For the Love of Sumo

Will Ferguson

Personally, I think it's the hair.

They oil it back in a long pony-tail and then flip it forward, combing it into a slick fan-shaped rooster crown. When the Tokugawa Shogunate modernized Japan in the late 19th century, only the sumo rikishi were allowed to keep the samurai topknot. Today, these distinct hairstyles give them a certain medieval allure.

The hair is also a source of their strength. When a rikishi (wrestler doesn't quite describe what they do) retires from the ring, his topknot is ceremonially cut away with a pair of golden scissors.

It's gotta be the hair. Why else would ladies swoon and young girls scream? Why else would top models and high-flying stewardesses marry them? Why else would people get so excited over flabby, half-naked men with elaborate wedgies tied up between their buttocks?

When I moved to Japan in 1990 I spent the first few months in a daze of culture shock and bewilderment. Plastic food in restaurant windows. Corn on pizza. Slippers in the toilet room. It was very strange. But the strangest of all was the bizarre spectacle that invaded my living room every two months: Japan's never-ending sumo tournaments, slapstick as sport.

Like so many things in Japan, sumo seemed simple enough. Two men enter a ring; the first man to leave the ring or get tossed to the ground loses. But, as I soon discovered, pulling back one layer of meaning only revealed another. Trying to understand Japan, one writer noted, is like trying to peel an onion.

Sumo bouts rarely last 30 seconds, but the buildup can be agonizing. I used to find this procrastination unbearable to watch -- the rikishi rinsed their mouths with water, tossed salt into the air, stomped their feet, wiped their armpits and did everything except fight.

"Get on with it!" I would shout at my television.

Sumo bouts are like a spring that is slooowly compressed. The tension mounts and mounts, and then -- in a sudden clash -- the victor is decided.

There was a definite rhythm, but I was damned if I could figure it out. Not that my Japanese friends were any help.

"How do they know when it's time to charge?" I asked.

"You mean the tachiai? When the time is right, they will know."

"How?"

"They will know."

The tide began to shift when I first saw Kyokudozan in action. Sumo has no weight divisions. The smallest rikishi is routinely pitted against the largest, and no one finds this unfair or lopsided.

Typical sumo stereotypes to the contrary, Kyokudozan was not obese. If anything, he was a little scrawny, weighing in at 223 pounds. He was up against a 420-pound giant named Onokuni, and I settled back to watch the massacre.

What happened next sent shivers of electricity down my spine. To use the proper Canadian hockey analogy, lithe little Kyokudozan "deked" Onokuni out of his shorts -- figuratively speaking, of course.

He faked to the right, stepped to the left, thrust his hand into Onokuni's blubbery chest and then-- suddenly--he jumped back and let the larger man's momentum work against him. This wasn't burlesque. This was poetry in motion.

These guys weren't simply grappling away like overly amorous hippos, they were using technique: feint, leverage, speed. It was amazing. David Benjamin, author of The Joy of Sumo, described it as a combination of ballet and bullfighting.

I began to recognize certain fighters: Kirishima, an older, muscular rikishi who used the difficult "lift and carry out" technique.

Mitoizumi, a big goofy kid known as the Salt Shaker because he threw massive handfuls of salt into the ring (to the appreciative roar of the crowd). Terao, the Typhoon, who terrified his opponents with blistering arm-thrust attacks.

Mainoumi, the tiny rikishi who had injected a pad of silicon under his scalp in order to meet the minimum height requirements.

In a land where team play and group consensus were supposed to be so crucial, sumo was unabashedly individualistic. Fighters stood and fell on their own merit. Each had his own style, his own special tricks, his own weaknesses.

By the fifth tournament, I had become the sumo equivalent of a Deadhead. I followed the tournaments. I kept pin-up pictures of the stars. I clipped magazine articles, and I spent thick wads of cash on sumo hand-prints, sumo playing cards, sumo T-shirts and limited edition commemorative sumo coffee mugs.

I love sumo the way some people love their country. It is -- and I think I am being objective in my assessment -- the absolute greatest sport in the history of the universe. It has everything you could possibly want in public entertainment: conflict, ritual and big sweaty half-naked men.

Like so many other foreign fans, including David Benjamin, my first big love affair was with a fighter named Chiyonofuji, better known as the Wolf. Chiyonofuji was the son of a Hokkaido fisherman, and he was short, stocky and solid muscle. While other fighters used sheer mass to win, Chiyonofuji used physics. His smaller body gave him an advantage and he used this to fulcrum his opponents out of the ring.

If he got hold of an opponent's belt, inside and on the right, the fight was pretty well over. Chiyonofuji would lean in, biceps rigid, legs low, and he would flip these giant men ass-over-teakettle, leaving Chiyonofuji still standing, alone at centre ring. It was a religious experience to see Chiyonofuji in action.

Alas, in 1991--just after I decided to devote my life to Chiyonofuji--he retired. He was only one win shy of the all-time victory record, and in a sport with a 1,200-year old history, breaking any record is a major achievement. I cried when I watched the topknot-cutting ceremony on television.

Like any rabid, irrational fan, I wanted to become the object of my affection. Who wouldn't want to be a rikishi? They are massive, strong, arrogant men. They drink heavy, play hard and giggle like kids. They are the last of the samurai. A scent of perfumed oil and sweat surrounds them like an aura of, well, perfumed oil and sweat.

