So we started up again and Gregor struck out the side, and we won the tournament. We were mobbed, Gregor especially. He was the hero of the hour. Everyone wanted him to sign something. He didn’t say much, but he wasn’t stooping either. He looked surprised. Afterward Werner took two balls and everyone signed them, to make some kind of trophies for Gregor and me. Later I saw half the names on my trophy were jokes, “Mickey Mantle” and other names like that. Gregor had written on it, “Hi, Coach Arnold, Regards, Greg.” I have the ball still, on my desk at home.
MAN-MOUNTAIN GENTIAN
Howard Waldrop
Here’s a wry, funny, and yet oddly poignant look at a possible future development in the sport of sumo wrestling, one that only Howard Waldrop is likely to have even thought of, let alone written.
Howard Waldrop is widely considered to be one of the best short-story writers in the business, and his famous story “The Ugly Chickens” won both the Nebula and the World Fantasy Awards in 1981. His work has been gathered in the collections: Howard Who? All About Strange Monsters of the Recent Past: Neat Stories by Howard Waldrop, and Night of the Cooters: More Neat Stories by Howard Waldrop, with more collections in the works. Waldrop is also the author of the novel The Texas-Israeli War: 1999, in collaboration with Jake Saunders, and of two solo novels, Them Bones and A Dozen Tough Jobs. He is at work on a new novel, tentatively titled The Moon World. His most recent book is a new collection, Going Home Again. A long-time Texan, Waldrop now lives in the tiny town of Arlington, Washington, outside Seattle, as close to a trout stream as he can possibly get without actually living in it.
* * *
Just after the beginning of the present century it was realized that some of the wrestlers were throwing their opponents from the ring without touching them.
—Ichinaga Naya, Zen-Suomo: Sport and Ritual
(Kyoto: All-Japan Zen-Sumo Association Books, 2014)
* * *
It was the fourteenth day of the January Tokyo tournament. Sitting with the other wrestlers, Man-Mountain Gentian watched as the next match began.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto was taking on Killer Kudzu. They entered the tamped-earth ring and began their shikiris. Ground Sloth, a sumotori of the old school, had changed over from traditional to zen-sumo four years before. He weighed 180 kilos in his mawashi. He entered at the white tassel salt corner. He clapped his huge hands, rinsed his mouth, threw salt, rubbed his body with tissue paper, then began his high leg lifts, stamping his feet, his hands gripping far down his calves. The ring shook with each stamp. All the muscles rippled on his big frame. His stomach, a flesh-colored boulder, shook and vibrated.
Killer Kudzu was small and thin, weighing barely over ninety kilos. On his forehead was the tattoo of his homeland, the PRC, one large star and five smaller stars blazing in a constellation. He also went into his ritual shikiri, but as he clapped he held in one hand a small box, ten centimeters on a side, showing his intention to bring it into the match. Sometimes these were objects for meditation, sometimes favors from male or female lovers, sometimes no one knew what. The only rule was that they could not be used as weapons.
The wrestlers were separated from the onlookers by four clear walls and a roof of plastic. Over this hung the traditional canopy and tassels, symbolizing heaven and the four winds. Through the plastic walls ran a mesh of fine wiring, connected to a six-volt battery next to the north-side judge.
A large number of 600X slow-motion video cameras were placed around the auditorium to be used by the judges if necessary.
Killer Kudzu placed the box on his side of the line. He returned to his corner and threw more salt.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto stamped once more, twice, went to his line, settled into position like a football lineman, legs apart, knuckles to the ground. His nearly bare buttocks looked like giant rocks. Killer Kudzu finished his shikiri, squatted at his line, where he settled his hand near his votive box, and glared at his opponent.
The referee, in his ceremonial robes, had been standing to one side during the preliminaries. Now he came to a position halfway between the wrestlers, his war fan down. He leaned away from the two men, left leg back to one side as if ready to run. He stared at the midpoint between the two and flipped his fan downward.
Instantly, sweat sprang to their foreheads and shoulders, their bodies rippled as if pushing against great unmoving weights, their toes curled into the clay of the ring. They stayed immobile on their respective marks.
