to believe that (in his head) the positions were reversed and that he was my senior. I guessed that he also wanted to prove that he was Mick's superior. It was not long before he tried to intimidate the outsider in his usual bumptious way; but Mick was having none of it. He stood his ground and fired back. Luckily for me I was partnering Danny Moore, and he knew that Mick was a friend of mine and that I was not concentrating fully on what we were doing. Despite two warnings from the sensei, Trog continued to
dole out heavy blows, but while Mick's spirit kept him on his feet I was getting very angry. Besides admonishing Trog, Cox sensei was generally encouraging as he paced around the
dojo
scrutinising his students. “
Yame
,” he shouted. “Fifty press-ups, fifty sit-ups and then change partners.” Everyone dropped to the ground and we pumped out the press-ups before rolling over onto our backs to complete the sit-ups and then, without skipping a beat, we were back onto our feet, facing our new partner. The pair-work lasted the best part of an hour, and luckily for Mick the two changes of partners enabled him to train with Clinton and me – and during that time he had at least been able to learn more than just the knowledge of his own pain threshold.

The sensei then told us to put on our pads for the sparring session. As I pulled on mine, I glanced up at Trog and saw him eyeing up Mick as he put on his own leg and instep pads. Trog only had eyes for his quarry as he walked across the
dojo
and did not see my own nifty footwork until I was in front of him. He had really wanted to step around me to get to Mick but after seeing someone else had got to Mick before him, Trog smirked at me and pushed back his shoulders. “Looks like it's me and you then,” he said.

The sensei called out that he wanted us to spar softly as relaxation was the key to good karate. Relaxation was a difficult state to attain, especially in a real fight when either anger or anxiety tightens the sinews. Relaxation was the secret of all the great karate masters. Eddie Cox had trained with Ohtsuka and remarked that there had been no tension in his body as he threw a punch until a microsecond before his fist made contact with its target. I had watched the Shotokan master Hirokazu Kanazawa give a demonstration of tai chi in the 1970s as he too sought to bring a softer element to his style of karate. Sakagami once told us that the more we progressed in karate, the shorter our techniques would become. Relaxation was the secret to effective, close-range fighting, and the short devastating techniques, such as the famous one-inch punch of kung fu masters. It was all about punching softly, rather than punching hard.

But I knew Trog would not be sparring softly with me. We had exchanged too many insults and he still thought that my position in the first team was rightfully his. From the word ‘
hajime
' Trog was throwing
heavy and hurtful attacks that rendered the light sparring exercise useless.

He began by firing a combination of hard punches, some dangerously close to my face. I sidestepped and he charged past me as I attempted – but failed – to counterattack. His aggression was a measure of his resentment. To him, I must have appeared as arrogant as he seemed to me and in reality our bout was nothing more than a clash of youthful and inflated egos. I had purposely stoked the anger he now needed to vent – and I needed to extinguish it before I got badly hurt.

“
Yame
!” the sensei shouted angrily, to bring our sparring to an immediate halt. He glared at the two of us and said, “It seems you two don't want to participate in the class as I've instructed.” He told the rest of the class to sit down before he added, “But you two stay on your feet.”

The rest shuffled backwards and knelt down on the perimeter of the floor to create a fighting area. “For those who don't know,” the sensei continued, addressing everyone but Trog and me, “light sparring means light … a chance to improve your techniques, and improve your timing and distancing without the risk of injury.” To us he said, “Okay, get whatever this is all about out of your systems and then perhaps you'll obey my instructions.
Jiyu
kumite
,
hajime
!”

Trog began by throwing a high and powerful
mawashigeri
(roundhouse kick) in an attempt to remove my head. Moving backwards, I evaded his kick and felt the rush of wind from his foot as it passed my face. Cursing myself for not immediately capitalising on his attack, I punched him hard on his chest and he staggered back as I tried to drop a
kakatogeri
(axe kick) on his head. The axe kick was later to be banned from competitions as it became uncontrollable once it began its descent. It had been responsible for seriously injuring several competitors – but I didn't care; we were going to establish who was the better fighter once and for all. The axe kick missed his head and slid down his ample chest, removing a few hairs by the roots. As if he hadn't felt a thing, he retaliated with a punch that caught me on the side of my head. I spun to my left and gave myself enough time and space to recover. There were several more hurtful exchanges, mostly to the body, that had both of us sucking in air; but it was a strategy we both employed in order to avoid any chance of the sensei calling a premature halt to the bout.
I could see in Trog's eyes that his fight plan was similar to mine: inflict as much pain as possible to your opponent's body and then wait for an opening to bring matters to a halt with a single, vicious technique. Trog made his move for victory: he threw a punch to my stomach to get my hands moving downwards before he again attempted a kick to my head. But I was ‘in the zone' in which there is no conscious thought. I cannot say how I reacted to Trog's punch to my stomach – only that it did not hit me – and this time I did not step backwards or to the side, I stepped in to deliver a punch to his chin before sweeping his supporting leg from under him. Trog hit the ground, legs and arms sprawled out, as I quickly followed up by stamping on his stomach. The
fumikomi
technique was controlled, hard enough to hurt, but not enough to injure.