Power has the same allure-we only understand what it can do, and to whom, after a demonstration. Stronger, too.Ī theory: We crave beauty because, like the unalterable spectra of light itself, it finds us, and not the other way around. I want to eclipse this life and the next life and the one after that. I want to occupy as much space as possible. When mountains grapple, everything leaps. The magnetism of a match is hard to avoid: hair-trigger movements glistening, heaving bodies the suppleness of the entire thing. I don’t have to convince you of sumo’s heat-a 265-year-old sport can do that on its own. Imagine challenging Hell with thighs prowling, plump and absolute. Shared across all sumo, however, is the shiko: An iconic raising of each leg, flexed skyward to the heavens and brought down with a thunderclap. They enter the ring with a disciplined dance of fat and muscle reserved only for their select ranks, known as the dosho iri. Seventy-one in number by some counts, they’re sumo wrestling’s elite, named after the braided length of rope that wraps, confection-like, around each tectonic waist. Kakuryū Rikisaburō, Hakuhō Shō, Asashōryū Akinori….
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