“So sumo has religious tradition behind it.” Bob again recalled his research. “What’s sumo’s connection with Japan’s samurai history?”
“Sumo was a part of samurai training and entertainment.” Tatsuyama pointed to his hair. “Today, professional sumo wrestlers are about the only ones left in Japan who still wear the samurai topknot. We’re required to dress in traditional clothing at all times. And because of our historical link to the samurai, dignity and honor are central to sumo. Some Japanese even refer to us as ‘the last of the samurai.’”
“Anything else?”
“This history and reputation mean that we must wrestle honorably. There are moves we must not resort to. They would be considered bad form—very dishonorable. And we’re expected to show no emotion after a match, whether we win or lose.”
“Speaking of moves,” Bob said, “to the uninitiated, sumo, quite frankly, looks like about twenty seconds of pushing, shoving, and leaning until one guy or the other falls down…”
“Or gets a severe wedgie!” one of the cameramen whispered into his mic.
Bob stifled a smile. “Surely sumo is more than that.”
If the translator understood the cameraman’s English-language one-liner, he chose to ignore it. Tatsuyama continued, “Sumo is actually a very dignified, finesse-oriented sport. With eighty-two official ways of winning a sumo match, speed, flexibility, and balance are just as important to sumo as brute strength. The average match does last only seconds, so sumotori have only fractions of seconds to analyze an opponent’s intentions, make tactical adjustments, and drive home a move or a combination of moves essential to victory.”
Bob opened his mouth to pivot the conversation, but Tatsuyama wasn’t quite done.
“A rikishi back in the 1980s by the name of Tetsuo,” he said, “could land three strong hand thrusts per second on the chest of his unfortunate opponents. That combination of strength and speed will take down most any man.”
Bob furrowed his brow. “Tatsuyama, why then has Japan lost its grip on the topmost ranks of sumo?”
The yokozuna shook his head. “Many factors. But doesn’t it speak well of Japan that we allow foreigners to come to our country, train in our stables, and compete in a sport so closely tied to our history and religion?”
Bob spotted an off-camera ASPN crew member giving him the “thirty-second” signal. He tightened his lips. I need an answer...
“But Tatsuyama, is it because Japan is losing touch with its traditions? Is it because of body image? Why are younger Japanese choosing other forms of entertainment—and sports careers—over sumo?”
“The world is changing, Thomas-san. Technology, globalization, what people value…their interests are turning to other things. But my goal is to be the kind of figure—on and off the dohyo, the fighting ring—to capture the enthusiasm of younger Japanese for sumo once again.”
“What would happen if you didn’t hold the title of yokozuna—if the only yokozuna were foreigners?”
Tatsuyama looked down for the first time during the interview. But immediately, his gaze came back to meet Bob’s. “I’m afraid if there were no Japanese sumotori among the grand champions, Japanese interest in our national sport would drop even faster. I’m doing everything I can to stop that from happening—training harder, competing harder, getting out to meet the public...”
“Well, Tatsuyama-san, you’ve already experienced great success. We wish you the best of luck. You’ve been very gracious to us at ASPN Sports. What a fresh and fascinating look at Japan’s official national sport!” Turning to the camera, he gave a sparkling smile and said, “That’s all we have time for on this edition of Overtime Sports. For ASPN, this is Bob Thomas saying, ‘So long for now,’ from Tokyo, Japan!”
As soon as he got a nod from his staff, Bob leaned across the interpreter to offer his guest a heartfelt, off-camera thank-you. “I enjoyed that very much, Tatsuyama,” he said. “You’re a natural in front of the cameras.”
“Arigatou, Thomas-san.” [Thank you, Mr. Thomas.] “It was an enjoyable interview. I found it fun to discuss sumo in such a lighthearted yet sincere way.”
“Please, call me Bob.”
“Hai. Arigatou, Bob.”
“How about dinner with me and my crew sometime during the tournament? Will that work for you?”
Tatsuyama nodded enthusiastically. “I’d like the chance to visit again, so yes, dinner would be nice.”
