Along with the shakuhachi, sumo provided something to talk about when I had almost no Japanese language. Sitting in a coffee bar between classes, at
The fights might be over in seconds, and seldom lasted more than thirty seconds. Most of the “rikishi” [wrestlers] looked podgy and soft, but you soon realized that lightning reflexes and steel strength lay concealed beneath the layers of blubber.
Some though, and especially the grand champion Chiyonofuji, were obviously fit and muscly, and, in the case of Chiyonofuji, a little too muscly.
With all the scandals about the use of steroids, I couldn’t stop wondering whether the huge neck and shoulder muscles owed something to the stuff that was destroying the integrity of so many sports. Y was appalled that I could suspect anything of the kind, and took it as proof of my incorrigible cynicism. Chiyonofuji and the other lads seemed to incarnate all the honour and decency of the traditional Japanese male, and any attack on them was an attack on
I read that Chiyonofuji had been given steroids as a medical treatment after a shoulder injury and that meant that both of us could retreat from the argument with honour intact. Yes, he had taken steroids but he could have done it with honourable intent.
There were aspects of the Sumo world which remained troubling. One ex-wrestler, who had made allegations of extensive match-fixing, died in mysterious circumstances. The fact that Chiyonofuji’s wife had yakuza connections was known, but seldom alluded to.
For all that though, there is much in Sumo which remains the antithesis of the spin-driven worlds of politics, show-business and sport. The wrestlers never argue with the referee, and usually manage to accept victory and defeat with the same stoic calm.
Below the belt tactics are rare enough to be memorable. Most sumo holds and throws will do no real damage. The most damage can be done by the “tsupari”, the open handed thrusts or slaps to the head which can have the force of a punch. I was shocked one night when I saw Hokotoumi, who was an ozeki [the second hightes rank] at the time, whack an opponent on the side of the head with his open hand. He broke his opponent’s eardrum. I was even more upset that he won the fight and escaped without sanction. Y and her family were sanguine, refusing to believe that he had evil intent, and thinking it was so rare and event that it was not worth worrying about. So it proved. In fifteen years I have not seen a sequel which was as bad.
Not all sumo rikishi could meet the psychological expectations of their profession. One, too speedily promoted to yokozuna [the highest rank], after barely satisfying the vague promotion requirements, quickly fell apart under the strain of a series of bad performances. After hitting the “mother” of his stable, the wife of the head trainer, he was unceremoniously forced to retire, and joined a sport more suited to his character-- pro-wrestling.
As a foreigner, coming from the largest Polynesian city in the world,
His huge bulk (sometimes he weighed 270 kgms), was a dubious benefit. If he got his weight in the right place, he could push anyone out. But, with shaky knees and a high centre of gravity, he would easily topple. Smaller, faster wrestlers could literally run rings around him and, as he trundled across the ring in search of an elusive opponent, would give him a shove de grace from behind.
After he had been so despatched by Mae-no-umi, one of the smallest and most entertaining rikishi, Konishiki ruefully reflected for the media: “He was there in front of me-- and then he suddenly disappeared. I thought he might have gone to buy some lunch. [弁当を買いに行ったと思った。].”
It was that kind of self-deprecatory humour, combined with huge stick-at-it-ness in the face of continual injury, which won over that section of the sumo public which may have had reservations about the first foreigner ever to reach the rank of ozeki.
His claim that his failure to be promoted to yokozuna was the result of racism was the one exception to his endless patience in the face of the difficulties of being a foreigner in the hierarchical, demanding sumo world. Technically he may have been right, but his case was far from clear. While it was true that X had been promoted after similar achievements, the Council were probably correct to tighten the requirements after X’s lamentable record as a Yokozuna. The fact that Akebono, another Polynesian, was soon promoted to yokozuna did much to undermine Konoshiki’s case.
He battled on for years, continuing to fight with dignity long after being demoted from Yokozuna, and, in retirement, has turned his performing skills to lucrative advantage as one of the highest paid stars of the television advertising world.
I have been only once to see sumo. A mother-in-law of Y’s sister in law’s sister in law managed to get some mid-week seats for the Novemeber Bashou (tournament) which was always in Fukuoka, a couple of hours away from Kumamoto. All agreed it was appropriate for me to take a day off my part-time lecturing job at
It was worth it. The television camera gives you a fight-centred view of sumo, but when you are there, you can really see the world of all the people who work around the ring: the towel holders, the salt suppliers, the referees and so on. Y’s brother managed to befriend one of the salt suppliers, and was given one of the salt baskets which provide the handfuls of salt which the rikishi toss into the ring before each bout. Salt was still caked to the bottom of the basket as a reminder that we had actually been there.
Y, as the only girl in a household of men, after her mother died, was as much a sumo connoisseur as her brothers. For years, she and her brothers would continue in their attempts to demonstrate all the holds and throws which we had seen on the small screen.
Y has done much to export sumo-consciousness. Whenever we have been on a beach or mountainside, she has always organized impromptu sumo matches, to the delight of people the world over.
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