Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (2 page)

A week later I enrolled at one of Britain's toughest and most successful karate clubs. In retrospect I am now keenly aware of just how much that decision changed my life, because it was not until I left school and entered the adult world that I fully appreciated just how perilous the place in which I grew up could be.

“ICHI … NI … SAN … SHI …” The sensei's calls were rhythmic and hypnotic. For more than two very intense hours we had punched and kicked up and down the length of the
dojo
. It was an exercise that was punctuated with exchanges of techniques with a partner before we returned to our lines and started all over again. “Ichi … Ni … San … Shi …”

The instructor who was putting us through all this agony was Eddie Cox. He was a broad figure whose demeanour gave him a presence that made him seem far more powerful than anyone else in the
dojo
. Years before, when I had first joined the club, the first thing I had noticed about him was the thickness of his hands. Protruding from the sleeves of his heavy canvas
gi
, they resembled great lumps of black iron that had been forged in one of the local foundries for only one purpose: to inflict pain. With his dark skin and broad features, he looked like a shorter version of a young George Foreman – only something in his eyes made him look a lot meaner. The rumours about his toughness that I had heard while I was still a schoolkid had not done him justice. But it was not just karate that had hardened him. He had been the toughest kid in the toughest school in town before he had ever started training. Until the day it was closed down, St Joseph's had a reputation for turning out more criminals than academics and was nicknamed ‘Joey's Jailhouse'.
Most of the boys attending the Catholic secondary school were of Italian or Irish backgrounds and Eddie was one of only a handful of black pupils – an experience that had left its mark. In an institution in which you were either predator or prey, Eddie decided it was better to become the king of that particular jungle. The tales about the severity of the training sessions he ran had been no exaggerations either. There had been many occasions when I had cursed my cousin Clinton for talking me into accompanying him to the YMCA, mostly as I was helped from the
dojo
nursing a pulled muscle, a sore abdomen, or a bruised face.

After more than five years of dedicated training, Clinton and I were brown belts and it felt as though we had become members of a larger family unit. A few of us within this extended family were on the fringes of a promotion that would put us on par with some of the black belts. Still in our late teens, we were so sure of ourselves that we brashly thought that, on a physical level, we were already as good as the
dan
grades. The harsh training regime had made our bodies strong and hard, but our youthful limbs kept us flexible and fast. In order to rearrange the established ‘food chain' so that it was more in keeping with our own inflated self-image, there would have to be a confrontation. I would have done well to remember one of my mother's favourite adages:
Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it!

The style of karate practised at the YMCA was Wado Ryu, which, according to modern translations, means ‘way of peace school'. Wado was created by a Japanese jujitsu master named Hironori Ohtsuka who blended the art he had studied from the age of six with the Okinawan fighting system that only became universally known as ‘karate' in the 1930s. When Master Ohtsuka visited the Wado Ryu United Kingdom national championships in 1975, the first year the YMCA had entered the tournament, he had commented to other Japanese instructors that out of all the
karateka
who were competing, it was Eddie Cox's team who had captured ‘the true essence of Wado.' This was high praise indeed, and had probably been bestowed by the
kancho
(the head of the style) because of the attitude of the YMCA fighters. Though it had roots in older philosophies and traditions, Ohtsuka had developed his style of karate during the period when Japan was making military forays into China and Manchuria, and it was first and foremost designed to be a potent combat system.

Like many other Japanese
budo
masters of that time, Ohtsuka had been recruited into the ultra-nationalist and secret Black Dragon Society, the members of which had worked as spies and assassins for their government in Chinese and Russian territories. Collectively, their minds were set on refining ancient methods of killing, and Ohtsuka unashamedly appropriated techniques from other martial arts if they were shown to be effective. But like his good friend Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of modern aikido, Ohtsuka knew that without the proper ‘fighting spirit' – as he had witnessed within the YMCA team that day – all the good techniques in the world counted for little in a real combat situation.

