by Ralph Robb
What Declan had said to me did not initially change my attitude to working the doors – I was convinced it was a grim necessity for me – but I was dwelling on my priorities again when he nudged my arm and said that it was time to start moving the customers out.
Once the club was cleared, Don Hamilton came over to me and broke the news that there had been a very serious fight at another nightclub across town involving an old acquaintance of ours. Tony was a brutal young man of around my age and I could not find it within me to have any sympathy for him. Don told me that he had lost a leg after it had been struck with a machete. I had first met Tony when were youngsters as my older cousins had arranged for us to have a bare-knuckle fight after school. They had embarked on an entrepreneurial venture by matching me with boys of my age, or a little older, and placing bets on the outcome. I had made the mistake of winning my first couple of fights, and thereby making money for them, and I was too afraid to refuse when they told me to report to the park. Tony was the strongest boy I had ever fought. He was stocky and at fourteen he had the corded forearms and biceps of a grown man. We had battered one another to a standstill and much to my cousins’ displeasure the fight was declared a draw. It was no surprise to me when, as the years went by, I heard of Tony’s growing reputation for violence. He was a man bereft of affection or respect for anyone, or anything, except for his collection of cars.
“So, what was the fight over?” I asked Don.
“What do you think?” Don snorted, “a woman, of course.”
I drove back to the flat that night thinking about what Declan had said about wanting to spend more time with his family and Don’s report of another senseless act of violence in the town. I thought about Tony lying in a hospital at the age of twenty-two with only one leg. At one point in our lives we had been very similar in our attitudes to violence and perhaps it was the discipline of karate that had saved me from a similar fate. Not for the first time I contented myself with the thought that I was going home in one piece to my family – and that was all that mattered.
– Chapter Nineteen –
The spirit of the warrior becomes like water. Water adopts the same shape as its container; sometimes it is a trickle, sometimes a raging sea.
Miyamoto Musashi – The Ground Book
THE WAVES OF disruption that had come about in Wado Ryu karate as a result of the death of Hironori Ohtsuka had taken a little more than a year to ripple from Japan and lap at the door of the YMCA dojo. Rumours had been circulating that there was an impending split amongst the Japanese instructors of the UKKW and that some were preparing to withdraw their support for Tatsuo Suzuki in favour of Jiro Ohtsuka, who was now being feted as the foremost authority and rightful successor to his father.
Declan Byrne had been quick to pass judgement on the whole, rather tawdry affair, and was sceptical that Jiro Ohtsuka had been elevated above Tatsuo Suzuki purely by his abilities as a karateka. Declan recounted the time that Jiro had made headlines in the British press after a demonstration of sword defence with his father at the 1975 UKKW championships. The razor-sharp blade of the samurai sword had almost severed the thumb of the eighty-three-year-old master but while he had stoically carried on with the demonstration and had shown no distress in its aftermath, Jiro had fainted at the sight of the wound and had ended up being taken to a hospital in the same ambulance as his father. No one who had ever trained with Tatsuo Suzuki could ever imagine him fainting at the sight of blood.
A number of the senior grades at the YMCA preferred not to get involved with the machinations that seemed to be engulfing the British section of Wado Ryu and it was decided that the YMCA should leave the UKKW and set up a small but independent association of karate clubs. It may have made sense at the time but it was a move that was to be replicated many times in other branches of karate during the 1980s and would do much to undermine Britain’s long-term success in international karate contests.
The first sign of the downside of such a move was at the English all-styles championships. We were drawn against the UKKW team and defeated them quite convincingly, but we lost in the final: the Wado Ryu association team that had dominated British karate no longer existed and its place were two teams that were not quite as good in their constituent parts as they had been as a whole.
I had come second to Jerome in the heavyweight category at the English championships and as it was my first senior national competition I was quite pleased, for once, to return home with a silver medal. There was talk of an invitation for me to train with the senior British squad, which had won the world championships in Taiwan the previous year, if I did nearly as well at the British all-styles championships. I wanted to test myself against the best in the world but I was still unsure if I had the ambition to compete for Britain, and I contented myself with the thought that the three best heavyweights in international karate were based in England and to win a domestic title while they were competing would be a world-class achievement.