Killer Kudzu’s neck muscles strained. With his left hand he reached and quickly opened the votive box.
Man-Mountain Gentian and the other wrestlers on the east side drew in their breaths.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto was a vegetarian and always had been. In training for traditional sumo, he had shunned the chunko-nabe, the communal stew of fish, chicken, meat, eggs, onions, cabbage, carrots, turnips, sugar, and soy sauce. Traditional sumotori ate as much as they could hold twice a day, and weight gain was tremendous.
Ikimoto had instead trained twice as hard, eating only vegetables, starches, and sugars. Meat and eggs had never touched his lips.
What Killer Kudzu brought out of the box was a cheeseburger. With one swift movement he bit into it only half a meter from Ground Sloth’s face.
Ikimoto blanched and started to scream. As he did, he lifted into the air as if chopped in the chest with an ax, arms and legs flailing, a Dopplering wail of revulsion coming from his emptied lungs. He passed the bales marking the edge of the ring, one foot dragging the ground, upending a boundary bale, and smashed to the ground between the ring and the square bales at the plastic walls.
The referee signaled Killer Kudzu the winner. As he squatted the gyoji offered him a small envelope signifying a cash prize from his sponsors. Kudzu, left hand on his knee, with his right hand made three chopping gestures from the left, right and above, thanking man, earth, and heaven. Kudzu took the envelope, then stepped through the doorway of the plastic enclosure and left the arena to rejoin the other west-side wrestlers.
The audience of 11,000 was on its feet, cheering. Across Japan and the world, 200 million viewers watched.
Ground Sloth Ikimoto had risen to his feet, bowed, and left by the other door. Attendants rushed in to repair the damaged ring.
Man-Mountain Gentian looked up at the scoring clock. The match had taken 4.1324 seconds. It was 3:30 in the afternoon on the fourteenth day of the Tokyo tournament.
The next match would pit Cast Iron Pekowski of Poland against Typhoon Takanaka.
After that would be Gentian’s bout with the South African veldt wrestler Knockdown Krugerrand.
Man-Mountain Gentian stood at 13-0 in the tournament, having defeated an opponent each day so far. He wanted to retire as the first Grand Champion to win six tournaments in a row, undefeated. He was not very worried about his contest later this afternoon.
Tomorrow, though, the last day of the January tournament, he would face Killer Kudzu, who, after this match, also stood undefeated, at 14-0.
* * *
Man-Mountain Gentian was 1.976 meters tall and weighed exactly 200 kilos. He had been a sumotori for six years, had been yokozuna for the last two of those. He was twice holder of the Emperor’s Cup. He was the highest-paid, the most famous zen-sumotori in the world.
He was twenty-three years old.
He and Knockdown Krugerrand finished their shikiris. They got on their marks. The gyoji flipped his fan.
The match was over in 3.1916 seconds. He helped Krugerrand to his feet, accepted the envelope and the thunderous applause of the crowd, and left the reverberating plastic enclosure.
* * *
“You are the wife of Man-Mountain Gentian?” asked a voice next to her.
Melissa put on her public smile and turned to the voice. Her nephew, on the other side, leaned around to look.
The man talking to her had five stars tattooed to his forehead. She knew he was a famous sumotori, though he was very slim and his chon-mage had been combed out and w
ashed and his hair was now a fluffy explosion above his head.
“I am Killer Kudzu,” he said. “I’m surprised you weren’t at the tournament.”
“I am here with my nephew, Hari. Hari, this is Mr. Killer Kudzu.” The nephew, dressed in his winter Little League outfit, shook hands firmly. “His team, the Mitsubishi Zeroes play the Kawasaki Claudes next game.”
They paused while a foul ball caused great excitement three rows down the bleachers. Hari leapt for it but some construction foreman of a father came up grinning with the ball.
“And what do you play?” asked Killer Kudzu.
“Utility outfield. When I play,” said Hari, averting his eyes and sitting back down.
“Oh. How’s your batting?”
