The World of Sumo

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Another day usually brings with it another adventure; this time it was a trip into the magical, mysterious world of sumo wrestling, or sumo, as it is known in Japan. I went with several of my fellow (Japanese) teachers by bullet train to Fukuoka’s International Center, the site of a professional sumo tournament. However, before we went to the main event, there was a surprise in store for us. At the junior high school we work at, one of the graduates from last year turned into a sumo wrestler, destined for stardom. At sixteen years of age, he figured it was high time to quit school and pursue a more promising career. The position of sumo wrestler is held in such high regard in Japan, that the all-consuming pursuit of sumo is considered a noble path to take one’s life. Their studies of other areas effectively end after junior high. For all of you Americans out there, who are fed up with final exams and term papers, come to Japan as a sumo wrestler and never worry about classes again. Of course, if you don’t have a little bulk, you might get flattened in the process.
Our first stop of the trip was the training facility where our young sumo prodigy works out between his various tournaments in Tokyo and elsewhere. We arrived just in time to see him get his hair transformed into the signature ponytail and slicked back look of the sumo wrestler. The process at times looked agonizing, excruciating, and various other mind-numbing adjectives. Nevertheless, Hanaoka maintained his dignity throughout, willingly answering our questions about the sumo lifestyle, as we snapped photo after photo during this perfect Kodak moment. Fifteen minutes later and his hair tailored to perfection, we wrapped up our visit with some more questions and yet another photo-op session. In every picture, Hanaoka’s pose remained identical, the stoic wrestler ready to gouge his next opponent while we stood there smiling like we always do for our photo albums. Just when I thought the deluge of lights flashing and camera clicking would never cease, there was an abrupt end. We picked up our cameras, asked some last-minute questions and gave our sumo friend some parting gifts. I understood precious little of the responses to the questions, but I did ascertain that he wakes up at 5:30 every morning, works out every day, and can eat basically whatever he wants, as long as it is in extremely large quantities. Hanaoka is a big guy, but he has a ways to go before becoming just like the other 350 lb. behemoths he will compete against one day.
From there, it was on to the professional sumo tournament, which we had paid good money to see. The tickets cost a whopping eighty bucks each, and this price was for the worst seats in the house, of course. If you want decent seats that don’t require the use of binoculars, it will set you back a tidy two or three hundred greenbacks. Yet, a sumo fanatic occupied just about every seat in the house. Of course, the Japanese don’t use chairs or benches or couches whenever they can avoid them. Rather, at the sumo stadium, the “seats” were four feet square blocks separated by rope in which four people sat side-by-side in two-by-two formation. I got an overwhelming two square feet, complete with pillow. At the end of the day, my legs literally did not want to move. If you have any Lilliputian friends, I am sure they would love it here.
The tournament itself was fairly entertaining although the fact that the average sumo battle barely lasts five or ten seconds doesn’t lend itself to sustained enjoyment. For those of you who have never seen such a battle, there is a stage covered with sand and a large circle drawn on it. The two enormous wrestlers wearing only a loincloth-like garment and the ref, decked out in a triangular hat and ancient ceremonial garb, share the forum. The wrestlers bow to each other, then proceed to use all their muscle, flexibility and technique to knock their opponent out of the circle. This usually happens in about five seconds, although one of the later bouts was clocked at a whopping fifteen. The last segment of the day featured the best wrestlers, including an actual Hawaiian-American. The crowd ruthlessly booed the foreigner, but to their disgust and my delight he proved victorious. It’s not that I like Americans, but it was a cool thing to rub in the faces of my Japanese colleagues.
The ending ceremony concluded, we left our seats and headed for the exits, but not before I managed to grab some authentic sumo key chains and fans. I pondered for a moment asking for an autograph, but I wasn’t anxious to talk to a guy five times my size. As we headed out of the stadium, I took one last glance behind me just to make sure what I had seen was real. Since I have come here, I have to do that quite often. Otherwise, I fear I will share the fate of Alice, the realization that all my adventures were actually figments of my imagination.

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