Memoirs of a Karate Fighter by Ralph Robb

Author:Ralph Robb [Ralph Robb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781908446152
Publisher: HopeRoad
Published: 2013-09-05T16:00:00+00:00

– Chapter Eleven –

You must thoroughly cut down the enemy so that he does not recover his position.

Miyamoto Musashi – The Fire Book

THE NEWS OF my European silver medal drew copious congratulations from Mick Davies at the factory. His reaction was in sharp contrast to those I had encountered back at the dojo. My team-mates found it hard to be so effusive because they knew how disappointed I was with second place. The one exception was Trog; as usual, he had plenty to say. He grinned broadly as he ‘congratulated’ me on making it to the final. “Getting beat when you were so close must’ve been hard to take, eh?” he chuckled. But Mick could only see my medal as a great achievement, and urged me to announce the result to the rest of the factory by displaying my medal in the canteen. Perhaps he was trying to make amends for the indifference displayed by the other guys seated at the long table in the maintenance department.

“Go on,” Mick said, as we headed to the stamp shop.

“Go on what?”

“Go on and bring in your medal. Before you say no, a bloke in the machine shop is always bringing in his fishing trophies, and the darts team is always sticking newspaper cuttings on the notice board. Go on, Ralph, lots of people would like to see it. You must be the first person from the factory ever to represent Britain in anything.”

Maybe he was appealing to a vanity I denied possessing but for the first time I began to consider bringing my medal to work; that was until we reached the machine we were to repair. Four men were standing around drawing on scrawny roll-up cigarettes as they waited for us. Mick dropped his toolbox, and to the oldest one he said, “Bert, I was just saying Ralph must be the first bloke in the factory to ever represent Great Britain in any sport.”

Bert, a fat man with a silver Teddy-boy quiff, blew smoke from the side of his mouth. I had always been aware of a certain malevolence in his eyes but Mick remained completely oblivious. “Oh yes?” Bert said. “What sport, exactly?”

Embarrassed, I bent down and pretended to be looking in my tool box as Mick replied, “He was fighting for the British karate team at the European championships at the weekend – and won a silver medal.” I wished Mick had kept quiet as I straightened up. There was a scornful twist on Bert’s lip as he said, “Fighting for Britain. Well, there’s a thing.” He turned to the others and said, “Did you know he was fighting for Britain?”

“I thought he’d be fighting for Jamaica or some other African country,” one laughed.

“You daft bastard,” I growled, “it was the European championships. In case you didn’t know, Jamaica’s a Caribbean country … A long, long way from Europe.”

I hunkered down next to Mick and began to work on the machine, but the response I waited for never came. I thought someone might say: “Never mind where Jamaica is, you couldn’t pass for an Englishman.

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