One of the lesser-known benefits of joining the Tatsunami International Fan Club is that it includes access to observe asa-geiko, the stable’s morning practice. I had joined the Fan Club mainly to get a regular banzuke and because I thought it would be interesting. Once I started planning a trip to Japan, I came to the realization that membership also came with this perk! Hence, I reached out early in March to schedule a trip to view the practice. They told me to get back to them in May, which I dutifully did.
However, they indicated my preferred dates were likely in the “rest period” after the May tournament. My disappointment faded when they got back to me a few weeks later saying that we could attend the first practice! My family and I were excited for the opportunity, especially after our own sumo training experience with former top division wrestler Kyokutaisei. Having spent time doing even a small fraction of the exercises ourselves, we arrived with a new appreciation for what happens inside a professional sumo stable.
Gifts, Gratitude, and a Disappointing Start
As is customary when visiting someone’s home in Japan, we wanted to arrive bearing gifts. We brought large chocolate bars for all of the rikishi and stable staff, a bottle of whiskey for the oyakata, and a supply of Maryland’s finest culinary export, Old Bay seasoning, for the chanko-ban.
When we arrived, however, it quickly became apparent that the stable was having an exceptionally busy morning. Tokokei was juggling multiple responsibilities and, in addition to his normal duties, was tasked with receiving visitors and finding seats for everyone. The gifts clearly caught him by surprise. Before we had much chance to explain what they were or who they were intended for, he hurried them off to a back room and returned to managing the growing crowd.
Within a few minutes, the keiko-ba filled with roughly fifty additional visitors who had come as part of a commercial tour group. The room became packed, and we found ourselves seated toward the back. While that limited our ability to take photographs, a more professional photographer who had arrived earlier and captured plenty of excellent images of the session.
For us, the biggest disappointment was not where we sat, but rather that we never really had an opportunity to properly thank the stable for allowing us to attend or personally present the gifts. Near the end of practice, I briefly managed to catch Tokokei’s attention long enough to explain that the whiskey was intended for the oyakata and that the Old Bay was a kind of Maryland equivalent to shichimi togarashi. Given everything he was dealing with that morning, the conversation lasted only a few moments.
Afterward, we were uncertain whether the gifts had actually reached their intended recipients. Despite a couple of inquiries, we received no acknowledgment and eventually had to follow up several times before receiving confirmation that everything had indeed been delivered.
What made this stand out was that it was so different from my experiences with Japanese friends, colleagues, and personal events. Even our later experience in Kyoto, for example, where we participated in a tea ceremony held in a private home as part of a paid cultural tour. The Kyoto hosts had similarly never before received gifts from foreign visitors, yet their reaction was remarkably warm and appreciative. We left feeling as though a genuine personal connection had been made.
For that reason, the experience at Tatsunami-beya felt unusual rather than disappointing. My impression was not that anyone intended to be dismissive. Rather, the stable appeared entirely focused on running a busy practice session and accommodating a large influx of visitors. The fan club program itself also seemed relatively new, and perhaps international members bearing gifts were simply outside the normal routine.
In the end, we were pleased to learn that the gifts had been received. Still, because gift-giving and expressions of gratitude are such visible parts of Japanese hospitality, we had hoped for the opportunity to personally hand them over, explain their significance, and know they had arrived without having to seek confirmation afterward. That small missed connection was perhaps the only misstep in what was otherwise a fascinating morning at the stable.
An Immediate Reminder of Our Own Training
We entered during the middle of practice and instantly recognized many of the warm-up exercises we had learned from Kyokutaisei. The familiar shiko, suriashi, teppo, and stretching routines gave us a tiny glimpse into the structure behind professional sumo training.
This was the first practice following the May tournament. Two weeks had passed, but some wrestlers were still visibly dealing with the accumulated wear and tear of fifteen days of competition. Others looked to be in phenomenal condition.
The contrast between how my family and I felt after a single hour of amateur training and what these wrestlers did every day was staggering.
Watching them train was less like observing athletes and more like watching Olympians prepare for competition.
As someone who used to carry significant extra weight, I found myself especially impressed. Exercise is difficult enough when carrying substantial mass. Watching these rikishi repeatedly hurl hundreds of pounds across the dohyo made me wonder just how powerful their cardiovascular systems must be. Their hearts and lungs are extraordinary.
Rhythm Everywhere
One theme became apparent throughout the morning: rhythm.