After training for a decade with Gichin Funakoshi, the man credited with bringing karate to Japan from Okinawa, Ohtsuka became frustrated with Funakoshi's rule that forbade his students to spar with each other; at the time karate was deemed far too dangerous. However, this did not sit well with Hironori Ohtsuka; he had been training in
bushido
(the way of the warrior) since he was a child and knew that without the element of sparring any combat system would be limited in its effectiveness. Initially, he and other like-minded students donned kendo armour breastplates and held secret sparring sessions. Then he did something that, to this day, remains unforgivable to some Japanese Shotokan
karateka
: he broke away and formed his own school. It was a move that was implicitly critical of Funakoshi's philosophy and methods. Not only that, following the suggestion of his friend and colleague Eiichi Eriguchi, he called his school ‘Wado', which nowadays can be benevolently interpreted as ‘way of peace', but in 1934, when patriotic fanaticism was sweeping through Japan, it seems more likely that, given Ohtsuka's membership of the Black Dragon Society, Wado would have been more correctly translated as ‘Japanese way' – which again could be construed as a slight to the Okinawan-born Funakoshi.

But whatever Ohtuska's original motivations were, it seemed that Eddie Cox and the rest of the black belts had interpreted the Wado ethos as: ‘there is nothing so peaceful as a man who is laid out unconscious.' In the time I spent training at the YMCA, more than a few boxers and practitioners of other martial arts had been drawn to the
dojo
by its reputation – in order to test themselves as well as the members of the
karate club – and I had seen this ethos put into practice with frightening efficiency.

Always prepared to enter any sort of karate competition, the original YMCA team were pioneers who travelled the length and breadth of Britain during the 1970s, when, fuelled by the sort of films I had watched at the Colosseum and by various Kung Fu television series, participation in the martial arts had reached unprecedented levels. For many young black men of that era, carrying a knife as a means of self-defence, or participation in an oriental fighting art seemed almost obligatory.

In keeping with the way Eddie Cox had been taught at the Temple Karate Club in Birmingham by his Japanese instructors, Toru Takamizawa and Peter Suzuki, I was introduced to
jiyu kumite
(
free-fighting
) very quickly. The more senior members would go easy on me by giving me openings on which to capitalise; they rarely attacked and when they did their techniques were light and relatively slow. To some it may have seemed that they were toying with their prey, but I took it as their way of helping me to develop the correct techniques and selfconfidence.

The days of such easy lessons soon passed, and as I became more proficient, every little advance in my technique was paid for with the pain of constant repetition, and on the occasions when I failed to concentrate, with blood and humiliation.

“Ichi … ni … san … shi …” Cox sensei continued to call out. Sweat ran into my eyes and down my back. Those of us on the second row did our best to match the black belts at the front for speed and power. I could see vapours of perspiration rise from them and the fuggy taste of sweat coated my tongue as I took in gulps of air. Our white karate suits clung to our skin as we did our best to focus our minds, while silently wishing that our agonies would come to a halt after the next technique. “More snap!” urged the sensei, “just ten more.” No one believed him; after that there would be a call for a ‘last five'. The blood in my gums started to boil; my muscles felt knotted and spent. With a last determined effort my techniques became venomous - now I was imagining punching the instructor, the black belts in front of me, the person who had scratched my car, or anyone else who had upset me that day. “Good,” said the sensei, “last ten!”

Ten? It was never a last ten! To a man we were outraged. Without any instruction to do so, we started to shout with every punch and kick. Disregarding the signals from our sinews that silently begged for mercy, we dredged up the strength to move with renewed vigour. For a few moments nothing else existed other than the challenge to get to the end of the session without collapsing.

The concrete floor had become slippery and the vapour on the cold glass condensed and formed little rivulets that ran along the rusted metal frames. The misty windows not only indicated the intensity of our efforts but also shielded us from what was happening in the world outside and, more immediately, the distracting activities of the prostitutes who peddled their wares on the street corner. I often wondered what someone peering in at us would make of the scene. To those who had never had the dubious pleasure of putting on a karate uniform, or
gi
as it is called in Japanese, it might have appeared that we were engaged in some sort of bizarre ritual or an elaborate dance as we reacted in unison to our partners' movements. It was a dance designed to expose the weaknesses of each partner, a dance that was periodically punctuated with a violent exchange of punches, kicks, strikes and throws amid a cacophony of loud shouts –
kiais
– that echoed around the hall's cold, whitewashed walls.

