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Authors: Gail Tsukiyama
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his spare time Hiroshi studied moves and techniques, read sumo magazines with a gradual yearning to become a
sumotori
. The growing ambition was as subtle as swallowing. One day it was just a part of who he was.
Before Masuda-san, it was his
ojiichan
who introduced him to sumo. “It’s not about fighting,” he stressed to Hiroshi from the time he was a boy. “It’s about using your strength.” His grandfather was an ardent fan who followed the histories and rankings of wrestlers as if they were family relations. He sucked on his pipe and embellished his stories with obscure sumo statistics and fragments of information—the one hundred bottles of beer a sumo supposedly drank at a sitting, the sumo who won despite having only four fingers on one hand and three on the other, and the
sumotori
who stretched his body from head to toe for months, so he could make the minimum height requirement of five feet six inches. Though the boys laughed at the last piece of information, Hiroshi was also thankful he was already two inches over the height requirement. But always in his
ojiichan’s
mind, the greatest
rikishi
of all time was Yokozuna Futabayama from Tatsunami-beya. In 1936, at the age of twenty-four, he began a three-year winningstreak of sixty-nine consecutive sumo match wins, more than any other wrestler.
Amid the ongoing war news, the rationing of rice and miso, and the formation of
tonarigumi
, or neighborhood associations, comprised of five to ten households established to watch over each other, it was Futabayama’s continuous presence in sumo that kept the nation enthralled. Hiroshi marveled when the announcer described Futabayama’s strength as having the force of a train when he slammed into his opponent, ramming him completely out of the ring before he could regain his balance. He remembered his grandfather’s story about two wrestlers fighting in place of the hundreds of thousands who might fall for their country.
“Hiroshi!” Masuda-san called out to him after practice.
“Hai
, sensei.
”
He bowed, and hurried across the room to his coach and the other man, who had eyed him all during practice.
Hiroshi bowed low to his coach.
“This is Tanaka-san. He is the esteemed
oyakata
from the Katsuyama-beya and he would like to meet with you and your grandparents.”
Hiroshi bowed low to Tanaka-san and felt his heart racing. The
oyakata
had a reputation as a skilled stable master, and not just of any sumo stable. If he remembered correctly, the Katsuyama-beya in northeastern Tokyo had produced another champion, Kitoyama, and a host of other wrestlers in the top ranks of the Makuuchi Division, which included the five upper ranks of sumo. Tanaka recruited boys and trained them to become champion sumo wrestlers, guiding them up through each stage—
maegashira, komusubi, sekiwake, ozeki
, to the top rank of
yokozuna
. Even in all Hiroshi’s nervousness, he couldn’t help but ask, “The Katsuyama-beya of Yokozuna Kitoyama?”
Tanaka-san laughed loudly. “Yes, that Katsuyama-beya, but don’t expect to see much of Kitoyama-sama as an apprentice. You’ll only wish for sleep the first few years.”
“More than a few years.” Masuda-san laughed.
Hiroshi could hardly believe what he was hearing. The Katsuyama-beya, one of the most prestigious sumo stables, wanted him to join as an apprentice. It meant years of hardship and training, but it was the first step in becoming a
sumotori
. He glanced up at the faces of the two men, waiting for them to tell him that it was all a joke.
“Go home, Hiroshi, and tell your grandparents Tanaka-san and I wish to speak with them about your future, tomorrow after practice.”
He bowed low to both men, but his mouth was so dry he could make no reply.
As Hiroshi hurried home from practice, the morning air felt terribly thin and cold; the December sky was blue and cloudless. The fog that had hovered for the past few days had lifted, leaving Yanaka sharp and focused, the
sumotori
. The growing ambition was as subtle as swallowing. One day it was just a part of who he was.
Before Masuda-san, it was his
ojiichan
who introduced him to sumo. “It’s not about fighting,” he stressed to Hiroshi from the time he was a boy. “It’s about using your strength.” His grandfather was an ardent fan who followed the histories and rankings of wrestlers as if they were family relations. He sucked on his pipe and embellished his stories with obscure sumo statistics and fragments of information—the one hundred bottles of beer a sumo supposedly drank at a sitting, the sumo who won despite having only four fingers on one hand and three on the other, and the
sumotori
who stretched his body from head to toe for months, so he could make the minimum height requirement of five feet six inches. Though the boys laughed at the last piece of information, Hiroshi was also thankful he was already two inches over the height requirement. But always in his
ojiichan’s
mind, the greatest
rikishi
of all time was Yokozuna Futabayama from Tatsunami-beya. In 1936, at the age of twenty-four, he began a three-year winningstreak of sixty-nine consecutive sumo match wins, more than any other wrestler.
Amid the ongoing war news, the rationing of rice and miso, and the formation of
tonarigumi
, or neighborhood associations, comprised of five to ten households established to watch over each other, it was Futabayama’s continuous presence in sumo that kept the nation enthralled. Hiroshi marveled when the announcer described Futabayama’s strength as having the force of a train when he slammed into his opponent, ramming him completely out of the ring before he could regain his balance. He remembered his grandfather’s story about two wrestlers fighting in place of the hundreds of thousands who might fall for their country.
“Hiroshi!” Masuda-san called out to him after practice.
“Hai
, sensei.
”
He bowed, and hurried across the room to his coach and the other man, who had eyed him all during practice.
Hiroshi bowed low to his coach.
“This is Tanaka-san. He is the esteemed
oyakata
from the Katsuyama-beya and he would like to meet with you and your grandparents.”
Hiroshi bowed low to Tanaka-san and felt his heart racing. The
oyakata
had a reputation as a skilled stable master, and not just of any sumo stable. If he remembered correctly, the Katsuyama-beya in northeastern Tokyo had produced another champion, Kitoyama, and a host of other wrestlers in the top ranks of the Makuuchi Division, which included the five upper ranks of sumo. Tanaka recruited boys and trained them to become champion sumo wrestlers, guiding them up through each stage—
maegashira, komusubi, sekiwake, ozeki
, to the top rank of
yokozuna
. Even in all Hiroshi’s nervousness, he couldn’t help but ask, “The Katsuyama-beya of Yokozuna Kitoyama?”
Tanaka-san laughed loudly. “Yes, that Katsuyama-beya, but don’t expect to see much of Kitoyama-sama as an apprentice. You’ll only wish for sleep the first few years.”
“More than a few years.” Masuda-san laughed.
Hiroshi could hardly believe what he was hearing. The Katsuyama-beya, one of the most prestigious sumo stables, wanted him to join as an apprentice. It meant years of hardship and training, but it was the first step in becoming a
sumotori
. He glanced up at the faces of the two men, waiting for them to tell him that it was all a joke.
“Go home, Hiroshi, and tell your grandparents Tanaka-san and I wish to speak with them about your future, tomorrow after practice.”
He bowed low to both men, but his mouth was so dry he could make no reply.
As Hiroshi hurried home from practice, the morning air felt terribly thin and cold; the December sky was blue and cloudless. The fog that had hovered for the past few days had lifted, leaving Yanaka sharp and focused, the
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