Raising Sumo Awareness
This past Friday I went to a sumo wrestling match. Not as a spectator, but more like a participant. But not really in that way either... ah, just read the story.
Prologue
Most of you know that I've been studying karate for almost twelve years now. It's fun, I enjoy it, it keeps me from getting too chubby, I like teaching, and my skill, while debatable, is at least good enough to be considered respectable.
Our school is actually full of a lot of talented individuals, most of whom are young hyper-energetic infinitely flexible teenagers. As a result, we have a demonstration team that routinely goes out to events and performs showy martial arts stuff to wow the crowds and get people interested. This team has performed for Z-100's Jingle Ball and done a show at the Tropicana in Atlantic City. They're really good.
I am not one of them. I just teach them.
So it doesn't surprise me when, on Tuesday, I learn that our demonstration team was asked to perform at the World Sumo League match being held in the Continental Airlines Arena in the Meadowlands on Friday. That's pretty cool, I think- the Meadowlands is a huge venue. Plus, sumo is always funny. So I'm obliged to announce this to all classes that I'm teaching, so they can, if they have the right channel, tune in to watch.
Therein lies my first error.
Chapter One: "It's A Trap!"
Thursday night finds myself and katieledge and her colleague Nicole sitting in a bar discussing the differences between men and women. Or something like that. Whatever we were talking about, it went down well with beer.
Ring, ring. Hmm, that's my phone. Ah, it's Sensei. Odd for him to call at 10:00 pm; must be something important.
It's not so great- one of the kids has separated his shoulder practicing for the demo. He's in the hospital. He is out of the running. Ow, I think. That's bad... but why call me?
"We need you to take his place. You're the only one that can fill in."
Oooohhhhhhhh... shit.
(Remember that part above where I said I wasn't like those hyper-powered superteens? Yeah. I'm really not.)
I say "yes, I'll do it." Because I'm an idiot.
Chapter Two: The Rundown
Needless to say, I'm completely unprepared for what awaits me. I spend about four hours the next morning practicing a few routines, sweating more out of nervousness than heat or work. I am absolutely out of my league and I know it. I'm foreseeing something huge, and something that I will mess up beyond compare. I'm chewing myself apart mentally.
A turkey sub for lunch does fix a lot of that, though. Must be the tryptophin.
But practice must end sometime, and we had to get there to find out exactly what we were doing. So we head off to the Meadowlands for our blind date with destiny.
As a side note, the teens were all "Oooh, we get to go into the secret tunnely back entrance to the arena, neat!" They're so easily amused...
We're escorted to our dressing room, leave our stuff there, and then are brought out to the arena. I believe normally it's used for hockey (NJ Devils?) and basketball (NJ Nets?) (my sports knowledge is not exactly top-of-the-line...). Now there's a small raised platform in the center, with a ring on it. It's ready for sumo wrestling.
We meet a director, who explains that we're just going to need a few segments of material from each person, nothing more than a minute or so of action. That's not so bad- we had prepared about four minutes each of stuff to do. We demonstrate, he picks and chooses, and voila. Then we learn the story.
Interlude: The Story
The World Sumo League is a traveling tourney of sumo wrestlers who are bring the sport of sumo outside of Japan and into other countries. All the wrestlers are non-Japanese, but they are keeping to the traditions and styles of proper sumo. These events are flashed up to appeal to mass-market audiences, and so the wrestlers are all divided into four "clans", with the clans pitting first against themselves to select a "best of" from each clan, and then pitting the four bests in a final round.
"So where do the karate guys fit in?" you might wonder. Wonder no more. At four different intervals, the "clans" are introduced to the audience. The MC reads off a passage of story text, and then the spirits of the clans come forward to perform for the Sun Goddess. It gets kinda hazy there, but essentially, the four of us were the spirits of the clans. So, at these moments in the show, we would run out, bearing standards of the clans, take corners at the sumo ring, and then the Sun Goddess would appear and bid one of us to perform. We perform, we finish, the stage goes black, we all retreat, and a few matches later it happens again.
Trust me, it hasn't started getting ridiculous yet.
Chapter Three: "I Am The Shogun!"
Ok. We get the picture and how it's being run. It's not as much a demonstration as it is a performance. They choose the material they like, assign us an order and a clan, and we're set. Henceforth, Sensei, myself, Devon and Bobbie lost our names and became Black Tiger, Iron Mountain, Shadow Djinn, and Wrath of Heaven.
