SUMOTORI
A 21ST CENTURY SAMURAI THRILLER
G P Hutchinson
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller
By G P Hutchinson
Copyright © 2014 The Hutchinson Group LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number 2013915411
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
ISBN-13: 9781492142133
ISBN: 1492142131
ASIN B00E256U30
To my wife, Carolyn, for sharing the great adventure.
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller
By GP Hutchinson
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
Life as Tatsuyama had known it ended that Tuesday night. It happened at dinner.
He stole a quick, sideward glance at Naoko. She was fidgeting with her pearl necklace. Her eyes momentarily met his.
Come on, control your temper, he told himself. Same as in the ring. No emotion.
NHK TV’s Endo Ichiro was seated directly across the low table. He set down his sake bowl. “Every year, the percentage of Japanese households following the grand sumo tournaments on TV drops lower and lower.” His voice was smooth, but intense, fitting for someone in the television industry.
No mystery why Endo’s here. He could go on the air, announce that turtles fly, and have half of Japan agreeing with him by tomorrow night.
“I’m keenly aware of the problem, sirs,” Tatsuyama said.
Ota, the so-called corporate sponsor, jumped back in. “But what you’ve been oblivious to until now, Tatsuyama, is the plain solution to the problem. And that’s why we invited you here tonight.”
“So, gentlemen, let me see if I understand what you’re saying.” Tatsuyama placed both hands on the table and leaned toward his hosts. “Through all of Japan’s past economic downturns, through all the wars, through all the natural disasters, sumo has survived. But this time, sumo is destined to die out…This economy is so bad that sumo can’t survive it. Am I hearing you correctly?”
The trio of executives stared at him silently.
“And in the thirteen-hundred-year history of sumo, this generation of young people is the first to be beyond reach, at least as far as finding a renewed interest in Japan’s national sport. And the reason for it all is basically…money?”
“Tatsuyama, do you know what will rekindle Japan’s passion for sumo?” The many wrinkles of Ota’s face deepened as he raised his eyebrows.
The grand champion moved his hands from the table to his knees and sat back. “With all due respect, Ota-san, please enlighten me.”
“Make it so that every adult in Japan can have a stake in sumo.”
Caution lights went off in Tatsuyama’s mind. For the first time in the evening, he let himself frown. Naoko found his hand and squeezed gently.
Tatsuyama said, “I’ve heard the arguments for making sumo a betting sport. Is that what you’re going to suggest?”
“It’s done with other sports all over the world—”
“And wherever betting moves in, it’s always run by organized crime.”
“We know legitimate businessmen who have the ability to maintain tight control over the whole system. It’ll generate income that can be used to attract Japanese youth back into the sport.”
“It’s been tried before. Multiple times. By yakuza.”
Inoue, from the Ministry of Education, Culture, and Sports, turned to his associates and then back to Tatsuyama. His eyes were dark and piercing. “So, yokozuna, are you telling us you won’t participate when betting comes to sumo?”
I don’t understand this one, he thought. His government ministry was perfectly positioned to support sumo as a cultural heritage. “Inouesan, there are better ways—”
“Answer my question, Tatsuyama. Are you stating that you won’t participate when betting comes to sumo?”
He was swimming with sharks. It wasn’t his first time in the tank. He knew, as a rule, it’s best not to splash around a lot when swimming with sharks. Better to stay calm and still. But they were bumping him. Checking to determine what he was. Let me give this government ministry shark a stiff poke in the nose.
Tatsuyama fixed his gaze on Inoue’s cold eyes. “Betting already has come to sumo. Two years ago, the government you work for closed down entire stables because of it.”
Ota deflected the charge before Inoue could respond. “That’s because it wasn’t run properly.”
He wanted to pound the table. He gritted his teeth. Control yourself, Tatsuyama. “It’s because organized crime gets involved, and when they get involved, the purity of the sport is lost. Somebody with power always begins to demand that some sumotori has to throw a match.” And I won’t do that!
“That won’t happen.” Ota held both palms up.
“How can you promise that?”
“Because we know the man, the organization that can keep that from happening.”
A fast-action slideshow of faces flicked through Tatsuyama’s mind. Who was Ota talking about? Over the years he had met, read of, and heard about so many men who wanted to channel sumo for their own personal ends.
Naoko. In the middle of it all, he was somehow, suddenly, conscious again of her presence. He was drawn to glance at her. Lovely in her red silk dress. What a contrast. Her world didn’t include the crooks Ota was talking about. What a breath of unpolluted air in a room grown foul like dung.
At last Tatsuyama responded. “Whoever you’re talking about, sooner or later he will demand that sumotori lose on purpose. He’ll want that kind o
f control over the sport…and in the sumo you’re describing, he’ll get it.”
