Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (16 page)

When the young white men at work had told me that they had also been subjected to police harassment I did not disbelieve them, I simply thought that whatever they were exposed to could not come close to the treatment that black people endured at the hands of the police. But after witnessing the brutality meted out to those three young men I began to wonder about how much of what I thought was a ‘black' experience, especially when encountering the police, was also something to do with social status, with what the British call ‘class'. I thought back to that Sunday morning walk with Mr Kovac and understood just a little more of what he had said to me.

THERE WAS A strangely subdued atmosphere about the 1982 Wado Ryu championships at Crystal Palace in London. As Mick Davies had predicted, the death of the Grand Master Hironori Ohtsuka had turned out to be something of a calamity for the school of karate he had left as his legacy. For years, it had been reported that Tatsuo Suzuki, eighth dan Hanshi, would inherit the title of
kancho
– but while the prince and ‘heir presumptive' had been away from court, there had been attempts to usurp his position.

It was only on the few occasions that I had received a trophy from him that I had exchanged a few words with Suzuki, the man known as ‘The Professor' in our
dojo
; ‘professor' being an honorific title bestowed on an elite of karate masters. I had always thought of him as a slightly aloof figure, but Eddie Cox, who had once brought him along to a wedding reception, said that with a few drinks inside him he revealed himself to be a warmer man with a dry sense of humour.

Black belts huddled in groups around the arena and discussed the dramatic events and machinations that had taken place both before and after Ohtsuka's death. In between the elimination rounds, they swapped conjecture and rumours about why it was Ohtsuka's son Jiro, and not his most famous student, who had become the head of the Wado Ryu style of karate. It turned out that almost a full year before the old man's death there had been moves by several claimants to Ohtsuka's title of
kancho
.

It had been kept from most Wado Ryu students in Europe that Hironori Ohtsuka had been in conflict with Eiichi Eriguchi, the man who had coined the name ‘Wado Ryu', and nine months before his death Ohtsuka had founded an organisation called Wado Ryu Karatedo Renmei. After only a few months, as his health failed, he installed at its head his son Jiro. There was another story that Tatsuo Suzuki had been offered the post but had turned it down in favour of Ohtsuka's son, but regardless of whether that was true or not, few believed it. The theory that seemed to be gaining most credence amid the hubbub in Crystal Palace was that the seeds of Tatsuo Suzuki's destruction had been sown several years before, during Hironori Ohtsuka's visit to Britain in 1975. It was rumoured that Ohtsuka was not greatly impressed by the performances of Tatsuo Suzuki's British students and he had found the style of karate they were practising differed greatly from his own.

Without doubt, karate had altered once it had left Japan, and Wado Ryu in Europe had undergone many changes and modifications since Tatsuo Suzuki had left his homeland. It was said that members of Ohtsuka's entourage had thought that Suzuki's style of Wado Ryu had become too rigid, too similar to Shotokan, and that much of its jujitsu roots had been discarded. The counter-theory to that was that Suzuki had developed a much more successful style, and that criticisms of it were down to little more than jealousy. Wherever the truth lay, the end product was three separate governing bodies of Wado Ryu: one led by Suzuki, another by Eriguchi and one led by Jiro Ohtsuka, who would later change his name to Hironori Ohtsuka II. Personally, none of it affected me, or my karate, but I did think that for an art that was supposed to enable its practitioners to become more rounded people, it all made for an unedifying spectacle.

The Wado Ryu championships still did not include the weight categories that featured in national all-styles events. The major governing body for the Wado Ryu style in Britain was the United Kingdom Wado Kai (UKKW). It was an organization that had produced not only a team which had dominated British karate for four years, but had also yielded the only British-based fighters who were to win the heavyweight all-styles world championship during the twentieth century. Jerome Atkinson, Vic Charles and Jeoff Thompson were not only big men who shared an
African-Caribbean
heritage, but through their athleticism, they had taken the level of competition technique to new heights during the 1980s.

