Memoirs of a Karate Fighter

by Ralph Robb

  As karate emerged from the 1970s, the tension between being a traditional karateka and a competitor had grown. I had read in one of Mick’s magazines that Billy Higgins, a Shotokan instructor who had come second in the 1972 world championships, reckoned that you could be a good karateka and not be a good competitor – but you could not be a good competitor without first being a good karateka. But as competition rules changed and it gradually became more about speed and touching an opponent rather than hitting him with a controlled strike, I was starting to understand Eddie Cox’s view that the sporting side of karate was growing ever less relevant as a measure of how good a fighter you actually were.

  The woman at the desk on the ground floor of Peter Suzuki’s dojo took our grading fees and our licences – which were merely a record of our grades and not a means of registering lethal hands with the police, as commonly believed – before Clinton and I climbed the short flight of stairs to the changing room. The dojo was up yet more stairs and I entered it with a little apprehension.

  I could not think of any karate student who actually liked Peter Suzuki; mostly he was feared and loathed in equal measure. He was a tall man for a Japanese and pudgy with it but it was his unpredictable character that had made him less than popular with a lot of the black belts in the area. The exception being Eddie Cox. Peter Suzuki also liked Eddie, ever since that first time he had knocked him unconscious in Sakagami’s dojo. Eddie was only a green belt at the time, but already had a reputation for being a better fighter than any of the black belts. Suzuki had travelled from his school in Ireland and had watched Eddie train before saying that they would spar together. This was a great compliment but it put Eddie in something of a dilemma: Peter Suzuki, as with most Japanese instructors, hated displays of cowardice – or lack of spirit as they called it – and if Eddie held back during the sparring his restraint could be interpreted as an absence of courage. However, if he went in hard this would almost certainly provoke a response that would result in the student being put firmly back into his rightful place. Eddie Cox decided that he might as well go in hard and at least emerge with some honour. The green belt more than held his own against the fifth dan black belt until Peter Suzuki called ‘Yame!’ and Eddie promptly halted, only to be knocked out cold by a technique that he never saw coming. When he was brought around, Peter Suzuki laughed, and gave him a lecture about zanshin and always remaining aware of an opponent, no matter what. Later that year Suzuki moved to Birmingham and started to teach at the Temple Karate Centre alongside Toru Takamizawa. Eugene Codrington, another world championship runner-up and twice European heavyweight champion was a student there and undoubtedly the best competitor. He was the favourite of the slightly built and nimble Takamizawa; but for Peter Suzuki, the burly brawler Eddie Cox was the number one student. As far as an attitude to combat went they were kindred spirits, and when Eddie was awarded his first dan Suzuki had a specially embroidered, extra wide black belt sent to him from Japan.

  The floor of Peter Suzuki’s dojo was not of the traditional sort. Instead of the polished wood associated with Japanese dojos it was covered with a green carpet, and while the soles of the feet could cope, it often burnt any softer skin that rubbed against it. It looked much larger than it actually was because two walls were covered from floor to ceiling with mirrors. While seeing your own reflection is sometimes useful while practising a kata, I found it disconcerting – Bruce Lee entering the mirrored maze in Enter the Dragon came to mind. Clinton and I got on with our stretching exercises as more and more students came into the cramped dojo. We were wondering just how many more could get in when Peter Suzuki arrived just behind a flustered young man wearing a white belt.

  The dojo fell silent as we saw Suzuki’s expression: he was in a foul mood. I was busy looking at his arms as there was a rumour that one was a good deal shorter than the other. The story went that the teenage Suzuki was continually getting involved in brawls in the rougher parts of his hometown in order to test out his techniques. One day his instructor decided to teach him some humility, and once the rest of the class had held down the young braggart, the instructor promptly broke his arm. I did wonder if it were true – but one of his arms did look shorter. We were called into lines: brown belts at the front, purple and green in the middle rows and white belts at the back. It was an example of inverted logic as it seemed more sensible to me to have the beginners at the front so they could see more of what the instructor was doing. With our heels together and hands by our side, we stood to attention and waited for the command to kneel, but Suzuki had some other business to attend to first. He called the young white belt who had bustled in ahead of him to come to the front of the class and ordered him to stand to attention. Without another word, Suzuki slapped him across his face. The young man stood there perplexed: was this some sort of test? The second slap was even harder and almost spun the young guy around. Again he looked at his sensei with confusion: was he supposed to block the strikes? The third slap had so much force behind it that it even made me wince and now the befuddled novice had tears streaming down his reddened cheeks.

  “You cry!” exclaimed Suzuki. “You crybaby! I don’t teach crybaby. You go … Go!”

  As the crushed and blubbering man hurried out, Clinton and I exchanged bemused glances as we silently wondered what was going on. It turned out that in the young man’s rush to get to the dojo, he had brushed past his sensei on the stairs – but in his haste he was completely unaware he had done so. The absence of an apology was viewed by Peter Suzuki as evidence of a lack of respect that needed correcting but I was of the opinion that Suzuki’s method of reminding the novice of his manners was more reminiscent of a Japanese POW camp guard, rather than a man who made his living by teaching karate to students who paid him rather well.

  Finally, Suzuki barked, “Seiza!” We went down onto our knees and then heard the word most western students hated to hear when in that position: “Moksu.”

  Moksu is supposed to be a period of meditation in which the mind is prepared for the exertions that lay ahead. For a Japanese person, kneeling is a normal position but after a few minutes most gaijin students find themselves struggling to retain a calm facade as pain shoots through the lower limbs, and at the YMCA we were only kept in that position for a short time. Peter Suzuki, on the other hand, kept us kneeling for fifteen long minutes, and there was a common exhalation of relief when we heard: “Yame.” For the next twenty minutes we went through a farcical attempt of going through some basic techniques. Combinations of kicks were almost impossible because of the lack of space, especially when a back-kick was involved. Those in the middle row risked getting their teeth knocked out by the karateka directly behind them. What was happening in Suzuki’s dojo epitomized for me what could go so wrong with clubs that were run for the profit of the instructor: while having so many students at a grading was good for commercial reasons, it did nothing for anyone’s karate.

  Eventually, as the exercise became so obviously untenable, Peter Suzuki called a halt and told the brown and purple belts to take a break outside while he examined those who were taking grades up to fourth kyu. For over an hour we waited in the changing room, doing our best not to let our muscles stiffen. Glum-faced green belts were making their way downstairs as we ventured up to the dojo. Peter Suzuki was seated at a small desk scribbling on grading forms until he looked up and dismissively gestured for us to stand to one side. The woman who had taken our money and licences was now in a gi and called out our names. There were twelve of us in all: four purple belts taking their first brown belt grading; four third kyus taking their second brown; and Clinton and I with two others taking first kyu, the final examination before first dan, black belt.

  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 unti
l 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.

  – Chapter Thirteen –

  The teacher is a needle, and the student is a thread.

  Miyamoto Musashi – The Ground Book

  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.