SUMO

Sumo

The shoe factory scheduled me for training on my day off, September 12^th. At first, I was a little annoyed that I would have to work six days this week, but after my boss handed me 15,000 yen, my mood perked up a bit.

Training was in Omiya, just outside of Tokyo. The yen was for a train ticket, sure, but I could do whatever I wanted with it. I thought about taking the bus to Omiya, a 5 hour endeavor, but I would only cost about 5000 yen, making me about 10,000 yen richer. I decided against using my precious weekend time sitting on a bus.

I started looking online to see if there was anything exciting happening in Tokyo that weekend…art show, concert, sport event. There was indeed a sporting event: the 15 day long Sumo wrestling tournaments that travels to Tokyo three times a year had come to town, and Sunday (the day before training) was the first day. My mind was made.

I called my partner in crime (you will remember him from “Island Time”) to see what he thought of this idea. He said he was in, and offered his place to stay. He lives in Akabane, which is almost exactly halfway between central Tokyo and Omiya. Our plan was perfect. I gleefully waited for the weekend to arrive.

On Sunday (I get Sunday and Monday off; the shoe factory is open Saturday) I hopped on the Shinkannsen (bullet train) and “shinked” at 320 kilometers per hour to Omiya. When I left Fukushima, I was wearing a jacket and carrying an umbrella. When I arrived in Omiya station, the heat shocked my body like a hot bath. I couldn’t believe how much hotter Tokyo was. Maybe it’s all the people, concrete, and lights.

I sweatedly hiked to my colleague’s house, dropped off my bags and together we went back to the station. We hopped on and off a series of trains and eventually ended up in a little part of central Tokyo called Ryogoku. Each train we got on seemed to have more and more sumo fans, and being Japanese, being a fan of something is totaling life consuming. It’s not enough to just support your favorite wrestler, no; you must dress like him also. And comb your hair back the same way and use the same flowery smelling hair grease (which I had begun to notice wafting through the air). You must eat like your favorite Sumo, whatever his favorites are, you must try to consume in the same amounts. Each train stop had more and more Sumo otaku (obsessed), not to mention a staggering number of gaijin (foreigners). We must be heading in the right direction.

When we arrived in Ryogoku, we didn’t really need to ask for directions, we just followed the herd of camera toting westerners (myself included) and Sumo fans. After about five minutes of listening to the rhythmic clack of sumo sandals on concrete, we arrived at the stadium. As we approached, there was something that looked like a line across, but not entering, the front entrance. All the people started to applaud and snap photos. Strange phrases in Japanese I could only imagine to mean “rip his arms off Tanaka-san!!” and “keep low today Watanabe-san!!” were barked in all manner. I then realized these weren’t fans…these were the actual sumo themselves. I saw sumo getting out of taxis, sumo getting off the bus; I swear I even saw one ride a mama-chari bike to the arena. They travel just like everybody else. One of the tenants of sumo philosophy is to remain humble. Even though they may eat their weight in egg yolks everyday for breakfast, they try to bottle up their massive size and egos for the few brief seconds of their fights. They were the quintessential gentle-giant, Lenny like characters. Of course, not all of the sumo come by JR train, some of the big shots, I’m sure, have limos and tour buses. These were the “little” guys, the semi-pros.

Once we were inside the arena (for a cool 5000 yen or about $50) we were treated, of course, to endless shopping. Any type of ware you could imagine: food, cups, tea sets, towels, posters, key chains, the ubiquitous phone “straps”, action figures, neckties, sumo hair grease…all of it with your favorite big shot sumo start emblemized all over. I thought about buying something but, I figured, if I really wanted a sumo sheet set I probably could get it off eBay.