“Perfect. We’ll make it happen then,” Bob said as he shook the yokozuna’s hand.
Turning back to his crew, eyes wide, he mouthed, “Man! What a grip!”
Then someone else caught Bob’s gaze. Near the arena gate, he spotted a gorgeous young Japanese woman. Her fashionable skirt revealed just enough leg, and her flowing cream-colored blouse perfectly complemented her flawless skin. She gave a warm smile as she looked in his direction.
Bob was considering whether he should ask the translator about the beauty when Tatsuyama spoke, still relying on the interpreter.
“That is Tatsuyama-san’s girlfriend,” the translator told the sportscaster. “Very nice girl.”
Bob couldn’t take his eyes off her. Tatsuyama, he thought. You lucky dog!
3
Kusunoki Naoko, Tatsuyama’s cheerful girlfriend, waited near the arena gate while he finished the obligatory good-byes and expressions of gratitude. As soon as he was able to excuse himself from the crowd, she rushed to his side and took hold of his arm.
“Tatsuyama, you’re free till this evening now, right?” Naoko asked.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want to go to Shibuya 109. The band Kaki-Shinju is giving a free miniconcert there. Will you go with me?”
“Sure,” he said. “Sounds fun. I need to get back in time for at least a short workout, though. Sunday’s coming fast.”
“Arigatou, arigatou, arigatou.” She bounced as she thanked him. “This means so much to me. I know the grand tournament is super important to you.”
The yokozuna smiled, placed his hand on the small of her back, and guided her toward the exit, thrilled it was so easy to make her happy. The couple passed Tatsuyama’s close friend and stablemate, Masaru, on the way out. “I’m going with Naoko to a short concert in Shibuya, so I don’t need a ride back to the stable. Tell Coach Ikeda I won’t be late.”
Masaru, a few years younger than Tatsuyama and one rank lower, waved at Naoko and gave his reply to her. “Bring him home early. Yokozuna can’t just win; they have to dominate.” He winked at the two of them.
It’s a seven-mile drive from the Kokugikan arena to the chic Shibuya 109 department store, and traffic was horrible—sluggish in Sumida, stop-and-go in Chiyoda, and nearly stationary in Shibuya Ward itself. Naoko, behind the steering wheel again, rubbed the back of her neck with one hand as the tiny Nissan idled at yet another red light. Another minute ticked by, and she began to tap the steering wheel with her fingers.
Tatsuyama reached out and took over massaging her neck. “Less than a half mile to go. We’ll make it on time.”
“You think so? We have to find a parking place, and then we’ll probably have to walk a few blocks.”
To Tatsuyama, even her pouty face was cute. “It’ll be OK,” he said.
“I have a surprise for you when we get there, but I’m not sure it’ll still be available if we’re late.” Naoko glanced at him.
“Stealing an unexpected date with you is surprise enough.”
“It really makes your day better?”
“Hai. Definitely.”
She grinned. “I’m glad…Oh, I apologize, though—I didn’t even ask you how the interview went.”
“It was good. I like Thomas-san. Nice guy. I think he’s really interested in finding out more about sumo, too.”
“Sou desu ka?” [Is that right?]
“Hai. He and two of his crew are staying for the entire grand tournament. We’re supposed to get together for dinner in a couple of days. And we m
ay do another interview at the end of the competition.”
“That would be great.”
Traffic crawled along.
Tatsuyama tried to keep Naoko distracted. “Four months dating, and I never realized you were a Kaki-Shinju fan.”
“I am. I really like them—at least the few songs of theirs I’ve already heard.”
“Have you downloaded any of their albums? I don’t think we’ve ever listened to them together, have we?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so. They’re kind of new…”
After another few blocks of edging forward bumper to bumper, Naoko gave an exasperated sigh and suddenly wheeled the car into a parking garage near the Shibuya railway station, screeching the tires a little as she made the turn. “I’m afraid this is the best we can do. It’s crazy down here today.”