Ota looked to his associates. Inoue reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Endo adjusted his designer eyeglasses and rested an elbow on the table. Ota spoke for the three.
“So one last time, Tatsuyama, are you telling us that when betting comes to sumo, you won’t work with those who run it—not even for the survival of the sport?”
“Betting would spell the death of sumo as a pure and noble part of Japanese culture. I won’t help you or anyone else bring betting to the sport. That’s final.”
The room went silent. Two kimono-clad waitresses who had been prepared to carry in the first course of a gourmet meal peered warily from behind a partially open, sliding shoji panel.
Tatsuyama stood. He offered Naoko his hand. She took it and rose. She was pale.
Inoue, Endo, and Ota remained seated.
Ota poured sake from a decanter, first for Endo, then for Inoue. “I think I’ll start betting on sumo sooner than I had expected to. In fact, I think I’ll place my first bet tonight.” He looked up at Tatsuyama. “I’m betting you’ll find yourself retired from sumo far sooner than you may have anticipated.” He paused. “Oyasumi nasai, Tatsuyama-san.” [Good night, Tatsuyama.]
The champion stared in silence, memorizing each of the three faces. Self-serving pimps! He pivoted and escorted Naoko out of the room, down the restaurant’s private back stairway, and out to the car.
Naoko drove.
Tatsuyama worked his shoulders to get rid of some tension. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For asking you to come with me tonight.”
“You didn’t. Remember? I asked you if it was all right to come. It was just that I’ve hardly seen you, cramming for exams…”
He felt her eyes on him.
“That’s right. Guess my mind is still back upstairs. Well, I’m sorry if I made things awkward for you.”
“Don’t worry. It’s really OK.” She ran her fingers through strands of her dark, straight hair. “Where’d you meet Ota?”
“Business card. March grand tournament. I thought he was just another corporate sponsor looking to make a connection.”
“What kind of connection?”
“Corporations approach top sumotori all the time. They often want to discuss corporate sponsorship to help cover some of the costs of the sport.”
“Do they get anything in return?”
“Prestige. Favorable publicity for their businesses.”
“But Ota’s different.”
Tatsuyama nodded. “As you heard, Ota’s interests are completely different.”
“And after hearing what Ota said, now what?”
“Now nothing. He’s not the first fox to sneak into Coach Ikeda’s chicken yard. I’ll tell Coach Ikeda about it all, and that’ll probably be the end of it.”
“You’re not worried about his threat?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “There’ve been people like Ota and his friends out there for a long time. My career will be determined by what happens on the dohyo, not in a private dining room.”
Naoko was quiet for a minute as she negotiated a busy intersection. Then she asked, “What if he had approached another wrestler and not you? Are all of Coach Ikeda’s sumotori loyal?”
Tatsuyama didn’t answer immediately. “All of Coach Ikeda’s sumo-tori are human…You must be starving, Naoko. I’m starving.”
She went along with the change of subject. “I am starving, now that you mention it.”
“How about that little yakitori place on the edge of Roppongi Hills?” He determined to banish Ota from his thoughts for the rest of the night. A cold beer, a plate piled high with grilled chicken, and some pretty decent music. That would put a fresh spin on the evening. And hopefully it would draw out Naoko’s characteristic fun, lighthearted side.
“Sounds perfect, big guy.”
He lifted her hand and kissed it. “That’ll have to do for now. You’re driving.”
She smiled.
2
Two days later, just outside the Ryogoku Kokugikan arena—home to half the Japan Sumo Association’s annual grand championship tournaments—Bob Thomas, one of America’s most popular sportscasters, felt the heat of the lights as he eagerly awaited his cue. United States-based ASPN Sports had collaborated with Japan’s NHK TV to arrange for Bob to interview Japan’s top sumo champion.
An ASPN crew member counted down, “Three, two, one,” and they began recording.
“Good afternoon, sports fans, and welcome to ASPN’s Overtime Sports! I’m Bob Thomas, and I’m coming to you today from colorful Tokyo, Japan.” Bob shot an effusive grin while the tag ending of the program’s theme music played out in his earpiece.
“In this edition of Overtime Sports, we’ll be discussing a fascinating sport with roots in samurai tradition and in exotic ritual, an athletic art continually enjoyed over a span of perhaps thirteen centuries in Japan. To help us better appreciate this sport, I’m pleased to welcome to ASPN our special guest—the only remaining Japanese-born sumo grand champion—Tatsuyama.” He turned to the sumo great. “Konnichi wa, Tatsuyama-san.” [Hello, Tatsuyama.] “Did I say that right?” He chuckled.
