sumo smackdown
yesterday was the last day of the september sumo grand tournament.
i'd gotten a ticket for myself at the arena a couple weeks ago and saw some of the rikishi (wrestlers) leaving through a side gate. they had their hair oiled and drawn into those stylized topknots, and they were all dressed in cotton yukata (summer kimono) and wooden sandals, clopping towards the train station across the street. i unzipped my little camera from my bag and approached one of them at a respectable distance and politely asked if i could snap a photo. the rikishi i'd chosen said gruffly, 'i don't have time,' and kept walking – which, for a japanese person who'll usually say something like, 'please pardon me for my excessive rudeness, but i'm afraid i don't have the time,' was like yelling, 'BUGGER OFF!' so i did.
it's too bad, because then i suddenly got too shy to ask the next five huge rikishi clacking by. these guys are not merely big, fat men of leisure who train for sumo by sitting around guzzling beer and consuming large slabs of well-marbled kobe beef. i'm not really sure what their training does involve, but it makes them very substantial underneath that layer of insulation. their quadriceps are enormous and awe-inspiring.
these grand tournaments happen in tokyo three times a year, and three other grand tournaments are held yearly in other japanese cities. when i got my ticket, i was looking forward to the experience, but not dying for the date to arrive. televised sumo matches from my formative years were accompanied by my mom's patient explanations about why they kept throwing salt all over the place, and why they lifted their prodigious legs and stomped on the ground a lot (these are both purification rituals, to rid the match of evil intent and to purify the ring). even though it all looked sort of silly to a little kid who's seeing rare naked butts on TV, my mom managed to impart a sense of the ritual and ceremony of it into my wee brain. anyway, as a kid it's fascinating to watch two near-naked Buddha-bellied men sometimes flipping each other onto the ground and always pushing each other around a small circle.
what i didn't remember or appreciate from these childhood TV viewings was the ritual in almost every aspect of the tournament. the start of a match is not like in modern-day sports where there's a tangible, recorded, specific nanosecond in time when all players involved have an outside signal to start. in sumo, it's totally collaborative... and psychological. the match starts only when both rikishi are ready. this means that there's a lot of energy building up to the moment when they put their fists on the ground, the moment that signals they're both prepared to go at it. there's an official four-minute limit on how long the rikishi are allowed to take to settle into the squat and put their fists down.
so after stepping onto the platform of the ring and squatting in separate corners to receive a wooden ladlefuls of water for cleansing the body and spirit, the rikishi stand facing the audience and do the first series of foot-stomping. first they stretch out one arm, palm facing upward in a motion that reminds me of male hula, and then slap their thigh with that hand and bring the leg up for a forceful stomp to rid the match of evil spirits. the gesture is then repeated with the other arm and leg, and after both wrestlers have done this from their corners, they each grab a handful of coarse salt and enter the ring.
the ring itself is a raised clay platform in the middle of an arena that isn't so huge that you miss anything from the nosebleed seats. over the ring hangs a wooden roof that's supposed to resemble the roofs of traditional buildings in which sumo matches took place in the olden days. from each corner of the roof hang braided tassels and pieces of cloth much like those dark blue, batiked ones you'll often see hung in doorways of japanese restaurants. the ring is marked out by a braided hemp or straw rope that's been embedded into the clay, and the surface is covered with a thin layer of sand. the rikishi can touch the inner edge of the ring, but once any part of one's body touches the outside of it, the other wins.
as the rikishi enter the ring, they scatter salt into it (as purification, but also, it seems, for style and possibly intimidation) and then squat at either end of it, stretching both their arms outward with palms facing upward to show they carry no weapons and that their intentions to have a fair fight are pure. then there's more stomping, and they approach two lines in the middle of the ring. usually there are several seconds of facing off before one or both get up again and go back to their corners to get more salt. when they come back, scattering the salt around in large, wide arcs and strutting slowly back to the lines, there are somewhat reflexive but also psychologically-intimidating (and maybe meaningful?) slaps of the belly, the thighs, sometimes both thighs at once. i couldn't help giggling to myself when they did that. i think maybe the ring was miked, because oh my, the sounds of those slaps did carry.