“Pretty bad, .123 for the year,” said Hari.
“Well, maybe this will be the night you shine,” said Kudzu.
“I hope so,” said Hari. “Half our team has the American flu.”
“Just the reason I’m here,” said Kudzu. “I was to meet a businessman whose son was to play this game. I find him not to be here, as his son has the influenza also.”
It was hot in the domed stadium and Kudzu insisted they let him buy them Sno-Kones. Just as the vendor got to them, Hari’s coach signaled and the nephew ran down the bleachers and followed the rest of his teammates into the warm-up area under the stadium.
Soon the other lackluster game was over and Hari’s team took the field.
The first batter for the Claudes, a twelve-year-old built like an orangutan, got up and smashed a line drive off the Mitsubishi third baseman’s chest. The third baseman had been waving to his mother. They carried him into the dugout. Melissa soon saw him up yelling again.
So it went through three innings. The Claudes had the Zeroes down by three runs, 6-3. In the fourth inning, Hari took right field, injuries having whittled the flu-ridden team down to the third-stringers.
One of the Claudes hit a high looping fly straight to right field. Hari started in after it, but something happened with his feet; he fell and the ball dropped a meter from his outstretched glove. The center fielder chased it down and made the relay and by a miracle they got the runner sliding into home plate. He took out the Zeroes catcher doing it.
“It doesn’t look good for the Zeroes,” said Melissa.
“Oh, things might get better,” said Killer Kudzu. “The opera’s not over till the fat lady sings.”
“A diva couldn’t do much worse out there,” said Melissa.
“They still don’t like baseball in my country,” he said. “Decadent. Bourgeois, they say. As if anything could be more decadent and middle-class than China.”
“Yet you wear the flag?” She pointed toward his head.
“Call it a gesture to former greatness,” he said.
Bottom of the sixth, last inning in Little League. The Zeroes had the bases loaded but they had two outs in the process. Hari came up to bat.
Things were tense. The outfielders were nearly falling down from tension.
The pitcher threw a blistering curve that got the outside. Hari was caught looking.
From the dugout the manager’s voice saying unkind things carried to the crowd.
Eight thousand people were on their feet.
The pitcher wound up and threw.
Hari started a swing that should have ended in a grounder or a pop-up. Halfway through, it looked like someone had speeded up a projector. The leisurely swing blurred. Hari literally threw himself to the ground. The bat cracked and broke in two at his feet.
The ball, a frozen white streak, cometed through the air and hit the scoreboard 110 meters away with a terrific crash, putting the inning indicator out of commission.
Everyone was stock-still. Hari was staring. Every player was turned toward the scoreboard.
“It’s a home run, kid,” the umpire reminded Hari. Slowly, unbelieving, Hari began to trot toward first base.
The place exploded, fans jumping to their feet. Hari’s teammates on the bases headed for home. The dugout emptied, waiting for him to round third.
The Claudes stood fuming. The Zeroes climbed all over Hari.
“I didn’t know you could do that more than once a day,” said Melissa, her eyes narrowed.
“Who, me?” asked Kudzu.
“You’re perverting your talent,” she said.
“We’re not supposed to be able to do that more than once every twenty-four hours,” said Killer Kudzu, flashing a smile.
“I know that’s not true, at least really,” said Melissa.
“Oh, yes. You are married to a sumotori, aren’t you?”
Melissa blushed.
“The kid seemed to feel bad enough about the dropped fly. Besides, it’s just a game.”
At home plate, Hari’s teammates climbed over him, slapping him on the back.
The game was over, the scoreboard said 7-6, and the technicians were already climbing over the inning indicator.
Melissa rose. “I have to go pick up Hari. I suppose I will see you at the tournament tomorrow?”
“How are you getting home?” asked Killer Kudzu.
“We walk. Hari lives near.”
“It’s snowing.”
“Oh.”
“Let me give you a ride. My electric vehicle is outside.”
“That would be nice. I live several kilometers away from—”
“I know where you live, of course.”
“Fine, then.”
