Memoirs of a Karate Fighter

by Ralph Robb

  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 doo
rmen 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.

  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.

  – Chapter Fourteen –

  Rigidness means a dead ha
nd; flexibility is a living hand.

  Miyamoto Musashi – The Water Book

  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.