Sumo

Why would anyone be interested in the spectacle of immensely fat men trying to throw one another to the ground in the middle of a straw-bale ring? A strange sport, sumo, so an American friend and I headed down to Osaka last week to see what might be going on at the March Grand Sumo Tournament, starring Japan’s favorite wrestling elephants. I’ve seen sumo before and was prepared for the immensity of the combatants—they range from 5’8” to 6’6”, and few of them weigh less than 300 pounds, with the really big guys tipping the scale close to 400. I mean, they’re BIG. And they’re immensely strong, too, despite all the (consciously induced) flab—they eat 20,000 calories per day, much of it in beer. And they are intensely disciplined by their years of training in the “stables” (yes, that’s what they’re called) where they live and work—they have exceptional balance, quickness, and lateral movement, rather like the huge offensive and defensive linemen in American football.
A sumo match begins with the opening ritual of a ring official calling out the next wrestlers’ names—the two men, naked except for a loin cloth and thick silk belt—climb up onto the platform (which is square) and enter the ring (which is round), then squat opposite one another, staring intensely into one another’s eyes. At the highest levels, they then proceed to their corners, where they raise each leg high and stamp the dirt floor (to purify the ring), then sprinkle salt on themselves and fling some into the ring (also a purification). They take a sip of water from a corner attendant, rinse their mouths and spit (more purification), then return to the ring to squat and stare again, twice, with more salt-flinging, before the referee (who has been gesturing ritually with his wooden fan throughout this process) gives the signal to fight. Sumo used to be a temple ritual, not just an entertainment, so the purification seems a natural part of the sport.
The actual bout, which commences after the final squat and glare, can last from about a microsecond to a couple of minutes. The two men, separated by about a meter, charge at one another (there is no signal, it just happens) and collide with astonishing force, the tachiai which aficionados tell me determines the outcome of most matches. Sometimes one of the men steps aside with incredible grace (for such a huge lump) and the other falls flat on his face, helped by a push from above. Sometimes both men get grips on the other’s belt, and they proceed to micro-maneuver, sometimes for quite a while, before one of them busts a move and tries to overpower his adversary. Sometimes they slap (no punching is permitted, but slapping is), sometimes they attempt judo-like throws, and sometimes one just picks the other up by the belt and carries him out of the ring. The loser is the one who touches outside the ring or touches any part of his body (other than his feet) to the ground. There are eighty or more officially recognized ways to win a sumo match, and each has a name. The current Grand Champion, a Mongolian who uses the sumo name Asashoryu, has won sixteen of the past twenty tournaments (there are six tournaments a year)—each tournament consists of fifteen matches, fought on fifteen consecutive days, against fifteen different wrestlers. That is consistency.
Intrigued? Maybe it’s not just elephants in a ring after all.