One of the sumotori, a Yokozuna named Takanohana, was in the ring performing the traditional dohyo-iri. Rising from his squat, he clapped his hands; then, with a hand behind his knee, hoisted a massive leg high above his head. His foot stamped down on the clay surface with a resounding thump. Instead of responding to the demonstration of the Yokozuna’s uncanny balance with the customary shout of “Yoisho!” the audience answered each heavy stomp with a boisterous “Aiiight!” Under the searing New York City sun Oyakata Kinboshi reddened.
Ms. Nomura, how come they raising their arm to the side like that?”
“To show that they aren’t carrying any weapons.”
“Fair fight — I likes that.”
The ancient sport immediately appealed to Winston. Never had he been in the presence of so many men his size. And in the world of sumo, he was on the small end of the scale, as most of the rikishi outweighed him by fifty to eighty pounds.
“Look at them two motherfuckers, they huge!”
“That’s Akebono and Musashimaru,” Inez said, referring to the two largest rikishi, each of whom stood well over six feet tall and weighed over four hundred and fifty pounds.
“They black?” asked Winston, puzzled by the wrestlers’ swarthy skins and wavy hair tied into oily topknots.
“No, I think they’re both from Hawaii.”
“Hawaiians always looked kind of black to me. Big noses, grass skirts, and shit. They seem real African but more laid back.”
Two lower-ranked rikishi prepared to enter the ring. Each man stoically tossed a purifying fleck of salt onto the dohyo, before determinedly stepping into the circle of inlaid straw and assuming their starting positions. Crouched down in football-like four-point stance, the half-naked titans, without any visible signal from the formally dressed referee, fired into one another. The sound of a slab of meat landing on a butcher’s cutting board echoed throughout the park. The crowd, momentarily stunned by the ferocity, suddenly burst out in cheers, wildly applauding when one wrestler dumped the other unceremoniously out of the ring with a deftly executed leg trip. “Takanishiki, sotogake no kachi!” said the ring announcer.
Tuffy sat back in his seat, deeply impressed by what he’d just witnessed. “Man, I likes this. May the best and biggest motherfucker win. These niggers ain’t just fat. Look at the leg muscles. The goddamn pecs. These boys is yoked. It ain’t a whole lot blubber just jiggling around like I thought it’d be. Ms. Nomura, why you never told me you like this stuff?”
“It’s embarrassing. So old-fashioned. So feudal. You know how you get crazy whenever somebody mentions slavery? ‘Why you have to bring that up? That was in the past.’ Sumo makes me feel that way. Makes my insides itchy, but sometimes when nobody’s around I scratch the itch and watch it on NHK.”
Normally, Winston didn’t have much use for sports or the mob mentality of the sports fan. He found the events repetitive, pointless, and armchair analysis of the contests even more so. It didn’t take long for the residents of his block to learn not to approach him after one of his frequent street fights saying, “Tuffy, you kicked that fool’s ass, but when you had him in that headlock what you should’ve did was …,” because the speaker would find himself on the ground, holding a dislocated jaw in place, in too much pain to beg for mercy. Winston triumphantly straddled over his victim, taunting him like Diomedes sans spear and armor. “What you should’ve done is kept your fuckin’ mouth shut.” But sumo wrestling tugged at his corpulent pride. He soon found himself choosing a wrestler at the introduction for some indiscriminate reason — unusual sideburns, a gangster smirk, an especially serene countenance — then unabashedly urging him on until the bout’s all-too-quick conclusion. Sometimes his allegiances changed mid-bout, touched by a smaller man’s cunning and quickness overcoming the stronger, larger man’s plodding orthodoxy. By bringing his street-fighter mentality to the matches, it was simple for him to figure out the rules. First man out of the ring or to touch the ground with something other than the soles of his feet loses. If Winston saw an opening in a wrestler’s defense that wasn’t exploited using the vicious tactic he’d employ under similar circumstances, then he knew his way was illegal. “Man, all the shit I’d do is outlawed. Because if that motherfucker grabbed me like that I’d kick him in the nuts, punch him in the face, yank on his ponytail, choke him with one hand, and gouge out his eyeballs with the other.”
As the yobidashi introduced the fighters before each match, Winston strained to make out what sounded like a proper name among the slurring Japanese. “Takanohana? That’s that nigger’s name, Ms. Nomura?”
“It means Noble Flower.”
“Wakanohana?”
“Flower of Youth.”
“Musoyama?”
“Two Battling Mountains.”
“Akebono?”
“Rising Dawn.”
“Takatoriki?”
“Noble Fighting Sword.”
“Mainoumi?”
“Dancing Sea.”
“Kitakachidoki?”
“Northern Victory War Cry.”
Just as Inez translated Kitakachidoki’s name, the pint-sized Mainoumi picked him up and slammed him down onto the mat. Kitakachidoki hobbled out of the ring in pain, the fall having wrenched his knee. Fariq, gesturing to the limping fighter, suggested, “That man need to change his name to East Harlem I Just Got My Ass Kicked and Blew Out My Knee and I Can’t Stop Crying.”
Oyakata Kinboshi watched his son-in-law Kotozuma amble onto the dohyo. Currently ranked at Maegashira 6, the former Seiwake was in free fall, tumbling down the ranks since his arranged marriage to Kinboshi’s daughter. His weak taichi-ai and lack of fighting spirit were becoming an embarrassment to the entire Satogatake stable. Kinboshi thought he needed a kick in the ass. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he stared at Kotozuma’s opponent, Tochinaru, who, seated cross-legged on the east side of the ring, was slow to get up. When Tochinaru caught his eye, Kinboshi made a slashing motion past his throat with his finger, the signal for a wrestler to throw a bout. Confused, Tochi furrowed his brow, since these were exhibition matches and nothing was at stake other than pride. The Oyakata shook his wrist and Tochi’s face cleared with comprehension. Slowly rising from his seat, he bowed to the referee, reporting that he would be unable to fight due to injury. He bowed again and walked back to the mobile dressing rooms, shaking his wrist. The referee scurried toward Kinboshi, nodding his head as the Oyakata whispered in his ear, then dashed over to the ring announcer. The ring announcer, very plainly dressed in a black coat and gray Japanese knickers, walked to the center of the dohyo and raised his hand for quiet. “As a show of goodwill between America and Japan and Spanish Harlem, Kotozuma is willing to fight a challenger from the audience. Are there any takers?” Fuming, Kotozuma kicked up a cloud of clay dust. He wanted to leave, but knowing the fine would be at least a hundred thousand yen, he held his ground and spit on the dohyo. He’d pay the thirty-thousand-yen expectorate penalty.