Women throw themselves at rikishi. And, the rikishi get to eat as much as they want, whenever they want, and they never have to worry about cholesterol. I want to be reborn as a rikishi so badly I would do just about anything.

For some reason, a disproportionate number of rikishi come from the geographic extremes of Japan: Hokkaido in the far north and Kagoshima in the far south.

Even their styles of fighting have been described as "hot" and "cold," with the smaller southern rikishi known for their rapid-fire attacks, and the heavier northern rikishi tending more toward slow, walrus-like grapplings. The Wolf was from the north, but his style was always described as "southern" in its intensity.

The Wolf, alas, is long gone. The two reigning superstars of sumo, known affectionately as Tak and Wak, are a pair of spoiled, spoon-fed brothers groomed for stardom. Their father was once a grand champion and their uncle was the president of the Sumo Association. Or maybe it was the other way. It doesn't matter, I hate them both, especially pouty-faced little Tak, who was (at that time) a media darling. After the last tournament, Wak got promoted to yokozuna (grand champion) alongside his brother Tak, making them the first pair of brothers ever to attain sumo's highest rank.

Tak and Wak's arch nemesis was the Hawaiian rikishi Akebono. Akebono, stands 6'8'' and tips the scales at 500 pounds, but he is built awkwardly. With his high round stomach and skinny storklegs he looks like a grapefruit on a pair of chopsticks, but no matter. He has climbed to the top of the sumo world. Of course, his name isn't really Akebono; every rikishi adopts a florid nom de plume while active in sumo. You will see great bloated whales of humanity waddling about with names that translate as Small Brocade or Morning Sunrise.

Akebono's real name is Chad Rowan, and he recently became the first foreign-born yokozuna in the history of sumo. This sparked racial tensions and nasty editorials by Japanese commentators who didn't want to see the sport tainted with foreign blood. The dark nationalistic elements -- always present just under the surface of Japanese society -- bubbled up during the great Akebono Debate.

I asked my Japanese work supervisor his opinion, but he was diplomatic. "Akebono made a sincere effort. He learned to speak Japanese, and he is trying very hard to adapt to the Japanese lifestyle. I think he will be a very hard-working yokozuna." Not good. Not great. Hard-working. In Japan, this is the higher compliment.

In a way, I understand Japanese reservations about oversized foreign rikishi. If you had an ancient sport intimately tied with the culture and religion of your native land, would you want some surfing Hawaiian dude named Chad to cruise in from Honolulu and become exalted grand champion?

After all, sumo is the official sport of Japan. It is part religion, part ritual, part spectacle. Like so much in Japan, sumo transcends contradictions: it is silly, yet solemn. Explosive, yet restrained.

One year I made the sacred pilgrimage to Fukuoka City for the final day of the spring tournament. I checked into a space-age capsule hotel and, too excited to sleep, went for a walk through the neon and noodle shops of the city's Nakasu nightlife zone, a shimmering Blade Runner type of place.

And that's when I met the Wolf.

I was walking down a garish side-alley when I ran right into Chiyonofuji. He and his entourage were coming out of an exclusive topless cabaret. I recognized him immediately, and the following conversation took place. (I have given it in Japanese as well as the English, so that you can savour the moment in all its authenticity.)

ME:

Hora! Chiyonofuji desho?

CHIYONOFUJI:

ME:

Ja . . . komban-wa!

THE BACK OF CHIYONOFUJI'S HEAD:

My Japanese colleagues cringed when I told them about my encounter. One does not simply go up and talk to a man like Chiyonofuji. I was lucky he responded.

A few minutes after humiliating myself with Chiyonofuji, I ran into several other rikishi. One stout fellow was getting into a cab and I ran over in the assumption he would be thrilled to shake my hand.

"Do your best in tomorrow's bout!" I said.

He nodded and said, "I will do my best." And son-of-a-gun if he didn't go out and win the very next day. I couldn't help but feel partly responsible. And, needless to say, I am now a big Kotonishiki fan.

My Japanese colleagues agreed that Kotonishiki had been very polite to have stopped to chat. (It helped that I had a hold of his hand and wasn't prepared to let go until he acknowledged me.)

Unfortunately, Kotonishiki was later caught up in some kind of twisted love-triangle sex-scandal, complete with a pregnant mistress and a vengeful wife, all of which the newspapers covered with an incredible eye for journalistic detail. Ah, the life of a rikishi. You just can't beat it.

SIDEBAR:

The Business Person's Guide to Sumo

Sumo may seem anachronistic, but the very modern appeal of the sport indicates that it is neither a relic nor a novelty. For people doing business with the Japanese, several key principles are revealed in the sport/religion of sumo:

The rules are deceptively simple.

The psychological positioning prior to the match is just as important as the bout itself.

Ritual is excruciatingly important.

4. Mere power is not enough. There are no weight divisions in sumo. As with judo (which evolved out of sumo). technique and timing are everything. On a more abstract level, sumo -- like judo -- is a parable of how the Japanese like to see themselves: small but powerful, the little engine that could, the diminutive rikishi who will eventually send the American giant to the mat.

Ottawa Citizen
June 28, 1998