Why sumo wrestling beats daytime soap operas

Going for a Sumo match is more entertaining than watching daytime soap opera. It goes on a loop all day, starting at breakfast and ending before dinner. You can join the fun whenever it suits you (straight after school drop off or after you call in sick to work). It has quick plot lines, and unquestioned hierarchy, diehard fans, age-old rituals, cruel punishment and big weird hairdos. It’s communal — you can talk over it and take pee breaks without missing a thing.

The cherry, of course, is men in thongs! Big, huge men in thongs. Not sexy, but the Japanese women can’t get enough. My companion confesses to love at first sight with Sumo champion Kotoshougiku. It was a few years ago, she had ring side seats, and as she looked up at this hulk of a man, scared and excited that he might fall out of the mud ring (Dohyo) and on her, she was reminded of her Shih Tzu dog... If you know how the Japanese love their dogs, then you’ll understand. It was love alright.

Sumo was mainly for old people and businessmen but with clever marketing and promotions, like Kimono day for women, it has become so popular that almost all matches go house-full. The atmosphere is electric. You sit on the floor in Japanese style boxes, obviously without shoes (really helped that I was wearing gladiator boots that buckle all the way to the thigh).

The boxes are enclosed by low railings and have four cushions for four pint-sized people. We were only two petite girls and it felt tight, I kept spilling my beer all over my dorayaki (red bean pancake).

But when I looked over to my side, four large men were sitting comfortably in an identical space. One had a full tea tray, the other a tall glass of highball and chips, the third an elaborate bento box and the fourth was eating his noodles while cheering madly. I swear, their enclosure looked at least seven times the size of ours. I marvel at the Japanese containment of their body parts in any space.

This traditional Japanese sport, meant to entertain Shinto deities, is now overrun by Gaijins (foreigners). At present, all the ruling grand champions, called Yokozuna, are Mongolians. The Japanese have understandably mixed emotions — they love its popularity but hate that they no longer rule it. Imagine Californians and Egyptians playing and winning kabaddi. As a foreigner, I was oddly amused watching huge Caucasian men sporting sacred ponytails that were blonde or ginger!

Curses and cushions were flung onto the ring if a Japanese lost against a Gaijin. The cushions seldom made it to the ring, often clipping a novice spectator, who wasn't told to duck. Sumo felt liberating. It was loud, fun, yet so Japanese. And I was in the thick of it — drinking beer in the middle of the day for no good reason, screaming names of wrestlers that I had just learned and flinging cushions with no apology. For once, no Japanese gave me that subtle but stinging look that I’ve come to expect each time I break code.

The rules are simple — whoever touches the ground with anything except the soles of their feet or, whoever steps out of the Dohyo loses. There are no weight categories, so the fatter you are, the more chances you have to win. The Sumo diet in a nutshell - eat high carbs and rich fatty food till you throw up. The bout itself rarely lasts 15 seconds, but there is much ceremony involved. The wrestlers walk in wearing embroidered loin cloths surrounded by lower ranked sumo minions from their house. They strut, stomp, stretch and throw salt to purify the Dohyo. Once ready they slap on a wet towel, the crowd gives a final cheer, the opponents face each other, squat, stare and the battle begins.

The referee is immaculately dressed and stands out as a diminutive man, who traditionally has to kill himself with a small sword should he make a wrong decision. The wrestlers shove and push, grabbing the belt of the thongs, hoping to trip the other one. There are also a few girlish smacks and slaps involved. They can touch any part of their opponent's body except the hair. The hair is sacrosanct. The hairstyle itself is achieved after hours spent in a dressing room with a sumo minion piling on the oil.

There is scandal too. Corruption in bidding, match fixing allegations, Yakuza involvement and torture in training. A stable-master was even famously imprisoned for the death of a 17-yearold trainee who he tied to a tree and had beaten for being vague about his commitment. IIN THE TWO hours I was there many a Gaijin won, many a cushion was flung and three matches even lasted 30 seconds — forever in the Sumo world.

When a match lasts that long it’s thrilling, but nothing happens. They grab each other’s thongs and wait. When you weigh 180 kilos and push against an equal force, just staying still is exhausting. Everything goes quiet, the Sumos start sweating, and the audience holds their breath. Then suddenly a move works, someone falls and the match is over.

In all this excitement, I get out of my box, put on my never-ending gladiators and move closer to the Dohyo to click a picture. A poker faced Japanese guard crosses her hands and says “Dame!”. I shake my head pretending I don’t understand a word I know by heart. She is unrelenting and repeats in English — “Stop.” “But I just want to take one...” “Stop!” “But I...” “STOP!” And there it is — I’m back in my Gaijin body breaking code.

(Courtesy: Mail Today)

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