We spend Sunday in a small leisure centre near Brighton at the Seaford Shotokan karate championships. It is bizarrely similar to a ballroom dancing contest down to the judges in smart suits and ties, the eager parents watching onn the sidelines. Dads try to read the Sunday papers in the cafe serving chips and ketchup. But there is one big difference. Instead of mums and dads sitting in reverent silence while their sons and daughters glide around to Mancini's waltz, they shout. I should have known what we were in for when crowds of St John Ambulance crews arrive and line the room . It takes me a while to get the hang of it I confess. In our little team, the dojo that meets in the scout hut near the station under the discipline of Sensei D..., the star is a little girl called H... who could have leaped straight out of the new film Karate Kid only Hannah does real karate not kung fu. Tiny, blonde, feisty, she is just seven. It comes to the kumite or fighting round and parents and senseis yell, 'Punch punch punch, one two one two.' She does and she wins. Then her big brother T... eight, takes on a boy in the older group. He dances in delicate flight away from a child who possibly has never been subject to the modern educational dictum that competition is wrong and lands punches like I'm glad I'm not on the end of.. Thomas uses the spiritual disciplines he has been trained in to counter. I M now on my feet with everyone else shouting punch punch punch. Thomas wins. Our son also wins his first ever sports trophy, a third place, which he proudly takes to school the next day for show and tell along with several cuts, bruises and a slight limp. With government cuts looming, let's hope the health and safety police never find out about this one corner of the sports field where boys can still learn how to be boys without killing each other - quite.
