Denis Lehane: My glory days of turnips and Karate
Karate black belt
I know it's hard to believe, but I was once a Karate Kid.
To look at me now in mid-life, with my mild manners and spreading waistline, it's hard to fathom that I was once an instrument of mass destruction.
I could easily have wiped out an entire village, if I so desired, with a few minor swipes of my arm and a half dozen swings of my foot.
If you needed help back in the 80s, I would certainly have been the man to call... if only I had a phone, that is.
Back then, the country was fecked financially, and to stop fellows like me from seizing up entirely, we were encouraged to take up courses.
'Twas either that or the boat.
They were bleak times for sure, but we never knew they were.
Anyhow, I was invited to the School of Commerce in Cork city to learn about something that I have long since forgotten.
But while there, on the side, if you like, I took up Karate classes.
And it was the Karate that would stay with me as the years rolled past.
My Karate instructor back then ran a vegetable stand down in Cornmarket Street, and so I would pay for the classes with a bag of freshly pulled turnips, grown at home on the farm.
I understand all this may sound a bit far-fetched, but I have never been more honest in all my life.
What I'm giving you here today is my autobiography. Blow by blow.
The turnips were grown to feed sheep, but actually helped me master the art of Karate.
And the turnips were chosen wisely, for I knew better than to give a black belt master, a bag of fodder turnips.
A ewe wouldn't know the difference, but the people of Cork city certainly would.
Anyhow, I excelled in the field. The Karate field, I mean, although I became very adept at pulling turnips too in the dark early morning.
And better again, the turnips became a hit in the city. They were the talk of the place back in '89.
Soft and sweet, they were like turnips that John Spillane would sing about. They were like turnips grown along the banks of the rivers of Babylon.
Luckily for me, I had enough turnips that winter, not only to satisfy the ewes but also to get me well on the Karate ladder.
Anyhow, it was one night while walking back from Morrison's Island and through the dangerous streets of Cork that the importance of my turnip-fueled classes was really laid bare.
That night, I spotted a little old lady in trouble. She was returning home with her shopping and was being harassed by thugs attempting to steal her messages. They were all shouting and roaring, including the little old lady.
It was like something from a CĂłnal Creedon novel.
Feeling she was outnumbered, I ran to her rescue, like Superman, only without the cape.
Alas, by the time I got there, the bandits were gone.
"Are you OK, little old lady?" I asked, in all sincerity.
"Sure, why wouldn't I be boy?" she replied.
"They only got my handbag. I still have my delicious bag of turnips."
She was talking my language.
Anyhow, the reason I'm telling you all this today is because, in recent times, I have made a return to the world of Karate.
Call it a new year's resolution, call it an effort to regain my long-lost youth. Call it what you like. But I'm back.
And this time, I won't need vegetables to succeed, only a willingness to 'turn-up.'
