Never finish a game, is what I’m saying.) The same winter I lost to Sumo YouTube (and Sumo Twitter), I spent mesmerized by Olympian Holly Mangold’s clean-and-jerks, explosive as a powder keg and effortless in organizing not one but several lifting forms in a matter of seconds by Texas Rangers’ slab of marble Prince Fielder, characteristically squatting one of his teammates I even plugged in my PS3 and revisited Tekken 6 to play as Bob, my favourite character in the entire series, also the fattest, and oddly free of the body shaming ridicule common to most video games. I’ve written about my attraction to fat people before, but this is… different. But what I do know is that what I increasingly find magisterial, unquestionably beautiful, involves the smashing of 400-pound bellies. Exactly how much of beauty or power is that elusiveness, I don’t know. 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….
0 kommentar(er)
