Safe in the knowledge that Homasho needed no advice on how to batter his tsukebito, Shikoroyama checked if the press had any advice on how Homasho could have beaten Kokkai more convincingly the previous day.

By this time, amidst widespread heavy breathing and deep coughing, the two youngest deshi had been fought to exhaustion by an airborne rice-bag and had relapsed into shiko. Every couple of minutes, they turned uneasily towards their stablemaster, as if expecting him to admonish them. When he did look up from his paper, though, their expectations were unfounded. ‘That’s good for today. Get changed,’ he said, abrasively, prompting the two novices to lunge for their towels and scurry to the changing rooms.

Twenty minutes later, and a peek through the sliding doors revealed that they had been charged with preparing the morning’s first meal. This being the case, the oyakata must have considerable faith in the supervisory skills of the stable’s chef, a well-built twenty-something with the words ‘Love and Peace’ emblazoned on his white t-shirt. I admired how comfortable Shikoroyama seemed having offloaded the preparation of his meal onto two teenagers who could barely catch a rice-bag. Then again, although the rookies may not wish to realise it, these learn-on-the-job cookery sessions could be the biggest favour that sumo ever does for them. Should they fail to break into the elite few who regularly grace sumo’s salaried ranks, they