November 30, 2003
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Sumo Satisfaction
Note… I wrote this for my prefectural newspaper… it’s a bit long winded, but if you kids are interested… ENJOY.
Who knew fat bastards could be so damn appealing?
After two lovely days at Lake Hirata, my friends and I packed ourselves pleasantly into the automobile of Mr. Papke. A day later, we magically arrived into the city
of Fukuoka -the land of ramen and karashi mentai – fish eggs packed together which resembles that of either a pink leaches or an underdeveloped seal fetuses. Yet our desires for that sunshine Saturday morning was not to indulge in the various delectable delights Fukuoka made available for our foreign palette. Rather, we were in search for some sumo satisfaction.
Bamboo rods with colourful banners waved at our arrival. A crowd of Japanese and foreigners crammed together before the entranced. And after some hubbub, we entered the pearly gates of Fukuoka Dome. The actual auditorium where sumo took place resembled somewhat like a basketball arena. Instead of a court, there was a stage called the dohyo, which is an 18 foot compacted clay square that is 2 feet high. Instead of a scoreboard, there was a suspended roof of a Shinto shrine. And instead of tall, slender men running around, there were two fat men in diapers going at it.
My friends and I ventured to the backstage area of Fukuoka Dome to get an up close and personal view of these beef(y) men. The mere presence of the behemoths puts one in complete awe. They stood before us like glazed butterball hams – their perspiration glistened ever so slightly beneath the gritty fluorescent lighting. Their gargantuan bodies emanated an aura of stoic preparation and baby powder. Their hair was perfectly coiffed, slicked back and folded upwards like a mini-moray eel. These were sumo wrestlers.
“Hot dog, they’re fat!” I screamed with boyish glee.
They weren’t real to me. They reminded me more of those mascot animal things that you find at amusement parks – strolling around and making children cry. I expected them to suddenly take their expressionless heads off to reveal a 19-year-old red head with braces. But this was the real deal.
“Do you think I can take a picture of them? I’m afraid they’ll eat me,” a fellow JET setter joked. And after a couple snapshots, we returned to our seating arrangements to satiate our sumo endeavours.
There’s something sensual about two large men clawing and groping each other’s curdles of flesh. It’s as if sumo is somewhat like a wild mating ritual – where two parties engage in ceremonial, instinctive foreplay before making slapping sounds and bending into precarious positions. It’s almost like watching whales make love… Actually, I take back the entire sensuality part of sumo. But sumo is definitely titillating. There’s something arousing about seeing such an abundance flesh rippling like curds of whey when a sumo dude tumbles to the ground. There’s so much strength and power that I almost expect a big gong of thunder to explode from the heavens when an opponent crashes. The bigger they are, the harder they fall – not to mention, bigger the applause. Hip hip hooray.
Bout after bout, the crowd’s anticipation grew wildly until the big guns are brought out. And man… Musashimaru is one big muthafucka. But bigger ain’t always
better. The 250 kg Hawaiian dude arrived in his teal manashi (silk diaper), looking quite sullen and concerned. And yes, sullen and concerned he should be… this bout ended up being his last professional sumo match. A smaller big boy, Tosanoumi, with his boyish good looks and smaller, yet cunning size, overtook him. Actually, “overtook” is probably the wrong word. The match was more like Musashimaru gingerly stepping out of the ring like one of those hippos sporting a tutu in Disney’s Fantasia. The crowd was disappointed. The royal purple zabutons were chucked like Frisbees toward the ring. It was an extravaganza (except I was pegged in the head).
All right, I admit that the tone of this article may be construed as bit of a mockery, but please… don’t get me wrong. Sumo is, with all silliness aside, beautiful. Its beauty isn’t necessarily seen in the actual bout, but the deep cultural tradition that stands behind it. The kesho-mawashi, worn before the tournament, are silk aprons embroidered with stunning designs and hemmed with a gold fringe – costing anywhere from 400,000 to 500,000 yen. The yumi-shiki, performed after the tournament, is an impressive “bow-dance” which expresses the satisfaction of the victories performed on that day (all information has been taken from the “Sumo” pamphlet given to us at the gate). And these are only two examples of deeply symbolic rituals that take place in Sumo… and I haven’t even mentioned the split-toed socks, the one-legged stamping, and the spitting of water. Besides, you can’t do anything but give deep respect for a sport that has dated back some 1500 years while maintaining much of its traditional etiquette.
Sumo is a complete novelty; it is a part of Japanese culture that should be experienced first hand. It’s filled with so much cultural tradition that its ritualistic presentation leaves feelings of enrichment, appreciation, and grandness. It’s obviously more than just fat men wrestling. Sumo requires preparation and control, precision and agility, dignity and respect. And although the men aren’t hot to trot, they are, somehow, grossly appealing. So strap on your garters and eat a pound of karashi-mentai… go see sumo.
