Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (19 page)

Since he had got married there had been a marked change in Declan; for a start he no longer pounded his fists against a
makiwara
when there ‘was nothing on TV'. But I smiled at his use of the word ‘soft'; only men with nothing to prove would describe themselves in that way. Arches was a venue where there was lots of trouble and it did mean that our demeanour while on the door had gradually become more aggressive. This did not sit well with Declan's personality, or personal morality. He was an affable man – but affability can be construed as a weakness by men who are out looking for trouble, which then led to the troublemakers being forcibly corrected. While Ewart may have made an exception for a pretty girl, by the look on his face everyone entering a club where he was working knew exactly what was going to happen if trouble broke out. And perhaps Declan's use of the word ‘soft' was not misplaced. In both Chinese and Japanese martial arts there is the theory that the hard (
go
) cannot exist without the soft (
ju
), and that a
karateka
has to attain and understand both elements if he is to be an effective fighter. In Wado Ryu we were taught that the muscles had to
be soft, or relaxed, and only tense at the moment of impact if a blow was going to hit hard – and sometimes Declan had hit people very hard indeed. Violence did not particularly trouble him, but the context in which it took place did. I knew he was bothered about an incident which had taken place a few weeks before and that it continued to prey on his mind. He had just forcibly ejected a man who had attended the Bikers' night when a tall man came off the street with two others behind him and tried to force his way in. Declan had struck him in such a way that if he had not pulled the blow at the last split-second there could have been dire repercussions. As it was, the man spent a night in a hospital. The following night the man's two colleagues turned up to complain to the management about the disproportionate use of force. To my surprise, Declan apologized profusely and subsequently allowed the man free admission and bought him a drink in an attempt to make amends. He later admitted to me that putting out the biker only seconds before had clouded his judgement and he had overreacted. He sighed, “It was all happening in slow-motion, and as my hand shot out, I thought: hit this bloke and you're doing serious time in prison, Declan, and you won't be seeing your beautiful baby for a very long while. And for what? To stop these piss-heads getting even more pissed? See, I don't give a damn if these fellas knock the hell out of one another, or whatever else they want to do. So why should I turn up here to be offended instead of staying at home with my wife and our gorgeous little daughter and putting my feet up?”

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.

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 into 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.