At the following British championships, everyone turned up at Crystal Palace eagerly anticipating the heavyweight final as it surely had to involve two out of those top three competitors, but the world champion Jeoff Thompson had injured his back and was unable to compete. With Jerome Atkinson and Vic Charles at opposite ends of the draw, it looked as though they would meet in the final. I was in Jerome’s section and was scheduled to meet him in the quarter-final, until disaster struck when Jerome’s bad knee gave way during one of the preliminary rounds. It had intermittently plagued him for six years and would be a significant factor in his decision to retire from competition karate after winning the world championship in the following year. However, there was a silver lining in Jerome’s injury for me, as now that he was out of the competition, I had a far easier path to the semi-finals.
As predicted, Vic Charles was waiting for the winner of my semi-final bout. I was facing an international fighter whom I had previously beaten and I was looking forward to pitting myself against someone of his calibre. Even though he would not win his world title until after Jerome had retired, Jerome had often said that out of all those he had fought alongside, Vic was the greatest karate competitor he had ever seen. This is slightly different to being the greatest fighter, but according to the rules laid down by the world governing body – and despite other British competitors winning a world title both before and after him – Jerome considered that Vic Charles was the epitome of what a karate competitor should be. He was tough, resilient and could execute every technique impeccably. Though I never had a conversation with Vic Charles, I have a feeling that he would return Jerome’s compliments because as fighters who had started their competitive careers in the 1970s both men were aware of each other’s talents and the sacrifices that were necessary to become world heavyweight champion.
My opponent in the semi-final was tall, fast and wearing a newly acquired England badge. The bout was just how I wanted it: fast and furious. We had slugged it out quite ferociously until the bout ended as a draw. A ‘sudden death’ extension was announced: the next to score would be the winner. I was confident, as I had figured out my opponent’s tactics and thought I would have won the bout if I’d had just a little more time. He came at me with a fast combination which finished with a kick to my head, but with a move that was reminiscent of my fight with Trog in the dojo, I had avoided his punches and stepped inside the kick to deliver the winning score right on the point of his chin. I was in the final, or so I thought for the split-second before my opponent started to roll around the mat clutching his face. Such was the quality of his play-acting that I was promptly disqualified. He miraculously recovered but was soundly beaten in the final and I never again got the chance to fight Vic Charles.
As I left the arena with a bronze medal in my hand, several senior instructors from other styles approached me while knowingly shaking their heads and offering me their commiserations. ‘Diving’ and feigning injury, once the preserve of continental soccer players, had gradually crept int
o karate and was becoming more prevalent. The great champions, many of whom had competed in the 1970s, when karate bouts were a lot tougher, would never have stooped to such tactics but an increasing number of younger competitors were quite shamelessly doing so and by their actions they devalued what it is to be a karate champion. Perhaps I just did not have the talent to be a really top class competitor but from that day my ambition to be one was severely diminished.
*
The changes in the international Wdo Ryu community were mirrored by changes happening within the YMCA dojo. Throughout my adolescence, the dojo had been a constant presence and influence in my life. It was not the physical place, as the venue had changed three times during my training; it was something about the mood, ethos and spirit of joint endeavour that had altered subtly. Eddie Cox and Declan Byrne were spending their evenings teaching at several clubs throughout the area and Chester Morrison and Jerome Atkinson were also seen less at the dojo. With Chester it was work that took him away, but Jerome had decided that if he were to succeed at an international level he was going to have to train quite differently to the rest of us.
Every afternoon, after a long day on a building site, Jerome would meet up with Declan and go through a relentless series of combinations and reflex work on the punch-pads. There had been a few sceptical voices raised in the changing room about this strategy but they had been silenced when in the previous year he had won the European all-styles heavyweight title.
There was also another ambition that kept Jerome away from the dojo: tired of his work as a carpenter, he had decided to go to evening classes so he could acquire the necessary qualifications that would enable him to enrol on a teacher-training course. That also attracted mumbled comments of derision, but Jerome was more far-sighted than most. It took years of hard work, but in applying the same sort of drive he had used in his karate, he did go on to become a highly respected teacher in a school that was situated in one of the most deprived areas in the town.
