All is quiet at the North Finchley dohyo. The lamps are lit and the storm shutters are down. We’ve repeated the unrepeatabled, repracticed, hard, as you will soon see. We are hardened. All is as it should be, our shoulders ache. Our mawashi are on a full boil wash and the sacred clay has been swept of detritus. Within the circled, notched, there is stillness. All are at rest. Sure of our powers. We’ve attended our chanko nabe and zider. We are happy.
The world of the true champion is upon us.
Let us remember how it used to be.
Ozeki, the golden.
Yok the over floralled Yak.
Remember this when the traps are opened in opinion again.
From nowhere, not from the prepared nursery garten, nor from the breeding mares. Never from the madrassas, never from the inbred schools. Their sacred, secretted, blastomered family. Always asking and beseeching us to tend their five legged issue, after birth.
Never from these singular.
Always from the vulgar.