I arrived at the Ryōgoku Kokugikan in Tokyo about half an hour early, which is how I accidentally became part of a very specific pre-sumo ritual: standing around outside the arena with a crowd of people who did not have tickets.
That’s also where I saw my first sumo wrestlers.
They weren’t being bragadocious. They weren’t posing (other than with a smile for the fans). They were just… walking away from the building. The massive, unmistakable athletes moving calmly through a crowd that suddenly felt very aware of itself.
There were plenty of people gathered. And plenty of photos were taken. But no one was rushing them, and there was no sense of haughtiness. This was a clear indication of what I was about to experience at my very first Sumo tournament (not that I knew that yet).
Later on, my guide Kaori would explain the rule:
If a wrestler is walking away from the arena, they’re finished for the day and you can ask them to stop for photos.
If they’re walking toward it, you leave them alone.
Meeting Kaori (and Realizing How Unprepared I Was)
When Kaori arrived, she was all smiles. She oozed warmth, was very energetic, and was immediately clockable as someone who genuinely loves what she does. Along with us was Michael, a guy from San Francisco who I learned works at YouTube and ALSO clearly knew a lot about sumo.
Like… a lot a lot.
This is when it became very obvious that I was wildly underqualified for this experience. Not that I wasn’t welcome, but that I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
My sumo knowledge at that point was roughly:
- Big guys
- Very strong
That was it.
No favourite wrestlers. No understanding of rankings. No grasp of what I was about to watch for the next several hours. Honestly, it was a bit humbling. But it was also kind of the perfect way to experience something as legendary as sumo.
A Little Context Goes a Long Way
Before we went inside, Kaori gave us a short history of sumo. It was just enough to shift how I was about to experience it.
Sumo dates back over a thousand years. It began as a Shinto ritual, tied to harvests and spiritual practice. And despite living very much in the modern world, it hasn’t been redesigned to keep up with modern attention spans. The rituals remain. The pacing remains. The structure remains. One of the many things Japan does skillfully is tradition.
I understood though, that this wasn’t nostalgia. It was continuity. That alone made me begin to realize that this wasn’t going to feel like a sporting event in the way I understood sports (not that I understand sports).
Box Seats, But Make Them Uncomfortable
Inside the arena, we took our places in box seats. I do think it’s important to clarify: These are not box seats in the North American sense. There are no chairs. No armrests. No legroom. Just a small, metal-barred section with thin cushions on the floor, where you sit cross-legged for several hours.
I am, by Japanese standards, a large human. And so I knew it was undoubtedly a foregone conclusion that by the end of the tournament, every joint in my lower body would have an opinion about the seating arrangement.
Still… it was worth it.
From where we were sitting, the dohyō (also known as the ring) felt almost close. Intimate, though not so intimate we would have to worry about a 300 pound man falling from the sky and crushing us. The ring was the centre of the entire room, with everything else quietly orbiting it.
Learning How to Watch
I soon came to learn that there is a lot of waiting in sumo. Wrestlers approach the ring. Then step back. Reset. Throw salt. Stomp. Breathe. Repeat.
At first, I kept expecting the real action to start. But then I noticed no one else seemed to mind. Whether it’s the brain rot, or my North American sensibility, I appeared to be the only person waiting impatiently. Immediately, I checked myself and just let the experience unfold.
Eventually, Kaori leaned over and said something simple. “Watch his feet.”
And then it all sort of clicked.
Once you stop watching for force and start watching for balance, timing, and tiny shifts in weight, sumo changes completely. It’s not chaotic. It’s controlled. Almost restrained.
And when the bouts happen—which are sometimes over in literal seconds or less—they feel less like explosions and more like conclusions.
The Unexpected Highlights
By the end of the day, I realized how lucky we’d been.
We witnessed multiple bouts that had to be redone because the outcome was too close to call. This was something that Kaori said was genuinely rare. We chanted and cheered for her favourite wrestlers. We laughed. We (I) learned.
But more than that, we sat in a room with thousands of mostly Japanese spectators, all completely tuned in to something that doesn’t ask to be explained or modernized. No one was there for spectacle. There was no countdown clock and pump up music. They were all there to pay attention, to participate, and to celebrate.
What I Took With Me
I couldn’t tell you who won most of the matches I watched. But it’s not really about that (at least for me). What stayed with me was the feeling of being present inside something ancient that’s still very much alive. It’s not preserved behind glass, but practiced, imperfectly and perfectly, over and over again.
I went in knowing almost nothing about sumo. And I left understanding that knowing less sometimes lets you see more.
And that, unexpectedly, felt like the whole point.