Some rikishi moved with astonishing speed and grace. What surprised me most was that size was not the determining factor. Injury status seemed to matter far more than body weight. Several wrestlers were absolutely dancing across the dohyo.
The movements were fluid and efficient. There was flow. There was timing.
Even outside of training bouts, rhythm appeared everywhere. The rikishi sweeping the dohyo worked in coordinated patterns that were almost hypnotic to watch. During suriashi drills, many placed their feet in nearly identical spots, moving forward into what seemed like the same footprints over and over again.
The repetition created its own kind of beauty.
The Collective and the Individual
Another thing that stood out was the constant low-level care the wrestlers showed one another.
On the edges of the room, several appeared to be doing what looked remarkably like physical therapy. Some rolled balls under their feet. Others stretched shoulders and backs. Many taped injuries.
Rikishi routinely helped each other apply tape, adjust supporters, or check painful areas.
There was an unmistakable sense of collective effort.
If you’re expecting the hyper-dramatic atmosphere of Netflix’s Sanctuary, you may be surprised. The stable felt much more cooperative than confrontational.
Yet the paradox was obvious.
The training environment is communal, but the sport itself is ultimately individual. Every wrestler must step onto the dohyo alone.
When the Real Work Begins
Although training had been underway when we arrived, actual sparring didn’t begin until roughly an hour after many wrestlers had entered the keiko-ba.
The moment it started, the energy changed completely.
Every tachiai produced a thunderous crack. Not a slap. Not a bump.
A crack.
The type of collision that feels capable of knocking the wind out of you even as a spectator.
Sometimes wrestlers slammed into the walls with such force that the building itself seemed to shake. More than once I found myself wondering how the structure survives daily exposure to this punishment.
The format resembled a king-of-the-hill rotation. Winners remained on the dohyo until they could no longer continue. The privilege of choosing the next opponent belonged to them. Often several hopeful challengers would step forward requesting a match.
There was absolutely no idling.
Everyone not currently fighting remained active. Some stretched. Others lifted weights. Some drank water. Everyone watched closely, preparing for their turn.
The sekitori were present, including Ōkaryū and Meisei, though Hōshōryū was absent that morning (still nursing the injury that took him out of the May tournament) and the top men were not immediately participating in the same manner as the younger rikishi.
Perhaps the most surprising observation came once fatigue set in.
By around 9:10 a.m., nearly everyone was breathing heavily. Sweat dripped from faces. Eyes were visibly stinging. The room felt increasingly hot.
And yet the pace increased. The deeper they went into practice, the faster many of them became.
Logic suggests exhaustion should produce slower movements. Instead, something else happened. Technique emerged. Efficiency emerged. Timing sharpened.
At times the bouts looked close to hon-basho quality. More than once it became difficult not to cheer.
One tachiai was so violent that Ōkaryū emerged with a bloody nose. He plugged it with tissues and continued training without drama. Just back to work.
The speed, balance, foot placement, and weight transfer are remarkable. A tiny mistake can mean the difference between victory and defeat.
This probably explains why so many rikishi seemed obsessed with footwork and why they repeatedly practiced moving through exactly the same positions.
The Only Rest Is More Work
The only meaningful breaks occurred when the dohyo was swept.
Occasionally younger wrestlers passed along some “chikara mizu” or “power water” to those who continued to bout. Otherwise, activity never stopped.
The atmosphere around the stable remained remarkably quiet throughout much of this. The foreigners were listening in on their translation headphones. A few of their kids were bored.
The dominant sounds were heavy breathing, feet scraping clay, bodies colliding, and occasional instructions.
By 9:40 a.m., the heat inside the room had become intense even for spectators. For the rikishi, it was simply another training day.
Final Thoughts
The greatest value of visiting a stable after you’ve tried even a little sumo yourself is perspective. Before training with Kyokutaisei, I admired professional rikishi.
After training, and after watching Tatsunami-beya’s wrestlers prepare for another tournament, I respect them on an entirely different level.
What looks slow on television is much faster in person – even training bouts that are for practice and experience, not for the win-loss record in hon-basho. What looks exhausting on television does not even begin to capture reality.
A few days of amateur sumo gave us the reference point. A morning at Tatsunami-beya showed us the summit. And from the back of a crowded room, watching men get faster as exhaustion overtook them, it was impossible not to appreciate just how extraordinary these elite athletes really are. This appreciation was the gift we received from Tatsunami.