We were starving, so we headed off to find some food. Before the match, one the things I had been most excited to try was “sumo stew” or chanko in Japanese. It is basically a mixture of any available ingredients, with no less than 1000 calories per bowl. Usually (traditionally) the sumo eat 10-20 bowls of this stuff to get hydration, electrolytes and (of course) their immense stature. The restaurant had it on the menu (in English! Yay!) so I ordered it. When the dish arrived, I was a little surprised. There was a cast iron bowl filled with raw ingredients, including chicken, mushrooms, onions, cabbage, fish cake, tofu, bean curd, carrot, and few others. There was also this little bamboo tube thing filled with some type of raw meatball mixture. The pot sat on this little butane powered stove. I almost told our server to take it back to the kitchen and cook the damn thing... why do they have to bring the kitchen out here? She turned on the burner and ran away quickly. I waited. 10 minutes later, after adding the meatball paste and poking the chicken to test for doneness, I decided to eat. It was delicious. It was basically just a miso broth soup (I’m guessing) with lots of fresh ingredients. You can’t really go wrong.

After we had eaten and paid, we took our seats. In true American fashion, we didn’t look for our assigned seats at all, but only looked for the seats which gave us the best view. We would move if the rightful owners approached, no harm no foul. The view was okay, not too far from the action.

The sumo fights were ongoing that day. Every 10 minutes or so, a little guy would come out and sing a really eerie song, bang some wooded sticks together and bow. Two sumo would enter the ring. They would initially stretch outside the ring, stomping around the ring and raising one leg up high into the air. Then they would enter the ring and squat down in front of each and stand up and squat, and stand and squat. They would stare at each other or swing their arms around and pretend nobody was there. Then they would leave the ring, squat in there corner and do a short water drinking ritual with a cup on a stick. After spitting out the water, they would stretch and stomp around some more. Then, they stick their hands into this box of white powder and throw it into the ring. Some sumo threw it high into the air, some threw it with a shallow angle at the ground, and some very excited sumo threw it directly at the press and ringside ticket holders. Finally, they enter the ring, bow, and face each other. They squat, and stare and after a few seconds. They begin.

The insanely long pre fight ritual really does wonders to bring out the ferocity of the brief battle. The sumo lunge at each other and usually slam together like two big horn sheep. They throw their palms at each others neck, not really a punch, but more like a cat pawing an insect to death. They lock up and try to push each other to the ground, or out of the ring. It is quite exciting. The Sumo really must trick each other, as well as overpower. Occasionally, one Sumo would simply side step the other’s initial lunge, causing his opponent to run directly out of the ring. Tricky bastard. I saw one sumo judo-throw another sumo twice his size over his hip. One of the western sumo wrestlers (yes I was shocked too, but they do exist) simply picked up his opponent by his waist and carried him out of the ring.

After the match, the loser would leave, and the winner would be presented with some type of item. I couldn’t see what it was but I’m guessing it was a biscuit or a hardboiled egg. He must be hungry. The ceremony was, strangely, kept short and sweet. They would sweep off the ring, and repeat.

It was quite enjoyable and I really began to notice myself talking a lot to my fellow friends and spectators. Even the Japanese we were sitting next to would nudge my ribs when something crazy was about to happen to slap me on the back when their favorite fighter won. There were fights in the stands. There were people banging war drums. I wished I had remembered to bring my vuvuzela. I would have been stopped within seconds, but it would have been worth it.

Surveying the audience, I began to realize that sumo was a strange sport, but the phenomenon of its popularity is something all cultures share. Every culture has their weird sport: Arizona has Rodeo, Spain and Mexico have Bullfighting, the British have Polo, Middle America has Horse racing. All these sports have one thing in common…it’s not really about the activity or the game being played, it’s about socializing. People come to Sumo to drink a beer, relax, get rowdy, and talk to the strangers they are seated near. It’s not a sporting event, it’s a social event. In the ringside seats, I could see senators being wooed, yakuza fixing fights, and business men talking about flowcharts and earnings. All this while the occasional sumo would fly out of the ring and smash about 4 people.

Sumo was exciting, it was interesting, and it was educational. But, for excitement, it had nothing on an NBA game. But, honestly, that’s the point. If Sumo were as exciting as Basketball or Soccer or Football, then it would lose some of the glue that made it exciting socially.