The maneki-neko lucky cat figurine that hung by a cord from her mirror swung wildly. Tatsuyama steadied it. “Relax,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone soothing. “It’s a concert…for enjoyment. We’ve got time.”
“Oh, I’m OK—now that we’ve made it this far, at least. Really.”
“You sure?” She still seemed a little edgy.
She smiled and nodded. “Better get going, though. The sidewalk traffic won’t be much better than the street traffic.”
He led the way as they waded into the flowing mass of humanity, one of the most congested parts of the world’s most populous urban agglomeration. They dodged and darted through swarms of shoppers, businessmen, and tourists, young and old. Tatsuyama glanced at Naoko as they walked. A contented glow was beginning to replace the tension that had shown on her face during the drive. Tatsuyama knew she loved fashion and shopping as much as any woman. She was in her element down here. The foot traffic didn’t bother her a bit.
“I love her boots,” she said, pointing to a girl cruising toward them talking into a bling-covered cell phone.
“Nice.”
“I think those particular boots cost about forty thousand yen.”
He laughed. “Not that nice.”
She punched his arm playfully.
Tatsuyama rarely came down to Shibuya. Too crowded for his tastes. Yet he had to admit, he was as fascinated as anybody by the riotous collage of advertising covering the facades of the surrounding midrise buildings—including the area’s famous giant LED screens.
A number of passersby recognized Tatsuyama. School girls, still in uniform, followed him with their eyes and covered their mouths as they spoke excitedly to their classmates. A few older men gave him a slight bow. Even if he had not been a yokozuna, any sumotori would have been recognizable by his size, his topknot, and his kimono or yukata. But Tatsuyama was no ordinary sumotori; he was a celebrity.
By the time the pair arrived at Shibuya 109, the glitzy department store with its landmark circular front tower, all Naoko’s anxieties seemed to have evaporated into the electrified air. “I think I can get us pretty close to the front of the concert,” she said.
“How?” Tatsuyama held the door for her.
“Oh, I shop here often enough. I know one of the sales girls. She said she could easily take care of me…if you’ll take a photo with her.”
Tatsuyama rolled his eyes. “Dou itashimashite.” [You’re welcome.]
The store often cleared a space for promotional events; that day, they had even set up a performance platform. As the couple neared it, a uniformed security officer smartly extended his hand and directed Tatsuyama and Naoko to a spot reserved for them at the front of the crowd. He looked at his girlfriend, shrugged, and smiled. The security officer disappeared into the crowd.
She grinned. “This is the surprise I told you about in the car. If we’d been late, I’m not sure he could’ve brought us right up front.”
“This is great.” He squeezed her hand. “Arigatou.”
The concert began at precisely five o’clock. And nobody in the store could have missed the explosive downbeat of Kaki-Shinju’s first number. The thunderous intro was rhythmically pounded out on giant Japanese taiko drums—then two of the girls in the band skillfully twanged square, guitarlike shamisen. The sound was both upbeat and highly traditional.
Tatsuyama took it all in. The musicians, the instruments, the costumes, the crowd, Naoko. He could feel the reverberation of the drums deep in his chest. It spoke to him, conjuring mental images of festivals half a millennium ago. He felt a bond between himself, the musicians, the crowd, the past, and the present. He wondered if others sensed the same thing.
The band manipulated the shamisen duet until it emerged as a completely modern, energetic, J-pop refrain. The sound was supported and strengthened by the latest electronic technology, presenting a truly brilliant and exciting fusion of styles. Observing the rapt faces and gleaming eyes of the rest of the audience, he concluded, Hai, they’re feeling it.
Tatsuyama cupped his hand near Naoko’s ear and spoke over the music. “I love this group already.”
Smiling broadly, she asked, “Honto?” [Really?]
He nodded enthusiastically and returned his gaze to the stage. So young, yet so talented. He wanted to buy their album before leaving.
Teens and adults alike—even some of the grandparents in attendance—seemed to be enjoying the music as much as he was. He almost laughed aloud watching a cluster of what must have been ten-year-olds singing along, familiar with every line of the lyrics. A minute later, he had Naoko pause her clapping long enough to follow his line of sight to an elderly couple who were smiling and swaying like teenagers.