Through an interpreter, Tatsuyama responded, laughing affably along with him. “Yes, perfect, Thomas-san. Konnichi wa.”
“Tatsuyama, in the last ten years, you are the only Japanese-born athlete to hold the title of yokozuna, grand sumo champion. You share that title with two foreign wrestlers. How could that happen in a sport so distinctly Japanese—in fact, the official national sport of Japan?”
Tatsuyama nodded, but before he could respond, Bob added, “We’re going to want to explore that question momentarily, but first, let’s get a little background for our American audience.”
“Yes, of course,” Tatsuyama said. “I’m at your service.”
Bob’s first impressions of Tatsuyama were positive. He was big, but not as rotund as Bob had expected. Unlike other suit-clad businessmen the sportscaster had met on arrival in Japan, the yokozuna was wearing a crisply pressed, gray kimono with a wide, neatly tied black-and-white sash. His black hair, carefully coifed into the classic sumo wrestlers’ topknot, gleamed with oil, and his dark eyes met Bob’s with calm confidence. Should be a relaxed interview, the sportscaster thought.
“Typically we Americans really don’t know a whole lot about sumo, so please bear with me,” he said. “In your opinion, what’s the greatest thing about your sport?”
Tatsuyama folded his hands and rested his elbows on the arms of the swivel chair. “Sumo is, first of all, a thrilling power sport, very compatible with the modern world. But as you just mentioned, at a sumo tournament, you’re treated to dramatic pageantry that takes you back, deep into the era of the samurai.”
Bob nodded appreciatively. Realizing that Tatsuyama was very much at ease on camera, he decided there was no need to coddle him. He could go straight for a hot-button issue that would pique the interest of a good 99 percent of his viewers.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but the Japanese are not known for being especially large in stature. Were you always a heavy person, Tatsuyama-san? And is sumo a sport for large people only?”
Tatsuyama shot back a half smile. “Sumo wrestlers work very hard to gain weight, and to do so the right way. I was not very large at all when I started sumo. I ate chanko prepared at the sumo stable every day, and also rice…plenty of rice. No steroids, no protein-powder drinks, just healthy chanko.”
“Chanko is a type of stew, right?”
“Yes, it’s a fish, chicken, and cabbage stew—very delicious.”
“There’s a story about why sumo wrestlers eat chanko, isn’t there?” Bob prompted his TV guest.
The yokozuna nodded. “Chanko never contains meat from animals that walk on four legs. No beef, no pork.”
“Why is that?” Having prepped well for th
e interview, Bob already knew the answer, but he asked on behalf of his audience.
“It’s all about luck, Thomas-san. Chickens walk on two legs, so the sumo wrestler stays on two legs. Cows walk on four legs, so the sumo wrestler ends up on arms and legs—that loses the match.”
“Are you serious?” Bob chuckled. “Do you believe that, Tatsuyama? Or is that just an old superstition?”
Tatsuyama laughed along with the sportscaster. “It’s just a tradition. But you’ll never find beef or pork in any chanko I know of.”
“And you may be all the healthier for it. I’ll tell you, you really look a lot sleeker than what I expected of Japan’s top sumo wrestler.” Smiling to show he meant no offense, Bob qualified his comment. “I mean, you certainly look solid. Mind if I ask how much you weigh?”
“I weigh the exact average for sumotori: three hundred and eight pounds.”
“Three-oh-eight…You know, there are actually a lot of guys in the NFL back in the US who weigh at least that much!”
“That’s right, Thomas-san. There were five hundred and thirty-two players who weighed over three hundred pounds in NFL training camps back in 2010…according to the Internet, anyway.”
Bob leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t help but laugh. This guy’s kicking my butt! “No kidding! You really do your homework, don’t you? What are you doing on the Internet? You’re a sumo wrestler for Pete’s sake! Tradition, tradition, tradition, right?”
The yokozuna laughed amiably. “I spend a lot of time on Facebook and Twitter keeping in touch with fans.”
“But back to the issue of weight, once again,” Bob said, still shaking his head in disbelief. “In sumo, is there a distinct advantage to being bigger and heavier?”
Tatsuyama looked up for a moment. “To a point. But I wouldn’t care to be any heavier. Conditioning, skill, and agility offer greater advantages than additional weight.”
Satisfied, Bob leaned back toward Tatsuyama. “While we’re on stereotypical images of sumo, why don’t you tell our viewers about the famous sumo stomps? I found this interesting.”
“Sumo has always been closely tied to the Shinto religion,” the yokozuna said. “The famous shiko—the stomps sumo wrestlers do before matches—are used during practice as stretching and strengthening exercises. In the ring, however, they’re meant to drive away—or even to crush—evil spirits.”
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