Memoirs of a Karate Fighter

by Ralph Robb

  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.

  My insides felt as though they had collapsed with the weight of disappointment. The customary handshake at the end of the bout was dispensed with as my opponent rushed over and hugged me. He was ecstatic, but I just stood there with my arms hanging limply at my side, hardly believing that I had been beaten. It felt as though I had briefly held the gold medal in my palm only for someone else to snatch it away before my fingers could curl around it.

  Losing was something I had never considered during all my long and tortuous preparations for the competition and although the notion had briefly entered my head in the semi-final I had banished the thought from my mind and had managed to win. I took my inspiration from Jerome Atkinson, who while a very modest man, had complete faith in his own ability and it always came as a surprise to him when, on very rare occasions, he lost. Deflated and frustrated, I had to compose myself, as I would be competing in a short while in the team event. The British under-21 team bristled with raw talent and such was our standard of performance during the qualification rounds that I could not see any other team preventing us from winning the gold medal, which would be of some small consolation to me. But for some reason the team coach changed the line-up that had previously done so well and inserted fighters from his own club. Not only were the new fighters not as good as those they had replaced; the move undermined the spirit of those of us who remained. Although I won my fight, the team lost its semi-final and was only good enough for a third place and a bronze medal. My frustration was turning into anger and I went and took myself away from my fellow squad members so I could be alone with my thoughts.

  I was sitting morosely with a towel over my head, replaying the only fight I had lost in two days of competition when an official from the British squad told me to put on my tracksuit for the medal ceremony. Without uncovering my head, I told him that I did not have a tracksuit. “Ralph, it’s part of the dress code,” he said, by way of explaining why he was still standing over me.

  “I never got a tracksuit,” I said.

  “And you never got a badge to sew onto your gi either?” He was referring to the small embroidered Union Jack that I had thrown into a bin, as I had done with the England badge, before the match with Scotland. My reluctance to display a national allegiance had obviously been noted. “It’s on my other gi,” I replied, “I brought this one by mistake. Don’t worry about the tracksuit, a lot of the fighters from other countries don’t have one.”

  “It’s our code,” he insisted. “No tracksuit, no medal.”

  “That’s okay with me,” I said.

  From under the edge of my towel I saw him flounce away in his grey flannels and navy jacket, which had a badge on its breast pocket that proudly proclaimed his allegiance to Britain, or at least to her karate team. I imagined that whoever he was talking to would put my truculence down to the bitter disappointment of losing in the final, but the shrewder amongst them would read something else into my motives. I saw the flannels and a tracksuit approach. I lifted the towel to see the team coach with a tracksuit top in his hand. “Use this one for the ceremony, eh, Ralph?” he said, as he thrust it toward me. I gazed at its little embroidered flag and there was a moment in which I paused and thought about handing back the tracksuit. It was the same emblem I had seen on the car that had carried around men from the National Front; it was the flag that appeared on the literature they had pushed through my door. It had become a symbol of hate, and the sight of it turned my stomach. When the moment passed I guessed my gesture of refusing my medals would be lost on most of the people gathered in Crystal Palace and it would be characterized as the action of a sore loser. After a heavy sigh I put on the tracksuit top and made my way to the podium.

  Watching the Italian flag being raised above the Union Jack filled me with a cocktail of conflicting emotions. It was only then that it truly hit home that I had lost. But at the same time I was glad that there was not about to be a rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’ because of my efforts. After another hug from the affectionate victor, I stepped down from the platform before another embrace provoked me
into doing something that could set off an international incident. By the time my foot touched the floor I was already taking off the tracksuit top and within moments it was back with the coach. I knew he did not understand, but the tracksuit had simply added insult to to my injured feelings.

  – Chapter Eleven –

  You must thoroughly cut down the enemy so that he does not recover his position.

  Miyamoto Musashi – The Fire Book

  THE NEWS OF my European silver medal drew copious congratulations from Mick Davies at the factory. His reaction was in sharp contrast to those I had encountered back at the dojo. My team-mates found it hard to be so effusive because they knew how disappointed I was with second place. The one exception was Trog; as usual, he had plenty to say. He grinned broadly as he ‘congratulated’ me on making it to the final. “Getting beat when you were so close must’ve been hard to take, eh?” he chuckled. But Mick could only see my medal as a great achievement, and urged me to announce the result to the rest of the factory by displaying my medal in the canteen. Perhaps he was trying to make amends for the indifference displayed by the other guys seated at the long table in the maintenance department.

  “Go on,” Mick said, as we headed to the stamp shop.

  “Go on what?”

  “Go on and bring in your medal. Before you say no, a bloke in the machine shop is always bringing in his fishing trophies, and the darts team is always sticking newspaper cuttings on the notice board. Go on, Ralph, lots of people would like to see it. You must be the first person from the factory ever to represent Britain in anything.”