So mad was Kotozuma that he didn’t hear the raucousness in the stands as a few hundred of Winston’s neighbors yelled his name and fifteen friends and family members pushed and pulled him out of the bleachers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a challenger.” As some attendants escorted Winston to the dressing room, Inez stood up and shouted, “Gambate!” Without looking back, Winston punched the air with a fist.
“‘Gambate,’ you always sayin’ that. What’s it mean, Ms. Nomura?” asked Armello.
“It means ‘hang in that shit.’ ”
After a few minutes, Winston emerged from the dressing room. A sparkling white mawashi snaked around his body like a disheartened boa constrictor unsure of how to handle a victim whose girth was akin to that of a Parthenon column. The thick satin belt wound snugly around Winston’s waist, hoisting his paunch almost to his nipples, cleaving his buttocks, and firmly knotting itself behind his back. Winston strode toward the dohyo, his broad back and massive haunches lotioned to a shiny obsidian black. To his surprise no one in the crowd mocked him with diaper jokes or commented on how his thighs rubbed together. His boys trailed him like wizened corner men, clapping his back and massaging his shoulders as he climbed up the straw-bale steps dug into the side of the ring. Charles, looking across at the imposing Kotozuma, grabbed the nape of his friend’s neck and said, “Be careful, Tuff, this one look like he know karate.”
“But he don’t know me.”
Before Winston stepped into the circle, the translator approached him with a deep bow. He told Winston he must perform the ritual movements and to simply copy whatever Kotozuma did. He also assured him that he would be perfectly safe from harm; since this was a demonstration bout, the professional rikishi would take it easy on him.
The clay surface of the dohyo was warm and dry. On reflex Winston, with his big toe, scratched “Tuffy 109” into the light brown powder just outside the rim of the circle. The announcer’s voice boomed from the PA speakers, “Ko-o-o-to-o-zu-maaa!” Upon hearing his name, Kotozuma stalked into the ring, sprinkling a dash of salt on the dohyo and beating on the side of his mawashi with the heels of his hands. After a beat, a slightly garbled but deafening “Kuuu-rooo-ya-maaaa!” echoed throughout the park. The noble-sounding temporary shikona and the crowd’s cheers caused Winston’s left eyelid to twitch with nervousness. One long stride, a pinch of salt, and he was inside the ring of straw. The ring, about twenty feet in diameter, looked bigger than it did from the bleachers. Winston’s thoughts flashed to Musashi and the monk, but it was hardly time to contemplate oneness with the universe. Judging by Kotozuma’s glower, someone had forgotten to tell him that this was an exhibition bout. Facing each other, the two men squatted, clapped their hands, then swung their out-stretched arms to their sides, turning their palms to the sky. The wrestlers stood up, and the limber Kotozuma slowly raised one foot above his shoulder, then the other. Trying to balance on one foot was somewhat more difficult for Winston, but he gamely locked his knees and raised his legs till his thighs burned, doing his best to keep his planted foot from twisting and his body from wobbling. Kinboshi stared at Winston’s broad feet. “Like snowshoes,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “He’ll be all right.”
Smirking, Kotozuma exited the ring and reentered flinging one last offering of salt. Kotozuma’s cockiness relaxed Winston. Ain’t nothing but a fight. A little Friday-night scrap between men. Except that it’s Saturday afternoon and I’m butt-ass naked. He gazed into the stands; Yolanda was holding Jordy high overhead, Inez was staring at Kinboshi, and Spencer was furiously taking notes. At the foot of the ring Fariq, Whitey, and Armello were giving him a thumbs-up. Winston scooped up a handful of salt and tossed it high into the air. It fell to earth like a fountain of dying firework embers. He stormed into the ring ready to do battle. The crowd stood and roared its approval. “Wax that ass, Tuff!”
“Don’t start none, won’t be none!”
“Uptown!”
Winston and Kotozuma settled into the hunkered starting position, one hand on the ground, butt cheeks touching the backs of their calves. Kotozuma’s puffy face was less than two feet away. Goddamn, this motherfucker big, Winston thought. He so fat I can barely see his eyes. Eyebrows touching his cheeks and shit. Eyes look like apostrophes. I know this nigger don’t wear contacts. As they slowly raised their haunches, Winston blew Kotozuma a kiss and watched his opponent’s ears turn red. At a silent signal privy only to the two wrestlers, their left hands dropped to the ground and they launched into each other with a crushing impact force that might have been Enrico Fermi’s inspiration for nuclear fission. Winston’s lungs emptied like two fireplace bellows, and a shoving Kotozuma slid him toward the edge of the ring. Winston marveled at the hardness of his opponent’s stomach; it was as if a layer of rubbery skin had been stitched over a giant tortoise shell. Strangely, Kotozuma’s warm, clammy skin had a familiar feel to it; where had he felt it before? Splaying his toes and digging his heels into the ground, Tuffy stopped his backward progress. The beluga whale at the Brooklyn aquarium — this nigger feels just like that dirty white whale! Deciding to take the offensive, he locked in Kotozuma’s extended arms at the elbows, which forced him to straighten and negated his leverage. Winston marched him back to the center of the circle. Using his right hand he grabbed Kotozuma’s belt with an underhanded grip. With his left he vainly reached out for a grappling point as Kotozuma swiveled his hips, keeping that side of the mawashi just out of reach. With a sudden burst of speed and strength, Kotozuma freed himself and slapped Winston across his jowls so hard his vision doubled. If Kotozuma had done anything else — twisted Winston’s arm behind his neck and thrown him to the ground with a perfectly executed kubi-nage, or grabbed his wrist and kicked his inner ankle — Winston would have succumbed. But in the streets to be slapped in front of anyone who even remotely knows you is the ultimate insult. Mothers slap children, wives slap husbands, pimps slap hos, but nobody slaps Winston, and before Kotozuma could release a follow-up smack, Winston blasted him with a “What, motherfucker?” two-handed push to the chest that sent the rikishi reeling backward. Just as Kotozuma was about to regain his balance, Winston blasted him out of the ring with a well-placed shoulder tackle and belly bump. Kotozuma landed in a clump at his Oyakata’s feet. Unassisted, his jostled topknot resting over one eye, Kotozuma clambered back into the ring and squatted down. Winston did the same, returning Kotozuma’s slight bow. “Kuu-roo-ya-maa no kaa-a-chiii!”
After the day’s festivities were over and Winston had changed back into his street clothes, Kinboshi and a few of the wrestlers went over to congratulate him. The wrestlers greeted him with firm soul shakes, the two Hawaiians accompaning their grips with American street slang. “Yo, my man, you rocked Homeboy.”
“Thanks, yo.”
When the backslapping was over, the Oyakata began speaking and everyone stopped talking. Without prompting, the interpreter translated. “They tell me your name is Winston Foshay. I’m Oyakata Kinboshi, I trained the fighter you beat. They announced you won by yori-kiri, frontal force-out, but it was really yori-taoshi, frontal crush-out, a more powerful technique. Your style is unorthodox but effective.”