“How cute!” she said, her actual words nearly lost in the amped-up, pulsating music.
“Worth the trouble of driving here?” Tatsuyama asked.
She laughed. “More than worth it.”
The concert was only slated to last thirty minutes. About ten minutes in, a rather large man brushed past Tatsuyama. The smell of sake lingered in the air even after he had passed. The yokozuna watched him. He stood—or wobbled—off to one side of the platform, clapping, but hardly in rhythm. A minute later the man staggered and swayed toward Tanaka Akiko, the performer at the nearest end of the platform. Reaching the edge of the stage, he motioned for Akiko to come to him.
Never missing a beat, Akiko kept smiling and singing as she leaned over to let him speak to her. Then she seemed to catch the strong smell of sake on the man. She winced. Tatsuyama observed her trying to disguise her reaction. She casually drifted away from the drunk. But before she reached safety, he grabbed at her arm. She yanked free and slid back toward center stage.
Tatsuyama scanned the store for security officers or policemen. He frowned. None there that he could see. He turned to his girlfriend. She was looking over her shoulders toward the back of the concert area.
“Do you see any security staff here at all?” he asked.
She was frowning. “Ah…I don’t…” She turned her gaze to the intruder up front. Her fingers touched the base of her neck.
Tatsuyama, too, returned his attention to the nuisance. Teetering, the large drunk pulled off the jacket of his business suit and dropped it on the floor. He righted himself, shuffled his feet in a few dance steps, and then staggered toward Akiko again. Some of the people in the crowd were laughing at him. Others yelled for him to go away.
I can’t believe this, Tatsuyama thought. How can you have an event like this with no security on hand? He leaned toward Naoko. “If he goes for Akiko-san again, I’m not going to wait around for security.”
Still frowning, she said, “Don’t hurt him. He’s obviously just had too much to drink.”
“I have no intention of hurting him. I just want to get him away from the girls in the band—and away from the audience.”
Another minute passed. The band’s second number was drawing toward an end. The drunk swayed. Every few seconds, he slurred loudly, “Akiko, Akiko.” Finally, he adjusted his fedora, stepped onto the low performance platform, and stumbled toward the musicians.
Naoko stood on tip
toes, looking back and forth, straining to see over the crowd.
Tatsuyama panned the concert area one last time. Was there anybody here with the authority to take this nuisance away? It appeared not.
He leaned again toward Naoko, one hand on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said. “Be right back.”
She clutched his arm. He saw alarm in her eyes. “Don’t go, Tatsuyama. Let the store take care of it.”
“The store’s not doing anything about it.”
Her eyes began to tear up. “Please…be careful.” She released her grip and then gave him the faintest push toward the pest.
As the drunk reached again for Akiko’s slender arm, Tatsuyama strode forward and pulled the burly man away from her—not roughly. He was intent on stopping a scene, not making one.
“Here,” he spoke into the derelict’s ear, “let me help you down.”
The drunk shook his head and attempted to turn back toward the girl. Another of the band members let out a little shriek and pulled Akiko close.
Tatsuyama stepped onto the platform. “Step down now, please,” he said to the sot.
The drunk whirled around and shoved him. Hard.
He might as well have tried to topple the Great Buddha at Kamakura.
Tatsuyama pressed his lips together. Time to go, troublemaker.
Intuitively drawing on sumo’s tsuri-dashi technique, Tatsuyama grabbed the man’s belt with both hands, one on either side of the intruder’s waist. Without effort, he hoisted the man and carried him to the side of the platform and set him down at floor level.
Right away, two police officers burst through the nearest plate-glass doors, coming in hard and fast.
Finally! They can handle this now. He released the concert crasher.
Handcuffs flashed, reflecting the stage lighting, as one officer restrained the drunk.
Tatsuyama opened his mouth to tell the other officer what had happened, but before he could speak, the second policeman grasped his wrist and began to cuff him too.
Sumotori: A 21st Century Samurai Thriller Page 2