Watching fat men with man buns and adult nappies grapple is not the most ordinary way to spend a national holiday but in Japan I guess anything goes. You walk into the arena, a Japanese MEN, and are surrounded with rows and rows of enthusiastic Japanese families, tucking into their rice like popcorn at the cinema. The peasants seats were surprisingly comfy, especially when compared to the ‘box’ seats. No, not VIP boxes raised above the stage fitted with a butler and complimentary refreshments but a roped off square at the base of the ring. With only a thin cushion for support and hours before the show is even over, it seemed more like torture. Cramp, numb legs, achy back, crumbs everywhere and the potential risk of phyiscal injury due to the highly likely event of falling sumo. Although you imagine the view would be much more impressive, the smell would take some getting used to.
What you don’t expect are the rituals. The repeated chants, the men (fully dressed) waving incense over the ring, the ranking of the different referees for the different fights and the pre-match cattle march. Giant men, in colourful sashes were paraded around the arena each one gaining a little more attention than the last. Their name and hometown bellowed over the speakers as they carefully make their way round the ring and into their allocated positions. From here they performed a ritualistic dance, most surprising though was how graceful they seemed. Every movement seemed intended, there’s a strange beauty to watching a scantily clad fat man prance gracefully around a sand covered, roped off ring.
That’s all before they even start. They’re not long lasting but the excitement at watching them is contagious. Old Japanese men, usually so quite and tranquil throw their arms into the air, yelling and shouting God knows what. First man to step outside the ring is the loser and by hook or crook they’ll do anything to not be the unlucky loser. You wouldn’t think a person could stand on their tiptoes with their spine arched back, teeter on the brink of losing and then manage to slam their impressive body back into the ring. It’s difficult not to get caught up in it.
Unlike its American cousin, Sumo wrestling compared to WWE wrestling is just better. All round better. No cheesy Mexican stand offs and no pre-decided winners. In Sumo, there’s a sense of honor and a sense of respect. And when you spend all day wrapped up in Tokyo’s LED infused world, it’s nice to sit back in comfy chairs and bask in the tradition. Especially the winners ceremony, were squating down and feet apart the tournament’s winner two steps his way back to full height ready to show his stick handling prowess. A ceremonial stick given only to the champion. Like a baton, it gets twirled and thrown and caught until they’re satisfied that everyone in the arena knows just how worthy they are.
Sumo wrestlers are about as Japanese as it gets. And they want it to stay that way. In a handy little English leaflet at the arena, it states that the Sumo Authority have a quota on foreginers because they don’t it to lose its authenticity. It makes sense though, imagine the stampede, albeit slow moving, if all over-weight Westeners heard they could make a killing just by eating lots of rice and taking part in a few minutes of wrestling a day. Anarchy.
Reluctant Wanderer 