after a lot of posturing and fitting-and-starting, eventually both rikishi would squat down behind their lines and put their fists on the ground in front of them. after which all hell broke loose. once all fists were on the ground, usually they charged immediately, with all sorts of techniques: a barrage of loud slapping (to the face and body), or simultaneous head-butting against each other's chests, a momentous push out of the ring, grabbing flesh or mawashi (silk loincloth). some matches lasted a few seconds – much, much shorter than the ritual leading up to them – when one rikishi would just steamroll his opponent out of the ring straightaway. the more exciting matches lasted several minutes, with turnovers every few seconds when first one, and then the other guy almost got pushed out of the ring. the excitement is infectious, and the crowd would OHHHH! and AH! excitedly, and applaud and cheer for whoever won after a particularly good match.
everything about the matches was colorful: the salt-throwing; the box seats which are sections of the floors outfitted with wide, flat red cushions; the rikishi all standing in a circle on the ring in their heavy, embroidered aprons before their divisons' matches; the colorful mawashi; the sweepers who circle the ring during the matches and then who, during breaks, sweep the ring in pairs in half-circles so that there's a faint design on it afterwards. then at the end, after the favorite – the mongolian yokozuna (top-ranking champion) called asahoryu – was beaten by this tournament's champion kaio, people started flinging their seat cushions at the ring. no one was booing or anything, and it seemed more of a happy thing even though it was an upset. and then kaio was given a long, ceremonial bow for the closing ceremony. with the bow he did a ceremonial dance, which involved spinning it and doing more hula-style gesturing, stamping his feet some more, and afterwards: accepting the loot.
i had to leave in the middle of the prize-bestowing ceremony so i could get the deposit back on the radio i'd rented for commentary in english. but before i left, it was like watching a prince accepting birthday gifts from diplomats all over the world. there were gifts from such places as mexico, saudi arabia, france and bulgaria: gigantic gold trophies, three-foot-high crystal goblets, framed gilt plaques, what looked like a bale of hay or a giant tamale, huge and elaborately enameled chinese-style vases edged with gold, and when i went outside there was a white toyota convertible parked outside and roped off from the commoners.
if you managed to wade through all that, here's salt in your eye!
i'd gotten a ticket for myself at the arena a couple weeks ago and saw some of the rikishi (wrestlers) leaving through a side gate. they had their hair oiled and drawn into those stylized topknots, and they were all dressed in cotton yukata (summer kimono) and wooden sandals, clopping towards the train station across the street. i unzipped my little camera from my bag and approached one of them at a respectable distance and politely asked if i could snap a photo. the rikishi i'd chosen said gruffly, 'i don't have time,' and kept walking – which, for a japanese person who'll usually say something like, 'please pardon me for my excessive rudeness, but i'm afraid i don't have the time,' was like yelling, 'BUGGER OFF!' so i did.
it's too bad, because then i suddenly got too shy to ask the next five huge rikishi clacking by. these guys are not merely big, fat men of leisure who train for sumo by sitting around guzzling beer and consuming large slabs of well-marbled kobe beef. i'm not really sure what their training does involve, but it makes them very substantial underneath that layer of insulation. their quadriceps are enormous and awe-inspiring.
these grand tournaments happen in tokyo three times a year, and three other grand tournaments are held yearly in other japanese cities. when i got my ticket, i was looking forward to the experience, but not dying for the date to arrive. televised sumo matches from my formative years were accompanied by my mom's patient explanations about why they kept throwing salt all over the place, and why they lifted their prodigious legs and stomped on the ground a lot (these are both purification rituals, to rid the match of evil intent and to purify the ring). even though it all looked sort of silly to a little kid who's seeing rare naked butts on TV, my mom managed to impart a sense of the ritual and ceremony of it into my wee brain. anyway, as a kid it's fascinating to watch two near-naked Buddha-bellied men sometimes flipping each other onto the ground and always pushing each other around a small circle.
what i didn't remember or appreciate from these childhood TV viewings was the ritual in almost every aspect of the tournament. the start of a match is not like in modern-day sports where there's a tangible, recorded, specific nanosecond in time when all players involved have an outside signal to start. in sumo, it's totally collaborative... and psychological. the match starts only when both rikishi are ready. this means that there's a lot of energy building up to the moment when they put their fists on the ground, the moment that signals they're both prepared to go at it. there's an official four-minute limit on how long the rikishi are allowed to take to settle into the squat and put their fists down.
