SUMO

hyperbolically huge man. I recognized
the bigger one from before—Konishiki
(whose name means Little Brocade in
japanese). He was maybe 500 pounds
at the time, nothing Little nor
rocade-like about him, and had, a

ear previous, been vying for the title
of grand champion. He was a veteran
d, despite his size, was skillful. He
twice the size of the younger
estler, a 20-year-old named
akahanada. (There are no weight divi-

ions in sumo, | learned at that

  
 
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
   
 
  
   
  
  
   
 
 
  
   
  
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
   
  

oment.)

Konishiki launched at the rookie,
nd Takahanada, after a bit of a dance,
almly escorted th€ older man out of
e ring with grace and authority.
hat’s my guy, I thought immediately,
at’s who I'll cheer for. Takahanada
ad the single-mindedness, the equa-
imity, of the purest of athletes. There
as a certainty about him and a je ne
is quoi that he displayed which I
jould only equate with my other great
rts idol—Guy LaFleur. Sounds
diculous—TI'll be the first to admit
at—and I still can't properly explain
e similarity. But for me it is there.
erhaps it is because both men seem to
ist for no other reason than for their
rt. In interviews they seem not to
ve many other interests. And they
th happen to be low-key, but effort-
ssly charismatic envoys for their
rts.

Taka grew in both size and stature
ring my time in Japan. He was a
kiwake when I first saw him wrestle.

analogous rank in the army would
sergeant. He is now a five-star gen-

, a yokozuna, a grand champion.

e day he became ozeki, the same

at which his sumo wrestling father
d stalled, there was a sombre cere-
ny in Tokyo. Taka then assumed the
hting name of his father,

anohana.

VWrestier

I went outside for some air after
watching the footage on the late news,
looked up into the night sky and saw
that it was snowing, a rare thing in
Southern Japan even in the winter, and,
feeling completely at home and full of
perspective and confidence, I thought
simply, “T love this place.”

After I had a few televised tourneys
under my belt, some friends and I took
the bus down to the port town of
Shibushi to catch the pros live in an
exhibition bout. Called jungyo, these
bouts occur in between the major
tournaments and draw people from all
over the countryside.

So, one winter weekday there we sat,
among shrieking schoolchildren, rabid
salarymen and wizened octogenarians,
and watched the big guys go at it.
People snapped pictures, and the brave
ambled up to their heroes to touch

their skin or get an acknowledgement. _

‘T felt a little stupid walking over to
where the wrestlers were standing, but
did so anyway, and snapped a few
quick pics with my disposable camera.
The first thing I noticed about being
near the rikishi was the smell. Or, I
should say, the scent. The big men
were all sweating and were, well, big,
but what wafted off them was a sweet-
smelling perfume that caught you in
the throat, as if they had just emerged
from a spa. It was, I was told later, the
pomade that held their elaborately-

F sculptured hair in place. It made the

gym smell like a moisturizer factory.
And another thing: up close, in per-
son, the rikishi had a carriage that
made them seem almost regal. They
were composed, and with half-lidded
eyes the men, the warriors, seemed
somehow benign, like old drawings of
the Buddha. With their hair in the
chomagge style and their samurai
robes, they cut an anachronistic figure,

‘which commanded them even more

respect. All of a sudden, even the ones
that had been bums in the last tourney,
even the ones that had scored a weak
3—[2 record, now seemed somehow
like royalty.

It was edifying, even for those of us
who werent particularly interested in
the sport. We’ became schoolchildren
that day in the school gym, clambering
up onto.the dohyo after the show was
over (and getting reprimanded by a
tinny, but polite, electronic voice from
the gymnasium loudspeaker) and going
out to the buses to wave goodbye to
the wrestlers. Akebono, the former
Hawaiian high school basketball player,
now grand champion, slowly looked
over to us and, recognizing us as maybe
being from his country, gave a pensive
and strangely hopeful little wave.

I still watch the sport, but from over
here it is a little difficult. You can catch
bits on television, and watch the whole
basho on Sumo Digest, but the show
is, after all,.a digest. It is so much more
enjoyable when you know that at any
given minute, a good quarter of the
country is stalling on the way home,
procrastinating in sushi bars or noodle
shops to watch sumo with the other
customers; or, in the morning, reading
the editorials about the previous night's
action; or discussing the latest
controversy over the water cooler.

But for a couple of years, it was my
obsession. My Japanese friends shook

their heads over my new hobby and

looked at me with glassy-eyed patience
as I described the style of the latest

rookie. I remember being driven to the
working visa office by my boss, M
Sasaki, a regular and neccessary t
hour journey, and speaking almost
entire time about the previous day’s
action in grammati

  
  
 
   
 

ly-incorrect and

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