The absence of so many senior grades meant that the only other instructor left to supervise our training during the evening sessions was my cousin Ewart. Training in the dojo under Ewart’s direction took on a new emphasis. Combat had always been the primary objective of the black belts’ instruction, but as Ewart’s prospects of competing again at an international level had receded, he had looked for places other than the competition arena to show off his fighting prowess.
Following twenty minutes of kick and punch combinations up and down the dojo, the rest of the class were still gasping for breath as I rushed toward Ewart. As instructed, I grabbed the white canvas collar of his gi with one hand and threw a controlled punch with the other. He blocked my technique with an exaggerated movement so all could take note. Pulling me closer, his elbow stopped short of my chin, while he took time to demonstrate the vital striking points. My teeth were clamped shut as I anticipated his next move. His forearm made contact with my jaw and turned my head. Grabbing my hand which gripped his gi, I was twisted and turned before being swept off my feet. Although disorientated as I hit the concrete floor, I still had the awareness to tense my stomach before his stamping kick landed with a thud on my mid-section.
“In a real situation,” barked Ewart, his teeth bared, “don’t waste time on the stomach. Straight in his balls, throat or face. Have you all got that? On the streets there are no second chances. Once you get them down, you never let them get back up, by themselves.”
Everyone present knew that Ewart was talking from experience. ‘The streets’ was a euphemism for nightclub doors, his new arenas. As I was hauled to an upright position to begin the whole process all over again – this time at full speed – I silently cursed him for using me as a thinly-disguised means of polishing the techniques he had no inhibitions about using out on a road during the early hours of the morning. Taking a lead from Jerome, I knew my preparation for the upcoming tournament in Cumbria required a specialized form of speed and reflex drills, with a range of skilled partners, so as to be ready for a variety of opponents, especially the Scots who would journey just a little way south to take on the Sassenachs. But Ewart was busy training the same karateka I wanted to practise with to form a group of doormen who would be ready to do his bidding. In a certain environment, the training that Ewart provided would be practical, even life-saving; but as I hit the concrete for a second time I decided that I no longer wanted to be a street fighter.
In the ensuing minutes, the sounds of flesh smacking against the hard floor were followed by moans and groans that filled the dojo and forced Ewart to call “Yame.” He had reluctantly acknowledged that his own enthusiasm for this particular technique outweighed the human body’s ability to absorb such punishment. However, any notion that he was about to make things easier was abruptly dispelled as he began to demonstrate a series of choke holds.
It did not take long for the first student to keel over unconscious. While Ewart worked frantically to revive the green belt who had the misfortune to partner Trog, I exchanged a knowing glance with my partner. The number attending the dojo was almost half of what it used to be and I had a feeling there would be even less at the following session. Although none of us were aware of it at the time, the YMCA karate club was in a slow and terminal decline.
– Chapter Twenty –
Everything can collapse; houses, bodies and enemies collapse.
Miyamoto Musashi – The Fire Book
ANY FEELINGS OF satisfaction brought about by my victory at the Cumbria Open championships had been tempered by the news that Clinton had been readmitted to hospital. As I feared would happen, when his girlfriend had dumped him he had suffered another psychotic episode. Clinton’s deterioration had been quite slow at first but to me it seemed that every time he went into a hospital the rate of his decline accelerated, and his chances of making a full recovery became even more remote. He was always heavily sedated and unresponsive when I visited him in the psychiatric ward, but I when I showed him the impressive trophy I had just won, a smile flickered across his bloated face. “Me and you will be training again soon,” he whispered hoarsely.
*
For me, life had largely remained several sequences of routine – but unlike some acquaintances I had known from school and who now languished in prison, at least the nature of the routines was mostly of my own choosing. Three years had gone by since that win in Cumbria and Clinton’s hospitalization – and the world had not stood still. While I recognized what had remained constant in my life, I was also acutely aware of the things that had changed.