so after stepping onto the platform of the ring and squatting in separate corners to receive a wooden ladlefuls of water for cleansing the body and spirit, the rikishi stand facing the audience and do the first series of foot-stomping. first they stretch out one arm, palm facing upward in a motion that reminds me of male hula, and then slap their thigh with that hand and bring the leg up for a forceful stomp to rid the match of evil spirits. the gesture is then repeated with the other arm and leg, and after both wrestlers have done this from their corners, they each grab a handful of coarse salt and enter the ring.
the ring itself is a raised clay platform in the middle of an arena that isn't so huge that you miss anything from the nosebleed seats. over the ring hangs a wooden roof that's supposed to resemble the roofs of traditional buildings in which sumo matches took place in the olden days. from each corner of the roof hang braided tassels and pieces of cloth much like those dark blue, batiked ones you'll often see hung in doorways of japanese restaurants. the ring is marked out by a braided hemp or straw rope that's been embedded into the clay, and the surface is covered with a thin layer of sand. the rikishi can touch the inner edge of the ring, but once any part of one's body touches the outside of it, the other wins.
as the rikishi enter the ring, they scatter salt into it (as purification, but also, it seems, for style and possibly intimidation) and then squat at either end of it, stretching both their arms outward with palms facing upward to show they carry no weapons and that their intentions to have a fair fight are pure. then there's more stomping, and they approach two lines in the middle of the ring. usually there are several seconds of facing off before one or both get up again and go back to their corners to get more salt. when they come back, scattering the salt around in large, wide arcs and strutting slowly back to the lines, there are somewhat reflexive but also psychologically-intimidating (and maybe meaningful?) slaps of the belly, the thighs, sometimes both thighs at once. i couldn't help giggling to myself when they did that. i think maybe the ring was miked, because oh my, the sounds of those slaps did carry.
after a lot of posturing and fitting-and-starting, eventually both rikishi would squat down behind their lines and put their fists on the ground in front of them. after which all hell broke loose. once all fists were on the ground, usually they charged immediately, with all sorts of techniques: a barrage of loud slapping (to the face and body), or simultaneous head-butting against each other's chests, a momentous push out of the ring, grabbing flesh or mawashi (silk loincloth). some matches lasted a few seconds – much, much shorter than the ritual leading up to them – when one rikishi would just steamroll his opponent out of the ring straightaway. the more exciting matches lasted several minutes, with turnovers every few seconds when first one, and then the other guy almost got pushed out of the ring. the excitement is infectious, and the crowd would OHHHH! and AH! excitedly, and applaud and cheer for whoever won after a particularly good match.
everything about the matches was colorful: the salt-throwing; the box seats which are sections of the floors outfitted with wide, flat red cushions; the rikishi all standing in a circle on the ring in their heavy, embroidered aprons before their divisons' matches; the colorful mawashi; the sweepers who circle the ring during the matches and then who, during breaks, sweep the ring in pairs in half-circles so that there's a faint design on it afterwards. then at the end, after the favorite – the mongolian yokozuna (top-ranking champion) called asahoryu – was beaten by this tournament's champion kaio, people started flinging their seat cushions at the ring. no one was booing or anything, and it seemed more of a happy thing even though it was an upset. and then kaio was given a long, ceremonial bow for the closing ceremony. with the bow he did a ceremonial dance, which involved spinning it and doing more hula-style gesturing, stamping his feet some more, and afterwards: accepting the loot.
i had to leave in the middle of the prize-bestowing ceremony so i could get the deposit back on the radio i'd rented for commentary in english. but before i left, it was like watching a prince accepting birthday gifts from diplomats all over the world. there were gifts from such places as mexico, saudi arabia, france and bulgaria: gigantic gold trophies, three-foot-high crystal goblets, framed gilt plaques, what looked like a bale of hay or a giant tamale, huge and elaborately enameled chinese-style vases edged with gold, and when i went outside there was a white toyota convertible parked outside and roped off from the commoners.
if you managed to wade through all that, here's salt in your eye!
posted by a wandering eye at 12:07 AM
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