Finally, our efforts were brought to a halt with a shout of “
Yame
!” The sensei then sent those of us who were not black belts to kneel at the margins of the concrete floor. We would have to wait, anxiously, for our turn. I exchanged a nervous smile with Clinton. Leslie looked untroubled; he knew his diminutive size (he had stopped growing at five-
foot-four
) would probably protect him from what lay ahead for some of us. The tiredness of my limbs tempted me to sprawl out onto the floor, which was ominously painted blood-red, but it was a temptation I quickly overcame; such a course of action would certainly have led to some sort of painful reminder of correct
dojo
etiquette. Fifty press-ups on the knuckles was a favourite punishment.

We watched the six black belts perform a series of crisply executed techniques. I did not know how they were doing it, but their high-velocity punches snapped and their fast kicks cracked as sinewy limbs cut through the air. They shared a lot in common: they had been awarded their
dan
grades by Japanese masters; they were in their
mid-twenties
and at the peak of their powers; and, with the exception of Declan Byrne, they were black men who had been born in Jamaica. They were the first team, the elite, and although some of us who were kneeling had recently won the Chester and North Wales Open and the Northwest of England Open championships, we were still only considered good enough for the second team, which left a bitter taste in our mouths. Clinton and I longed to be in the first team, and by our reckoning, given that there were five fighters and two reserves in a karate team, there was at least one place up for grabs.

The YMCA had established itself as the top Wado Ryu club in Britain during the previous five years and in recognition of this Eddie Cox had been appointed as national Wado team coach, although a Japanese instructor continued to hold a nominal post. And while the YMCA had triumphed at almost every other ‘open' competition, winning the newly-inaugurated British Karate Federation Clubs' championship would make its status as the country's top club official. The tournament was fast approaching and the YMCA would be entering two teams, but along with Clinton, I no longer wanted to be in the ‘B' team. It would be only a matter of time, maybe only minutes, before we would get our
opportunity
. There were thirty other students to choose from, but if Clinton and I were called to fight one of the black belts we would know that we were being considered for a first team place.

“
Yame
!” the sensei shouted again.

The black belts immediately ceased their actions. All eyes followed Eddie Cox. He began to talk of the fighting techniques that had just been so expertly demonstrated and of the upcoming tournament. But his words were indistinct to me: I was so tired that all I could do was to listen for any mention of my name. The sensei began to pace in front of us and pointed to those he wanted to pair off with the five black belts who had remained in a line. Three were already on their feet before he pointed to Clinton and me.

I respected them – but I had no fear of any of the black belts. I was apprehensive about which one of them I would be matched with but only because of how it might affect my chances of selection for the first team. All the black belts had a different style of fighting that in some way reflected their personalities and every one of them had won some sort
of national title. Eddie Cox and Declan Byrne had the most traditional outlook on karate training. The two men were very similar in many ways: despite one being a black Jamaican and the other a white Irishman, both men had very good karate techniques and a vicious streak that lay well hidden under gregarious personas until they donned a karate
gi
or were faced with a real life combat situation. Although their approach did not best suit competition karate (as both were of the opinion that sport was something to be played and karate was something that had to be lived) they had both won British titles at junior level and were members of the original team that had won so many tournaments. Declan and Eddie had worked side by side as electricians and had on occasion been compelled to use their martial arts skills while working on building sites. Men who were familiar with Eddie Cox's reputation – and thought little of it – sometimes challenged him to a fight. On occasion they were told if they could get past Declan (and they never did) he would fight them, but if he and Declan were pressed for time and had work to do, Eddie would knock them out if they persisted with their challenges. As well as working together they were as of one mind when it came to karate. They attended seminars that were organized by Tatsuo Suzuki and the other Japanese instructors, and when the time came for Eddie to take his third
dan
examination, it was Declan who had accompanied him for the week-long course in London. The club's two outstanding competitors were Ewart Campbell and Jerome Atkinson. Both Ewart and Jerome competed at an international level and had the exceptional confidence found in real top class fighters. Just below them as competitors were Chester Morrison, who was an all-styles lightweight national champion, and the much broader Hugo Robinson, who had won a national Wado Ryu title.