The Japanese instructors were quick to claim every bit of credit they could for the success of Wado Ryu students in all-styles events, but in reality they had played only a minor part. As a group, they were reluctant to compromise on the few remaining vestiges of what they saw as the
budo
(martial) aspect of competition karate, and consequently the scoring criteria at Wado Ryu tournaments differed somewhat to that of other competitions in that the scoring techniques were allowed to be delivered with a lot more power. While this view was endorsed, to some extent, by the YMCA's instructors, it also meant that smaller
karateka
were always going to be at a disadvantage if they came up against a fighter who could match them for speed and skill but also had thirty or forty pounds more bone and muscle to put behind a kick or a punch.

Vic Charles had left the UKKW some years before, and international fighters like Jerome Atkinson, Jeoff Thompson, Neiman Prince and my cousin Ewart no longer bothered entering the individual event. Single style titles really had a ring of ‘big fish in a small pond' about them. The titles that counted the most were the ones in which a fighter was pitched against the very best from other schools of karate, and the top competitors' lack of interest in the Wado Ryu title devalued it somewhat. It was akin to Manchester United, Chelsea and Liverpool not bothering to play in the FA Cup. However, it did mean that fighters of my standard benefited and I fought my way through the elimination rounds until I found myself facing Clinton in the final.

Clinton had fought brilliantly all day and replicated the form he had shown when he had humbled a leading competitor from London in a regional final a month before. Clinton had been so superior that his renowned opponent, who led his own style and association, was reduced to falling to the mat and feigning injury in order to secure a very hollow victory. In between my own bouts, I had watched Clinton as he triumphed over every opponent with ease. He had recovered his speed, a sense of balance that never faltered and a range of techniques that I doubted I could ever attain, no matter how hard I trained. The only advantage I had over him was size. The fight for the Wado Ryu title would be a difficult one for me to win, not only because I had always thought
of him as far more naturally talented, but also because of the problem I had of thinking of him as an opponent that I badly wanted to beat.

It was late into the evening when we stepped onto our lines to face each other. Our names were announced to the crowd, and as their polite applause faded I was still unsure of my tactics as I did not feel that I could go all out against my cousin with my usual aggressive style. Clinton and I had spent most of the evening chatting as though we were at a training session at our own
dojo
. That we were about to fight each other for the most prestigious title either of us had competed for so far, in our short competitive careers, had hardly registered. I heard Tatsuo Suzuki, who oversaw the evening's proceedings, call ‘
hajime
', the initial cheers of the crowd and then there was nothing except for Clinton and me. I had never felt like this in a fight before. We moved around, testing each other out and watching each other's eyes, oblivious to anyone or anything else. There was a strange harmony about our movements: we knew each other so well and had trained together for so long that we effortlessly anticipated one another's next move. Feeling relaxed, because I was not bothered about which one of us won, I attacked with a combination of punches that I anticipated Clinton would avoid before I tried to catch him with a kick to the stomach. I punched with my front hand and pushing forward I followed it up with a
gyakuzuki
to his face before I launched my kick. But Clinton had not evaded my attack and my second punch caught him squarely on the jaw. On this occasion I was glad that I was not wearing hand pads as the muscles in my arm tightened the instant my knuckles touched his flesh and I managed to pull back the punch before it was delivered with full force. Clinton's head snapped back. It was as if his feet were cemented to the floor as his spine arched backwards. I heard ‘
Yame
!' and stopped immediately. I looked to Clinton and saw that strange look in his eyes again. I did not know if he was asking me whether I really wanted the title so badly that I would hurt my best friend, or if he was asking himself what was he doing there. I had seen him do this sort of thing before – though never during a contest – when his mind seemed to wander off to somewhere very far away with a disconcerting suddenness and I kept looking at him for some indication that he was aware of what was going on.