One of the major changes was that Hilda, Nadine and I had moved from our high-rise flat to a modest semi-detached house not far from my parents’ home – but not before one last encounter with the gang of skinheads who lived on the top floors. I had come across them individually or in pairs intermittently and nothing more than baleful stares had ever passed between us. As time went on – and I had got myself a better car and another place to live – the bad feelings I had toward them lessened. I figured that Declan Byrne had probably got it right when he had said that I had jumped to all sorts of hasty conclusions about them stealing and burning my old car. Any thoughts of retribution had drifted from my mind – until the night I returned to the flat to check for post a few days after we had removed the furniture. As I went back to my car thoughts of visiting Clinton on the way home meant that I had not taken much notice of the raised voices that came from somewhere beyond my peripheral vision. “Hey! I’m talking to you, you black bastard!” someone shouted.
I finished unlocking the car door before pivoting around to see four young guys on the other side of the car park. The skinhead I had seen first that day in the lift, shortly after I had moved into the flat, was amongst them. He had allowed his hair to grow a little longer but other than that he had not changed much. He led the other three toward me. At his shoulder was a man who was slightly larger; his pudgy face contorted with hate. Maybe they had waited this long because somewhere in their befu
ddled minds they had figured that now I was no longer living in the flat there was less chance of any acts of retaliation from me. The car door was unlocked and I had the option of jumping in and driving away but my running away days were long over. In a move that subconsciously mirrored that of Jerome’s when he had confronted with the huge, armed man outside the Rising Star, I took two steps forward to meet them. The pair at the rear dropped back slightly on seeing this. I knew then that they were only going to get involved if they had a chance to kick me while I was on the ground. The two at the front were now up on their toes, bouncing on their heels as they walked. Pudgy-face threw an empty beer can to the ground but all I did was fix my eyes on the guy who now had his arms wide open. He snarled: “C’mon then! C’mon then! C’mon then, you black bastard, c’mon let’s have some aggro!” There was obviously a lot of pent-up animosity that had built up within him since our first encounter at the lift. I took another step forward, knowing I would have to take him out in one. I let my arms drop and gave them a small shake to make sure there was no tension in them. Now I could see his lips move and the small droplets of saliva that were ejected from his mouth, but I heard no sound. Something strange was happening to me: I felt no fear, no anger, but a weird sense of tranquility had seemed to envelope me. He made his move, in slow-motion I thought, and I was only aware of one of his hands moving as I drove my fist upwards. There was a crack of bone meeting bone as the force of the blow lifted him off his feet. He landed with a thud, but I was already pivoting and throwing my other fist into the pudgy face. My knuckles exploded onto the point of his jaw. His reaction to being hit was slightly different: he let out a soft groan as he bent at the knees before flopping flat onto his back. His body shuddered briefly and then went completely still on the tarmac. The other two who were following them stopped in their tracks. Suddenly, they looked younger, smaller and a lot more scared. I was about to tell to them they could walk away if they so wished, until the glint of metal on the ground caught my eye. A knife had spilled from the hand of the first skinhead as he hit the tarmac. I picked it up, before anyone else did, but as I straightened that weird feeling of being at peace instantly evaporated. I became incensed and started to swear at the skinhead who was still lying unconscious. So this bastard was about to try and make my little daughter fatherless. For one microsecond I thought about making a mark on his body or face with the knife so he would always have to live with a reminder of his murderous intentions. Old school friends of mine had done time in prison for stabbing people, one had actually killed a man, and until that moment I had not understood what had impelled any of them to drive a blade over and over again into another human being. But now I knew: the driving force behind their actions had been one of pure and undiluted hate; they had been caught up in a moment in which there been no thought of the consequences. When the moment passed – and the discipline I had acquired from my karate training took over – I held up the knife and said to the two left standing, “When they wake up, tell your mates they were lucky tonight. But if any of you ever pull a knife on me again, I’ll leave it somewhere in you. Do you understand?” The pair nodded and I got into my car. It was not until I pulled up outside our new home did I become aware of how much I was sweating, and how my hands were shaking. At first, I cursed myself for being so reckless; for allowing pride to prevent me making my escape as the four guys had shouted at me. I looked up to the light in the bedroom window and imagined Hilda and Nadine up there in their new, safer surroundings , thinking how I had risked our futures together because the little boy within me did not have it in him to run away anymore. I sat in the car for another half an hour doing my best to compose myself, before throwing the knife down into a drain and going inside.