Hari ran up. “Aunt Melissa! Did you see?! I don’t know what happened! I just felt, I don’t know. I just hit it!”
“That was wonderful.” She smiled at him. Killer Kudzu was looking up, very interested in the stadium support structure.
* * *
The stable in which Man-Mountain Gentian trained was being entertained that night. That meant that the wrestlers would have to do all the entertaining.
Even at the top of this sport, Man-Mountain had never gotten used to the fans. Their kingly prizes; their raucous behavior at matches; their donations of gifts, clothing, vehicles, and in some cases houses and land to their favorite wrestlers. It was all appalling.
It was a carryover from traditional sumo, he knew. But zen-sumo had become a worldwide, not just a national sport. Many saved for years to come to Japan to watch the January or May tournaments. People here in Japan sometimes sacrificed at home to be able to contribute toward a new kesho-mawashi apron for a wrestler entering the ring. Money, in this business, flowed like water, appearing in small envelopes in the mail, in the locker room, after feasts such as the one tonight.
Once a month, Man-Mountain Gentian gathered them all up and took them to his accountant, who had instructions to give it all, above a certain princely level, away to charity. Other wrestlers had more, or less, or none of the same arrangements. The tax men never seemed surprised by whatever amount wrestlers reported.
He entered the club. Things were already rocking. One of the hostesses took his shoes and coat. She had to put the overcoat over her shoulders to carry it into the cloakroom.
The party was a haze of blue smoke, dishes, bottles, businessmen, wrestlers, and funny paper hats. Waitresses came in and out with more food. Three musicians played unheard on a raised dais at one side of the room. Someone was telling a snappy story. The room exploded with laughter.
“Ah!” said someone. “Yokozuna Gentian has arrived.”
Man-Mountain bowed deeply. They made two or three places for him at the low table. He saw that several of the host party were Americans. Probably one or more were from the CIA.
They and the Russians were still trying to perfect zen-sumo as an assassination weapon. They offered active and retired sumotori large amounts of money in an effort to get them to develop their powers in some nominally destructive form. So far, no one he knew of had. There were rumors about the Brazilians, however.
He could see it now, a future with premiers, millionaires, presidents, and paranoids in all walks of life wearing wire-
mesh clothing and checking their Eveready batteries before going out each morning.
He had been approached twice, by each side. He was sometimes followed. They all were. People in governments simply did not understand.
He began to talk, while saki flowed, with Cast Iron Pekowski. Pekowski, now 12-2 for the tournament, had graciously lost his match with Typhoon Takanaka. (There was an old saying: in a tournament, no one who won more than nine matches ever beat an opponent who has lost seven. Which had been the case with Takanaka. Eight was the number of wins needed to retain current ranking.)
“I could feel him going,” said Pekowski, in Polish. “I think we should talk to him about the May tournament.”
“Have you mentioned this to his stablemaster?”
“I thought of doing so after the tournament. I was hoping you could come with me to see him.”
“I’ll be just another retired sekitori by then.”
“Takanaka respects you above all the others. Besides, your dampatsu-shiki ceremony won’t be for another two weeks. You’ll still have your hair. And while we’re at it, I still wish you would change your mind.”
“Perhaps I could be Takanaka’s dew-sweeper, if he decides.”
“Good! You’ll come with me then, Friday morning?”
“Yes.”
The hosts were very much drunker than the wrestlers. Nayakano the stablemaster was feeling no pain but remained upright. Mounds of food were being consumed. A businessman tried to grab-ass a waitress. This was going to become every bit as nasty as all such parties.
“A song! A song!” yelled the head of the fan club, a businessman in his sixties. “Who will favor us with a song?”
Man-Mountain Gentian got to his feet, went over to the musicians. He talked with the samisen player. Then he stood facing his drunk, attentive audience.
How many of these parties had he been to in his career? Two, three hundred? Always the same: drunkenness, discord, braggadocio on the part of the host clubs. Some fans really loved the sport, some lived vicariously through it. He would not miss the parties. But as the player began the tune he realized this might be the last party he would have to face.
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