Yes, I'm Iron Mountain. Just roll with it.
Now, with us on the stage would be four other people. They were professional dancers from New York- some very talented chaps who specialized in hip-hop and break dancing styles, but also were good at ballet, tap, and some other stuff. They would run out with us carrying our weapons, and would present our weapons to us before we started our routines. They were trapped in heavy leather armor and solid helmets to make them look like samurai. In fact, the armor props were borrowed from the prop stores of The Last Samurai, which was fairly bad-ass. Forthcoming photos might show us trying on the armor and the helmets. One suit of armor had big brass nipple rings on it. Yes, go on, imagine how much we fooled around with it. Really imagine it.
Their costumes, while heavy and clunky, were at least cool. Our costumes were not so. We brought our uniforms, but they had these color-coded... things. Each clan banner had a color, and so we had vests and headbands of that color. The vests... well, think back to Mortal Kombat. Remember Skorpion and Sub-Zero? Those yellow and blue tops they wore? Yeah. That's what we got. Complete with headband and big poofy wrist gauntlets. Sweet Jesus, it was bad. Photos, again, forthcoming.
But we're ok. We get dressed, we get our gear and our banners, and we're ready. The matches are about to begin.
Chapter Four: "So we've got... a hyoooge guy theory?"
Sumo wrestlers are generally large guys. You know it's frightening when the small ones weighed in at 275. Of course, that's not as frightening as watching the 440-lb guy slapping his chest in defiant challenge to his opponent. Clash Of The Titans, indeed.
The matches are quick, though- rarely lasting more than ten seconds once the action started. I'd finish quick too if I had a ref shouting "MAGOTA MAGOTA MAGOTA!" every three seconds... but that's just me. Still, sumo wrestling is fun, exciting to watch, and we really got into it.
And then our first appearance takes place. The announcer calls us forth. The tekko drums rumble. We jog out with banners in hand and leap to the stage with as much agility as we can muster. The crowd immediately yells, "MORTAL KOMBAT!"
I suppose we did foresee that.
Despite all issues, despite all nerves, despite the surreality of it all, we get through our stuff, and it looks good. I mess up my routine, but fake my way through it and somehow the audience doesn't notice too much. Everyone else admits that they screwed their bits up too. So, all in all, success.
Conclusion
Once it's all over, we take some pics of ourselves for rememberance, because, hey, we look completely goofy and why not remember such a thing? I meet up with katieledge and fizrep who came to watch; they seem to have enjoyed the entire spectacle. Then I hear the others calling my name, so I run back.
We're in a crowd of spectators and sumo wrestlers. Some of the wrestlers are mingling with the crowd and autographing the programmes for the kids. But once done, the kids are coming to us and asking for our autographs.
???
Maybe one day, far in the future, someone will be cleaning out their attic and pull out a programme for the World Sumo League bout in the Meadowlands and think back to the day when they met Iron Mountain and got his autograph. But I sincerely doubt that.
We signed programmes. We signed plushie sumo dolls (I should have got one of those). We signed some girl's arm. We posed. Somehow we had turned into a localized Power Ranger team. Well, up until some kind ran from me saying "Yay! I got them all!" and I realized, "Oh shit, I'm actually a Pokemon."
The dance choreographer (who was the Sun Goddess and our main contact) thanked us and took down our names to give to the coordinators "so you guys can get paid."
Again, ???
Well... ok. Surprise money is fine by me. The perfect end to a surreal day.
Postscript: Full Circle To Beer
Sensei, his wife, katieledge and I go out after this for a beer to celebrate and unwind. We're laughing about pretty much everything. Sensei says we should put on shades and hats so that we're not recognized by the paparazzi and our legions of fans.
I countered, "We should revel in our celebrity. Walk into that bar and say 'Black Tiger and Iron Mountain demand beer!'"
Sensei followed with "Do you know who this is? No? Maybe this bright orange foam vest will give you a hint? No? How about this orange headband? Still no idea? Well, let's just add these poofy gauntlets. Now do you know who this is?"
"I'M IRON FUCKING MOUNTAIN!"
Exit, stage left.
Post-postscript: Yet More Beer
Sensei leaves a cryptic voicemail Saturday night, while I am loading up on beer:
"We know who you are."
Post-post-postscript: Now Even More Visually Appealing
In this journal entry, I show you all the pictures so you can really appreciate the horror that goes with this tale. Look, if you dare, but remember that some things cannot be unseen, like large hairy men colliding in a tsunami of flesh. You have been warned.
