12th day in the Month of Minharu in the year 203 of the Age of Sasuke
Hiroshi stood a few feet above the judges and some other important people who decided to attend the juniors tournament. He stood and dug his feet into the clay ring known as a dohyo. His toes curled and uncurled, feeling the salt on the ground left behind by the previous sumotori’s salt throw. A look around at the pillows on the floor immediately around the raised ring showed only a few people there. It showed the same in the stands around the arena. Few people cared about the junior part of the local sumo tournament.
There were five people who had to be there, which Hiroshi thought looked a little disinterested in the whole thing. They all wore formal black and fine gray robes and they were the other judges, also known as Shimpan, for the match and a timekeeper. The shimpan would call a special judges meeting known as a mono-ii to deliberate and discuss who the winner would be and if they agreed with the ring judges ruling. They could overrule and decide on a new winner, agree with the judge, or they could even declare a rematch.
That didn’t matter, he wasn’t doing this for those people. He was competing in this sumo tournament in memory of his late father, Jiro. Jiro loved sumo so much and always tried to imbue the same love into his son. Hiroshi smiled a moment and looked at the clay he was standing on. He remembered when his father used to let him skip school and come watch the local tournaments that would happen here.
“Go Hiroshi!” a voice he knew came from one of the raised platforms that was the stands at the arena. Beyond the pillows on the floor, the arena was raised up in small platforms with small boxes three or four people could sit. Above the small open platforms at the last level there were actual bleachers, the cheap seats. This is where the voice came from.
Hiroshi lifted his head and scanned the small crowd, seeing his mother, Hikari, waving and clapping. His younger sister was standing next to their mother clapping hard as well, yelling gibberish as small children do. Hiroshi still smiled and as he watched his family cheer him on. He couldn’t raise his hands and wave back at them. It would be improper to do so, and sumo was a sport and ritual that prided itself on tradition and propriety. Still, he couldn’t help but give them both a small bow of his head.
He gave a small smile seeing them, squinting to see the sign his sister held up after they got his attention. It said his name in the old symbols that used to be used for the island's native language. It was a dead language now, only used for sumo terms. The runes that made the letters were only seen in tournaments by fans who made signs like his mother and sister had now.
After this he betrayed himself a little. While he told himself the crowd and people watching the bout didn’t matter, there were a few outside of his mother and sister who did matter. His eyes fluttered up to a darkened section high above all the boxes and stands. Thanks to his father, Hiroshi knew who sat up there. The stablemasters would watch their wrestlers and there might be some yokozuna up there if they had an interest in watching the juniors. The yokozuna were the highest ranked rikishi in the professional sumo world, and Hiroshi knew both of the current yokozuna were in this very town.
Would they be there watching? It was anyone’s guess. As flattering as it would be to have yokozuna up there watching him wrestle, he was hoping there would be a stablemaster or two. They would be the ones to really make his dream of becoming a rikishi a reality. In order to compete at the professional level, he had to be recruited by one of the stablemasters.
Sumo stables were like dormitories of men who lived together. They did more than just live together, Hiroshi knew. They trained, ate, and did pretty much everything together. It was almost militaristic the way they ran the stables, from what Hiroshi’s father used to tell him. The whole time the stablemaster and trainer and anyone else of any import would be there the entire time too, watching, correcting, and training.
Now he would call to Rei for power, and lifted his right arm up his side, extending it past his shoulder with his palm open. After he brought the arm back in, he’d squat as low as he could. Hiroshi could feel his muscles tense, he still wasn’t as flexible as he wished he could be. Coming to a stand, he’d lift his right leg and extend it up as high as he could like he was trying to do splits while standing on one leg. The clay made a small thud when his foot came stomping back down on the clay dohyo just as they said Kentaro did.
He now called to Kentaro, mirroring his movements with his right arm, now with his left. He called on Kentaro for strength, as it was said he was the strongest of the Kami. This whole ritual, and sumo in its entirety, was a ritual to pay respects to the war kami. He then lifted his left leg and pounded it into the dirt. The leg lifts and stomps were to mimic the movements of Kentaro when he fought Kenchi getting rid of the evil kami from the world.
