Read Online Memoirs of a Karate Fighter by Ralph Robb - Free Book Online
Authors: Ralph Robb
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lives.
The machine Mick had been working on still refused to work in the correct sequence. He told the rest of the crew what was wrong, but clueless and bored, most of us just nodded and hummed as though we were trying to think of a solution.
However, I was thinking more about the training sessions I had to miss. The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that someone had told the sensei about my injury so as to sabotage my chances of fighting in the first team at the British Clubsâ championships. But my ambitions were not going to be foiled so easily. During the day, Mick and I had sneaked into a deserted area at the rear of the factory to practise combinations of kicks and punches amongst the old disused machinery. I still felt some discomfort in my breastbone, but Mick was no Trog: we always kept the techniques light as we were aware that we had to be in a fit state to continue with our work.
As the debate about what was wrong with the machine became more heated, I simply wanted to lay down my tools and get to the YMCA so as to keep an eye on those I figured were my rivals; yet I knew this would have been unacceptable. There was an unwritten rule amongst the maintenance workers that meant we stuck together as a team until a job was finished. But the teamâs frustration had begun to wear away our solidarity. The mechanics blamed the electrical circuitry and the electricians blamed the mechanical sensors. It was reaching the point where everyone working on the problem began to fear that we might be there for the night. But, thankfully, the maintenance engineer in charge of the whole department finally got the thing going after a bit of nimble finger work. We were too mentally exhausted to cheer.
On the way out I threw a slow, playful
gyakuzuki
at Mick and he blocked it with
soto uke
. âShouldnât you be training tonight?â he asked, immediately sobering my mood.
I told him that I would not make it to the
dojo
in time and he asked if I wanted to go to his place for a little training and a bite to eat. Training was always preferable to watching.
Mickâs standard of fighting was nowhere near the level of what would be found at the YMCA, but what he lacked in ability he more than made up for in determination. Once we got to his house he suggested thatwe went for a run to warm up. Such was my competitive streak that I did not like to refuse. I had the reputation of the YMCA to uphold, which banished all thoughts of my sternum, and before long I was out with Mick pounding the damp streets. Every now and again he would halt and have us doing press-ups on our knuckles before resuming our run. Despite being firm friends, we still felt the need to prove ourselves to one another, or perhaps we were trying to prove which one of us practised the better style of karate.
Our attitudes had their origins in what had happened in Japan when Ohtsuka left Funakoshi to set up his own school many years before either of us was born; it had been akin to a religious schism and its legacy was an attitude that was very similar in nature to sectarian bigotry. In the early days, when the YMCA had travelled to the north of England to enter tournaments organized by Shotokan groups, the team had often fallen victim to unfair refereeing. For a time Shotokan officials would not recognize a roundhouse kick unless it was delivered with the ball of the foot (in Wado Ryu it is normally the top of the foot that does the striking) or a
uraken
(back-fist) strike which sometimes would be thrown in competition rather than a punch in order to cut down the risk of injury to an opponentâs face. When up against that sort of officiating some unfortunate competitor normally ended up getting hurt as a frustrated YMCA team member was compelled to give a demonstration of the real power in his kick, or punch. But the YMCA persevered and continued to enter Shotokan tournaments because they liked the spirit for which Shotokan
The machine Mick had been working on still refused to work in the correct sequence. He told the rest of the crew what was wrong, but clueless and bored, most of us just nodded and hummed as though we were trying to think of a solution.
However, I was thinking more about the training sessions I had to miss. The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that someone had told the sensei about my injury so as to sabotage my chances of fighting in the first team at the British Clubsâ championships. But my ambitions were not going to be foiled so easily. During the day, Mick and I had sneaked into a deserted area at the rear of the factory to practise combinations of kicks and punches amongst the old disused machinery. I still felt some discomfort in my breastbone, but Mick was no Trog: we always kept the techniques light as we were aware that we had to be in a fit state to continue with our work.
As the debate about what was wrong with the machine became more heated, I simply wanted to lay down my tools and get to the YMCA so as to keep an eye on those I figured were my rivals; yet I knew this would have been unacceptable. There was an unwritten rule amongst the maintenance workers that meant we stuck together as a team until a job was finished. But the teamâs frustration had begun to wear away our solidarity. The mechanics blamed the electrical circuitry and the electricians blamed the mechanical sensors. It was reaching the point where everyone working on the problem began to fear that we might be there for the night. But, thankfully, the maintenance engineer in charge of the whole department finally got the thing going after a bit of nimble finger work. We were too mentally exhausted to cheer.
On the way out I threw a slow, playful
gyakuzuki
at Mick and he blocked it with
soto uke
. âShouldnât you be training tonight?â he asked, immediately sobering my mood.
I told him that I would not make it to the
dojo
in time and he asked if I wanted to go to his place for a little training and a bite to eat. Training was always preferable to watching.
Mickâs standard of fighting was nowhere near the level of what would be found at the YMCA, but what he lacked in ability he more than made up for in determination. Once we got to his house he suggested thatwe went for a run to warm up. Such was my competitive streak that I did not like to refuse. I had the reputation of the YMCA to uphold, which banished all thoughts of my sternum, and before long I was out with Mick pounding the damp streets. Every now and again he would halt and have us doing press-ups on our knuckles before resuming our run. Despite being firm friends, we still felt the need to prove ourselves to one another, or perhaps we were trying to prove which one of us practised the better style of karate.
Our attitudes had their origins in what had happened in Japan when Ohtsuka left Funakoshi to set up his own school many years before either of us was born; it had been akin to a religious schism and its legacy was an attitude that was very similar in nature to sectarian bigotry. In the early days, when the YMCA had travelled to the north of England to enter tournaments organized by Shotokan groups, the team had often fallen victim to unfair refereeing. For a time Shotokan officials would not recognize a roundhouse kick unless it was delivered with the ball of the foot (in Wado Ryu it is normally the top of the foot that does the striking) or a
uraken
(back-fist) strike which sometimes would be thrown in competition rather than a punch in order to cut down the risk of injury to an opponentâs face. When up against that sort of officiating some unfortunate competitor normally ended up getting hurt as a frustrated YMCA team member was compelled to give a demonstration of the real power in his kick, or punch. But the YMCA persevered and continued to enter Shotokan tournaments because they liked the spirit for which Shotokan
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