Prologue
Most of you know that I've been studying karate for almost twelve years now. It's fun, I enjoy it, it keeps me from getting too chubby, I like teaching, and my skill, while debatable, is at least good enough to be considered respectable.
Our school is actually full of a lot of talented individuals, most of whom are young hyper-energetic infinitely flexible teenagers. As a result, we have a demonstration team that routinely goes out to events and performs showy martial arts stuff to wow the crowds and get people interested. This team has performed for Z-100's Jingle Ball and done a show at the Tropicana in Atlantic City. They're really good.
I am not one of them. I just teach them.
So it doesn't surprise me when, on Tuesday, I learn that our demonstration team was asked to perform at the World Sumo League match being held in the Continental Airlines Arena in the Meadowlands on Friday. That's pretty cool, I think- the Meadowlands is a huge venue. Plus, sumo is always funny. So I'm obliged to announce this to all classes that I'm teaching, so they can, if they have the right channel, tune in to watch.
Therein lies my first error.
Chapter One: "It's A Trap!"
Thursday night finds myself and katieledge and her colleague Nicole sitting in a bar discussing the differences between men and women. Or something like that. Whatever we were talking about, it went down well with beer.
Ring, ring. Hmm, that's my phone. Ah, it's Sensei. Odd for him to call at 10:00 pm; must be something important.
It's not so great- one of the kids has separated his shoulder practicing for the demo. He's in the hospital. He is out of the running. Ow, I think. That's bad... but why call me?
"We need you to take his place. You're the only one that can fill in."
Oooohhhhhhhh... shit.
(Remember that part above where I said I wasn't like those hyper-powered superteens? Yeah. I'm really not.)
I say "yes, I'll do it." Because I'm an idiot.
Chapter Two: The Rundown
Needless to say, I'm completely unprepared for what awaits me. I spend about four hours the next morning practicing a few routines, sweating more out of nervousness than heat or work. I am absolutely out of my league and I know it. I'm foreseeing something huge, and something that I will mess up beyond compare. I'm chewing myself apart mentally.
A turkey sub for lunch does fix a lot of that, though. Must be the tryptophin.
But practice must end sometime, and we had to get there to find out exactly what we were doing. So we head off to the Meadowlands for our blind date with destiny.
As a side note, the teens were all "Oooh, we get to go into the secret tunnely back entrance to the arena, neat!" They're so easily amused...
We're escorted to our dressing room, leave our stuff there, and then are brought out to the arena. I believe normally it's used for hockey (NJ Devils?) and basketball (NJ Nets?) (my sports knowledge is not exactly top-of-the-line...). Now there's a small raised platform in the center, with a ring on it. It's ready for sumo wrestling.
We meet a director, who explains that we're just going to need a few segments of material from each person, nothing more than a minute or so of action. That's not so bad- we had prepared about four minutes each of stuff to do. We demonstrate, he picks and chooses, and voila. Then we learn the story.
Interlude: The Story
The World Sumo League is a traveling tourney of sumo wrestlers who are bring the sport of sumo outside of Japan and into other countries. All the wrestlers are non-Japanese, but they are keeping to the traditions and styles of proper sumo. These events are flashed up to appeal to mass-market audiences, and so the wrestlers are all divided into four "clans", with the clans pitting first against themselves to select a "best of" from each clan, and then pitting the four bests in a final round.
"So where do the karate guys fit in?" you might wonder. Wonder no more. At four different intervals, the "clans" are introduced to the audience. The MC reads off a passage of story text, and then the spirits of the clans come forward to perform for the Sun Goddess. It gets kinda hazy there, but essentially, the four of us were the spirits of the clans. So, at these moments in the show, we would run out, bearing standards of the clans, take corners at the sumo ring, and then the Sun Goddess would appear and bid one of us to perform. We perform, we finish, the stage goes black, we all retreat, and a few matches later it happens again.
Trust me, it hasn't started getting ridiculous yet.
Chapter Three: "I Am The Shogun!"
Ok. We get the picture and how it's being run. It's not as much a demonstration as it is a performance. They choose the material they like, assign us an order and a clan, and we're set. Henceforth, Sensei, myself, Devon and Bobbie lost our names and became Black Tiger, Iron Mountain, Shadow Djinn, and Wrath of Heaven.
Yes, I'm Iron Mountain. Just roll with it.