Hiroshi breathed in deep the smell of wet clay from when the attendants watered down and swept the dohyo. It invigorated him. It was his turn now, he leaned down and grabbed a handful of salt from the bucket that was on his side of the ring in the corner. The salt was used to show that he wasn’t a cultivator. He didn’t seek immortality or use the power of the world in his fight. He relied on pure inner strength to get him through his fight. Hiroshi turned now and threw the salt in the air, letting it arc high up and fall. A quick lick to his finger on the hand that had the salt, and he slapped his hand on the belt loincloth combo he wore. The mawashi was a simple plain tan color, and Hiroshi reached in to give a scratch on his belly where the rough fabric irritated his skin a little.
Hiroshi walked inside the large circle that was painted on the dohyo, his heels touching the bound up straw that made up the outer limit of the ring. He was now standing directly across from his opponent for this playoff match. The boy opposing him was taller than Hiroshi by maybe a full head and slimmer as well. Hiroshi hadn’t fought him during the actual matches, but he had been watching the boys' style. They couldn’t look more opposite.
His opponent, Ren, was older than he was. All of his opponents had been older than Hiroshi was. The youngest you could normally be to enter this tournament was fifteen. Hiroshi was only allowed in as a favor to his mother, Hikari. Or well, that’s what his mother told him. Hiroshi knew it had as much to do with his father, and the tournament organizer feeling bad that Jiro was dead. He pushed the thought of his father from his mind once more. The death was still fresh on his mind and it wouldn’t do anything to help him in this bout.
Hiroshi was short and plump, which was part of the reason he had to work harder on being more flexible. It was harder to come to him than someone like Ren, his opponent. He looked Ren’s form over with his green eyes, the eyes of his mother. He then reached up to wipe a stray bit of his greased black hair that formed a mullet. He was still working to grow his chonmage, the topknot that sumotori and rikishi were known for.
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Hiroshi took a deep breath in and crouched down, spreading his knees and arms opened wide. This was to show he was meeting his opponent like Kentaro had, without weapons and with honor. The claps of their hands when they brought their arms together rang through the mostly empty stadium. All Hiroshi could really hear was his mother still clapping off in the distance.
Hiroshi desperately hoped he’d win this last match. It would crown the winner here, the regional champion of the island where they lived, Kokan. It was right outside of these city gates where Kentaro stood up for the people of Ryoku and saved them and birthed sumo. From here, Hiroshi would go to the capital city of Toko and wrestle in front of the Emperor of the entire Sasake Empire. It would be the first major step in fulfilling his father’s dreams for him.
Not only that, but it would prove to his mother that all the traveling they had done. They had gone to different tournaments. She spent much of the money she scraped together for tournament fees and equipment. He had to win this to prove it was all worth it. If Hiroshi did well and rose up the divisions, he’d be able to take care of her and his sister. He could probably provide better than even his father had ever been able to. This was all he wanted. To make his mother and father’s memory proud.
They approached each other after they stood back on their feet. Hiroshi and Ren met in the middle behind two painted lines on the clay. Now they mirrored each other once more, calling to Rei and then Kentaro and stomping their feet into the clay. Hiroshi looked up and met Ren’s brown eyes, his own face expressionless. Ren’s face looked down on Hiroshi, sneering in contempt.
“Hamster,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice low so only he and Hiroshi would hear.
It was normally a term of endearment. His friends and mother would normally call the hamster lovingly. With his short squat frame he did kind of resemble the way a hamster looked, and when he was eating he’d always fill his mouth so his cheeks puffed out. Jiro always laughed and told him that’s what he needed to do to compete in sumo.
“Quiet,” the judge's voice rang out in response to Ren’s insult, and woke Hiroshi from his thoughts and dreams.
Here, for the juniors, the judge was simply a judge. He wore a simple black outer robe and a white inner. Gyoji had a whole ranking system, not unlike the ranking system of the rikishi who competed at the highest levels. If Hiroshi made it to Koto, the gyoji, or referee, would probably be about the same age he was, as opposed to the adults who judged amateur and the juniors.
Ren nodded his head to the judge in compliance. Hiroshi kept his head pointed up and kept looking up as he crouched down into his starting position. He stared at Ren, his eyes narrowing a little. Hiroshi’s left fist was just behind the white line painted on the clay now. Ren looked down at him, still sneering. Hiroshi saw something though, something in Ren’s brown eyes. Was it fear? Was that why he still hadn’t crouched down to and ready himself for the taichi-ai, the first charge of the match.
Ren stayed upright until the Judge extended a hand towards his line in the clay. Ren’s sneer turned into a frown as he crouched down and looked Hiroshi in the eyes. Right here, in this position, two boys were equal. Age didn’t matter, neither did their position in society. These were just two would be sumotori, two rikishi hopefuls squaring off for honor and celebrating the Kami that came from their very own city.
