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An introduction to watching sumo
KANSAI TIME OUT - JULY 2001

OK. You've just arrived. You think you may be interested in sumo, from the little you've seen already. You've seen sumo photographs, read an article or two; you may have seen it on satellite TV or even live in your own country on one of the smash-hit, high-profile tours. Now you are here in Japan, and you want to see it live. Where do you start?

Living in the Kansai gives you different opportunities from living in Tokyo. You miss the experience of being able to visit the permanent sumo stables, which are all in the greater Tokyo area. But you are within easy reach of two of the six annual "official" tournaments - hon-basho - Osaka in March, and nearby Nagoya in July. The between-basho tours also loop through the region, in April and often in October.

Two Sundays before the hon-basho begins, all the stables pack up and move into temporary quarters in the general area. If one comes to your neighbourhood, you may have a chance to get inside and watch training - though an awful lot of other people, including paying supporters, will have the same idea, and you may find yourself gawking from the street.

If you are admitted, please be aware of the etiquette, which can be summed up very simply: sit where you're put, and watch. Sumo practice bouts are not an entertainment put on for the benefit of visitors; they are the life of the sumo men, a daily regimen by which they maintain strength and agility and hone their skills. Take notes by all means; ask permission, with a gesture, before taking photos. Prepare yourself with a fast film, at least 400 ASA, because flash photography is distracting to the wrestlers. Need I say, don't take snacks and drinks in with you? I'll say it anyway, because it's very important; and don't smoke, don't move around, don't talk, don't applaud or react in any way, don't loll around or turn your back to the training ring. And whatever you do, DON'T get down onto the sanded clay that surrounds the ring, even when they've finished training.

The treatment of the ring is interesting in itself; just like the raiseddohyo in the sumo arena, when they have just been made, these practice rings have to be purified in a half-hour ceremony. Then each day after training, the ring is carefully swept, the sand is shaped into a sort of sand-castle in the middle, a Shinto symbol of zigzag paper is put on top, and finally salt is thrown over it in a pattern. The ring remains untouched till next morning, when the apprentices come down and make it ready.

You'll notice that senior men who haven't started training yet, and retired men who are coaching, do not normally step into the ring to take a short cut from one side to the other. When they are ready to get in and train, they throw a pinch of purifying salt inside to signify their intention.

From this you will gather, if you hadn't already realised, that sumo is not only a sport, or even a regime or a Way, like judo or karate; there's a lot of folk beliefs and fairly primitive religion mixed in. That's why even people who like other sports find extra dimensions in sumo. One of the things you can often see on TV is the man at the warm-up, sprinkling himself with a little salt before he throws the rest of the handful into the ring. It may be a foot, or a bandaged knee, or a strapped-up elbow; never ask him afterwards "What do you think the salt does for you?" because the answer is likely to be a muttered "Maybe nothing, but it's best to be sure."

The etiquette of visiting a sumo stable applies also to behaviour in the front six rows of ringside cushions at a tournament. It's sad to see foreigners go in early and ecstatically move up to sit close to the dohyo - and then take out cans of drink. Immediately a young yobidashi, one of the callers in cutaway pants, is sent to warn them politely that they are breaking a rule. This is not discrimination; Japanese first-timers are just as ignorant, but they understand what the yobidashi is saying - put away the drink - and can stay in the same top-bracket seats for the next four hours or so. Foreigners who don't understand often believe they're being thrown out of the expensive seats.

For the Nagoya basho (July 8-22), tickets went on sale on March 15. But doubtless some are still available, and you will have no difficulty in going on the day of your choice and buying an unreserved tojitsu-ken (same-day ticket) for a very moderate price. If you leave it too long to go inside, however, you will find that all the unreserved seats have been taken.

Forget the front rows of single cushions, commonly called suna-kaburi, sand-covered. They are handed down from father to son, and from company president to successor; they buy a booklet of 15 tickets to cover the entire tournament. They often pass on a seat for a particular day to a friend or client (and quite often, well-connected foreigners) but if you need to ask "How can I get one?" - forget it.

The same goes for the good "boxes" on the ground floor; those little carpeted squares with cushions and not enough leg-room for four people, especially when they've also paid for the bags of goodies that go with the seats.

Many foreigners are fascinated by the idea that you get "free" bags of goodies if you sit in the good seats. They ask, hopefully, "What do you get extra, in addition to the seats?" Answer: Exactly what you - or someone else - has paid for. The point is that virtually all the good boxes are controlled by the so-called annaisho (information booths), usually called chaya (tea houses). The system dates from the Edo Period. Little wooden catering booths grew up around the tournament venue. Eventually their enterprising owners offered to buy blocks of tickets (great slabs of wood in those far-off days), an idea that was greatly welcomed by the forerunner of the Sumo Association. In times of great popularity, the seats could be sold several times over, and everybody was scrambling for them; but sumo, like everything else, has its times of famine, and then it is a great relief to get the money for the tickets and have someone else take the risk of being stuck with them.

The system sounds so unfair in times of plenty; but they sing a different tune when purse-strings are tightened. The chaya, by the way, buy the tickets at only a small discount; their profit comes on the food and drink and take-home stuff. But why worry? Buy your own selection at the stalls inside.



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