Now, with us on the stage would be four other people. They were professional dancers from New York- some very talented chaps who specialized in hip-hop and break dancing styles, but also were good at ballet, tap, and some other stuff. They would run out with us carrying our weapons, and would present our weapons to us before we started our routines. They were trapped in heavy leather armor and solid helmets to make them look like samurai. In fact, the armor props were borrowed from the prop stores of The Last Samurai, which was fairly bad-ass. Forthcoming photos might show us trying on the armor and the helmets. One suit of armor had big brass nipple rings on it. Yes, go on, imagine how much we fooled around with it. Really imagine it.
Their costumes, while heavy and clunky, were at least cool. Our costumes were not so. We brought our uniforms, but they had these color-coded... things. Each clan banner had a color, and so we had vests and headbands of that color. The vests... well, think back to Mortal Kombat. Remember Skorpion and Sub-Zero? Those yellow and blue tops they wore? Yeah. That's what we got. Complete with headband and big poofy wrist gauntlets. Sweet Jesus, it was bad. Photos, again, forthcoming.
But we're ok. We get dressed, we get our gear and our banners, and we're ready. The matches are about to begin.
Chapter Four: "So we've got... a hyoooge guy theory?"
Sumo wrestlers are generally large guys. You know it's frightening when the small ones weighed in at 275. Of course, that's not as frightening as watching the 440-lb guy slapping his chest in defiant challenge to his opponent. Clash Of The Titans, indeed.
The matches are quick, though- rarely lasting more than ten seconds once the action started. I'd finish quick too if I had a ref shouting "MAGOTA MAGOTA MAGOTA!" every three seconds... but that's just me. Still, sumo wrestling is fun, exciting to watch, and we really got into it.
And then our first appearance takes place. The announcer calls us forth. The tekko drums rumble. We jog out with banners in hand and leap to the stage with as much agility as we can muster. The crowd immediately yells, "MORTAL KOMBAT!"
I suppose we did foresee that.
Despite all issues, despite all nerves, despite the surreality of it all, we get through our stuff, and it looks good. I mess up my routine, but fake my way through it and somehow the audience doesn't notice too much. Everyone else admits that they screwed their bits up too. So, all in all, success.
Conclusion
Once it's all over, we take some pics of ourselves for rememberance, because, hey, we look completely goofy and why not remember such a thing? I meet up with katieledge and fizrep who came to watch; they seem to have enjoyed the entire spectacle. Then I hear the others calling my name, so I run back.
We're in a crowd of spectators and sumo wrestlers. Some of the wrestlers are mingling with the crowd and autographing the programmes for the kids. But once done, the kids are coming to us and asking for our autographs.
???
Maybe one day, far in the future, someone will be cleaning out their attic and pull out a programme for the World Sumo League bout in the Meadowlands and think back to the day when they met Iron Mountain and got his autograph. But I sincerely doubt that.
We signed programmes. We signed plushie sumo dolls (I should have got one of those). We signed some girl's arm. We posed. Somehow we had turned into a localized Power Ranger team. Well, up until some kind ran from me saying "Yay! I got them all!" and I realized, "Oh shit, I'm actually a Pokemon."
The dance choreographer (who was the Sun Goddess and our main contact) thanked us and took down our names to give to the coordinators "so you guys can get paid."
Again, ???
Well... ok. Surprise money is fine by me. The perfect end to a surreal day.
Postscript: Full Circle To Beer
Sensei, his wife, katieledge and I go out after this for a beer to celebrate and unwind. We're laughing about pretty much everything. Sensei says we should put on shades and hats so that we're not recognized by the paparazzi and our legions of fans.
I countered, "We should revel in our celebrity. Walk into that bar and say 'Black Tiger and Iron Mountain demand beer!'"
Sensei followed with "Do you know who this is? No? Maybe this bright orange foam vest will give you a hint? No? How about this orange headband? Still no idea? Well, let's just add these poofy gauntlets. Now do you know who this is?"
"I'M IRON FUCKING MOUNTAIN!"
Exit, stage left.
Post-postscript: Yet More Beer
Sensei leaves a cryptic voicemail Saturday night, while I am loading up on beer:
"We know who you are."
Post-post-postscript: Now Even More Visually Appealing
In this journal entry, I show you all the pictures so you can really appreciate the horror that goes with this tale. Look, if you dare, but remember that some things cannot be unseen, like large hairy men colliding in a tsunami of flesh. You have been warned.