It surprised Hiroshi when Ren didn’t linger and put his second fist on the clay right after his first. Ren may have been showing fear in his eyes when he looked at the younger, larger boy, but he wasn’t too scared to show that he’d be ready first. Horishi nodded his head and closed his eyes, listening to Ren’s breathing. Part of this process was supposed to be for the competitors' breath to match pace before the match actually started. This proved hard to do as Hiroshi’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest.
The fear was gone from Ren’s eyes when Hiroshi reopened his eyes and when Hiroshi was sure he lowered his second fist to dohyo. The skin on skin clap of their forms crashing into each other rang out through the arena. They were young, but their tachi-ai was fierce. They both wanted this win, it just came down to who needed it more. Who was willing to fight harder for it?
Hiroshi's right hand went up to Ren’s left arm, grabbing a hold of the muscle. Hiroshi could feel the grip on the left side of his mawashi, however. He knew this was how Ren won his previous bouts. If your opponent could get a decent grip on the mawashi, the ball was in their court and they could usually control their opponent with that grip.
Hiroshi could feel the slimmer boy's breast under his left hand. His mind raced for a way to make sure he didn’t lose this bout. There was only really one thing he could think of, using his larger form and belly to his advantage. Not that this was exactly a brilliant idea, there was a reason the best sumo wrestlers were larger men. Hiroshi’s arms extended, and he put all the strength and weight that he could behind his thrust in an attempt to thrust Ren away from him.
Hiroshi watched the boy stagger backwards, and he felt the grip loosen on his belt. In his follow up, he charged at Ren with all the force he could muster, his arms once more lashing out. Blow after blow from each of his open palms into the other boy's chest and throat made it so Ren could never regain his footing. Hiroshi watched Ren trip over the bales and fall out of the ring and off the dohyo and into one judge who sat outside of the ring.
“You’re out!” The referee called out and held a hand to the side of the dohyo that was Hiroshi’s as soon as Ren’s foot landed outside of the bale encircled ring. Or well, whichever part of Ren’s body it was that landed on the unsuspecting judge first.
Ren let out a startled yelp, his arms flailed to try to catch himself to regain some kind of balance so he didn’t fall. He failed and there was a loud grunt and yell as Ren landed on one of the ringside judges. Hiroshi flinched a little as Ren fell back and landed on the hard cement. It was good that the judge was there to break his fall.
Hiroshi did what honor dictated he must and stepped over to the edge of the clay ring. Ren was currently trying to disentangle himself from the judge's robes. He extended an arm down to Ren, not trying to hide the small smile on his lips for beating the more technical wrestler with apparent ease. It was a lot easier than Hiroshi could have expected.
When Ren was finally free of the judge and finished apologizing, which he did a lot of, he looked up at Hiroshi and glared. He didn’t take Hiroshi’s hand and climbed up the clay ring using a small step that was carved out about halfway up. He was standing next to Hiroshi when Hiroshi lowered his arm and Ren knocked his shoulder into the shorter boy.
Unphased, Hiroshi just went to his side of the ring and turned to look back at Ren, who was standing at attention. The judge was standing between them, off to the side of their eyelines. It wasn’t until Hiroshi bowed that the sounds around the arena came crashing in around him. It wasn’t loud by any means, the arena was still mostly empty. The arena wouldn’t fill until the next day when the real tournament began, and the rikishi began their tournament.
The sound of his mother rang through the entire arena. She clapped and yelled his name out. He couldn’t look at her, but he’d have to be deaf to not hear her. Hiroshi knew it was improper, but a grin spread across his lips as he watched Ren stormed off in defeat. He lowered his head and tried to hide the nervous laugh he let out and did one more squat. The excitement and nerves finally went away now that the match was over.
He felt the judge walk over and put a hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder, more impropriety. It didn’t matter, no one was watching. Hiroshi was sure now there was no one in the stablemaster box, no yokozuna to watch him win.
“Good job Hiroshi, your father would be proud,” the judge whispered. He even leaned down slightly to speak directly into Hiroshi’s ear.
Hiroshi swiped his right hand in a tegatana, which was an old way of thanking the judge. He thanked the judge for judging the match. The judge, though, this judge at least, would know this gesture was for more than just thanks for judging the bout. Hiroshi could barely contain himself as he stood and climbed down the dohyo and walked back to the locker room and prep area, he broke down crying.