Tatsuo Suzuki's hand shot in my direction and indicated that I had
been awarded a point, but at that moment I almost asked him to take it back; I did not want it. Clinton gave me a thin smile and his eyes looked clear again. He attacked me with a rapid kick, which jolted me back into fighting mode, and the rest of the bout was far more frenetic. To most of the onlookers it may have looked as though we were fighting in earnest, but the contest became something of a sparring session in which none of the techniques were thrown with any real venom. When the final bell rang I was the champion. Clinton congratulated me with an embrace, and although I knew it was a genuine expression of how he felt, at that moment I did not think there was a title that meant less to me.

There was full attendance for the Saturday morning fighting class. Although the windows of the
dojo
were wide open, the gentle breeze did nothing to dissipate the cloying heat that was generated by our bodies. My
gi
was drenched with perspiration and the creases in the canvas chafed my skin as I performed my sixtieth front-kick. There would be a brief respite after another forty as we changed our stance to execute another hundred kicks with the other leg. After forty or so, the
maegeris
would lose their snap as our muscles would start to burn, then knot in excruciating pain; and by the eightieth kick the foot would become a like leaden weight on the end of a leg that felt light and powerless. Yet the count carried on
remorselessly
and despite all the voices in my head that told me to stop, I never did until I heard the instructor call “
Yame
.”

Some weeks had passed since my win at the Wado Ryu championships, and Clinton had still not resumed training. I had gone around to his house on several occasions to persuade him to come training with me and each time we would laugh and joke, but he always had an excuse about why he could not go to the
dojo
. There had been times when, as I was talking to him, he would leave me and abruptly retreat to a darkened room to watch TV. More worryingly, he was back to working on that old car of his.

“
Yame
, stop,” Eddie Cox called, before he told us to form straight lines and prepare ourselves to practise
kata
. It was peculiar to include
kata
practise in a fighting class, in fact it had never happened before, but I had the feeling that Eddie Cox wanted to maintain in our training an element of surprise
to counterbalance the competition practice. The inclusion of
kata
was also an assertion that he was still the chief instructor and that we should followed whatever rules he laid down. The other black belts were his juniors and it seemed as though he was letting us know who was in charge by having them go through the same gruelling exertions.

After a strenuous period of blocking and countering our imaginary opponents, Eddie Cox allowed us a short break. I sat on the floor with my back pressed against the cool concrete wall and dabbed the sweat from my eyes until they were drawn to a figure standing in the doorway. It was Clinton. He had a sports bag slung over his shoulder and he waved to me before disappearing into the changing room. I was glad to see him but then I became anxious as I wondered which Clinton had turned up at the
dojo
. I was worried that he may have arrived to take part in the training: a fit and well Clinton would have known that anyone appearing more than ten minutes late for a session would not be permitted to train.

My heart sank as he reappeared in his
gi
, bowing as he entered the hall. Seeing Eddie Cox, he momentarily stopped in his tracks and waited for a signal from him. The sensei had not seen Clinton before he had entered the changing room and he appeared to be momentarily unsure of what to do. Clinton took his sensei's hesitation as a sign that he should enter, and without needing further prompting, he skirted the hall to close to where I sat before taking up a kneeling position and bowing twice. He then got to his feet and waited for permission to join the class.

Every eye in the
dojo
turned to Eddie Cox, whose expression had turned from mild bewilderment to one of embarrassment. He walked over to Clinton and rested a hand on his shoulder and talked to him in a quiet voice. Clinton smiled and shook his hand in greeting. As more hushed words were exchanged, Clinton's smile vanished before he wandered back to the door. I tried to attract his attention but he did not see me.

On watching Clinton slink out of the
dojo
I felt a heaviness in my throat. For an instant, instinct nearly overcame discipline and I almost got to my feet to march over to the sensei and ask him what was going on. But reason overcame my raw emotion, and glancing around the room, I became aware that everyone else had been closely watching Clinton's
dismissal. Some dropped their heads resignedly, and a few stared at me to observe my reaction until Eddie Cox shouted for us to line up once again.

As we performed another
kata
, I felt Clinton's eyes following me from the corner of the
dojo
where he stood perfectly still after changing back into his clothes. I willed the lesson to come to an end. I needed to speak to him, if only to offer a few words of comfort.