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Yet the flood of gaijin, while undoubtedly raising sumo's level of athleticism, is also eroding its popularity. Sniffy sumo fans and journalists scrutinize foreign wrestlers and pounce on any sign of un-Japaneseness. Take recently retired grand champion Asashoryu, who was deemed by the local press as lacking hin, or dignity. Practically everything Asashoryu did reeked of a lack of hin: failing to defer to a sumo elder in a bathhouse hallway, tugging on an opponent's topknot, pumping his fist after a victory. "If Asashoryu had been Japanese, there would have been some criticism, but it would not have been as severe," says economist Nakajima. Hawaiian-born Konishiki (who started life as Saleva'a Atisano'e) was perhaps treated worse in the 1990s, when the 633-lb. (287 kg) wrestler was denied an expected promotion to yokozuna by the JSA, presumably because he was a little too individualistic — a little too, ahem, American. (See pictures of Japan's stagnant economy.)
So how are the colossi of sumo supposed to act? "Like salarymen," kids Nakajima, referring to the faceless drones who toiled for Japan Inc. during the bubble years. Except it's not really a joke. Former wrestler Tououyama details a typical day in a sumo stable, where every athlete must live and train for the duration of his career: Reveille is at 5:30 a.m.; then comes a full morning of practice. Lunch is eaten in order of rank, followed by a session with a topknot stylist and a couple of hours of nap time. Then it's on to housework, a workout at the gym and dinner preparations. From 7:30 to 10:30 p.m., wrestlers are given free time. Then lights go out, with athletes all sleeping in the same room. Junior stablemates must act as glorified servants to their elders. "It was difficult until I got used to this life," recalls Tououyama. "The seniority system is absolute."
The problem, of course, is that with fewer Japanese desiring to be salarymen, an even smaller number want to replicate that experience while wearing a fat suit. Nearly every facet of sumo culture is designed to encourage humility. While other Japanese athletes make gazillions of dollars blasting homers in the U.S. or scoring goals in Britain, the highest-ranked sumo star gets paid what a senior Japanese executive does — $300,000 a year. Low-level wrestlers get just a living stipend. Changing stables is not allowed. And the sumo workplace stresses stoic reserve over individual flair. After matches, there is no savoring of victory, no showboating — and certainly no displays of petulance from the loser. Even in postmatch interviews, the victor rarely expresses joy, just a few mumbled words and rote gratitude to his stable bosses.