Category Archives: Sumo

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Ralph’s Zabuton

Some years ago, at my brother-in-law’s wedding, I was informed that the father of the bride was a sumo fan, and so I sought out Ralph Tsuha at the reception and we had a wonderful conversation about the sport and our favorite rikishi. Ralph was a gentleman, and a gentle man; small in stature, he had a twinkle in his eye and was wonderful company. Some time later, a sumo seat cushion, a zabuton, arrived in the mail from Okinawa, certainly one of the most unusual, unexpected and wonderful gifts I had ever received.

Sumo seat cushions are given to those in the good seats, for comfort, and are occasionally put into service in another role: After a particularly good match, they are thrown into the air to express the crowd’s approval and excitement. After a bad match, they may be thrown into the ring to express the opposite.

Ralph’s zabuton came with a translation, for which I was grateful. The top line was from the sponsor: “Okinawa Coca-Cola Bottling Co.” The four center symbols, clockwise from the top right were “Ozeki” (champion), “Kirishima,” “Akebono,” “Konishiki,” i.e. the rank and names of the three top stars of the day’s basho. The two bottom lines noted that this tournament, in 1992, was the 20th in Okinawa.

Ralph died earlier this week, and I was reminded of the brief time we spent together. From our conversation alone, I would never have guessed at the extraordinary courage of this man. Born in Hawaii in 1924 to Japanese parents, he entered the U.S. Army in 1944 as an interpreter and was attached to the 6th Marine division. On April 2, 1945, he waded across 100 yards of sea water onto the beach at Yomitan San, Okinawa, his parents’ homeland. With characteristic modesty, Ralph noted in his service record that his job was to “help the rebuilding of Okinawa.”

What he did not write down is that one of his first jobs was to enter caves where people had taken refuge, and persuade them, using only his parents’ native tongue and his own sincerity, not to resist or take their own lives, but to come out, where they would be treated well. Surely he never knew who or what reception awaited him when he walked into the caves, but he went, and doubtless saved many lives by doing so.

His decorations included the Asiatic Pacific Theater Ribbon with one Bronze Star, the WWII Victory Medal, the Good Conduct Medal, the Japanese Occupation (Okinawa) Medal, and the Army Presidential Unit Citation to the Military Intelligence Service for extraordinary heroism against an armed enemy, 1 May 1942 to 2 September 1945. I remember his love and pride in his family, his love of sumo, his kindness, and his quiet but extraordinary courage. My life is the richer for having known him.

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Soul

Kiyokuni and Kashiwado at the moment of impact, photographed by Otani Koukichi in his book, Sumo (1965). In the preface, translated by Masuo Yamaguchi, the author and photographer notes:

“My camera is a Nikon F. The lenses I use are F4 x 200 mm, F 2.5 x 80 mm, and F 2.5 x 105 mm. These lenses are sterilized with an infrared lamp and fatty substances on them are removed. In the old days the sword was considered as the soul of a warrior and was kept sharp and brilliant. Now the camera is the soul of the cameraman.”

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Mitoizumi, The Salt Shaker

One of my favorites in sumo was Mitoizumi, who for his version of the salt-tossing ritual was known to his fans as The Salt Shaker. I was reminded of his style recently while reading David Benjamin’s deliciously irreverent Sumo: A Thinking Fan’s Guide to Japan’s National Sport.

“No discussion of salt-pitching, however, is adequate without a description of Mitoizumi’s routine. It was from his salt-pitching extravagance that he earned our affectionate nickname, ‘The Asshole.’ In all but his final pitch, Mitoizumi’s delivery was less than desultory. He picked up barely a pinch of salt, then flipped it carelessly aside, with no wrist-English.

“All this diffidence was — as everyone in the arena knew — a tease. Mitoizumi came out for his final pitch like Evel Knievel hitting the wall of fire. He would typically empty the entire saltbox into his paw, spin toward the dohyo, swing back his pitching arm and launch the whole four-pound handful, ten meters into the air, in a slo-pitch softball underhand that created a cloudburst of salt that seasoned spectators as far as five deep in the box seats.

“Mitoizumi’s act trampled every standard of athletic forbearance and daily rankled the Sumo Association. He received, in return, a joyful round of oohs, ahs, and giggles from the middle-aged ladies in the audience, very few of whom have ever had an orgasm or seen Wayne Newton Live.”

Benjamin’s book, which I would rank up with The Downhill Lie, Carl Hiaasen’s great take on golf, is available at Amazon.com.

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I’m a Steamroller, Baby

Kushimaumi Keita is ready to rumble in this sumo card from 1998, #82 in the BBM (Baseball Magazine) series for that year, and for some reason, I find this image the most daunting of that set. He went 12-3 in that basho, and I think you can see why. The three who won, they must have found a way to get out of the way.

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Quickness

Sumo, David Benjamin’s revised and updated version of his Joy of Sumo, is as irreverent and delicious a read as was the original. I share an early passage from a chapter in which he is discussing the four basic sumo body types — Jocks, Hippos, Butterballs, and Cabdrivers:

“Nobody would ever beat Hippos if they could get out of their own way. The TV commentators regularly gush about Hippos being ‘quick’ for their size — a questionable assertion when you realize that no one has really put together a sample group of 500-pound people to find out how quick they are… With Hippos, quickness is the issue, because it’s what they ain’t got. Yamamotoyama, for instance, in terms of sheer mass, is four people, and he’s only got two legs. Try getting four people to move together in a hurry and you have a sense of your average Hippo’s mobility. There are escalators that are shiftier.”