Silently, we entered their training space.

The room’s warmth and humidity placed the senses on alert. The clay surface on which they slid their taped feet was sprinkled with fine sand. Both rose into the air, and the resulting suspension flared my nostrils.

We were the only observers, Hiro and I.

Surrounding us on three sides, more than twenty sumo wrestlers of the Isegahama Stable were going through their paces. They worked in pairs and solo, at a rhythm and intensity that appeared enshrined.

The Stable Master observed all that transpired. He was a giant of a man, Mongolian-Japanese in origin, seated in a languid stance. I watched as he inhaled the last of his Mevius Extra Lights, and stubbed it out among the others. At 33, he had just retired from a triumphant sumo career, reaching the apex of his sport. When decline sets in, the Yokozuna is expected to step aside, and coaching is a frequent option.

From time to time, he called one of his troop for a private chat. The younger man would crouch to listen, neck craned forward and nodded vigorously once the learning point became clear. Although the Master would check his phone on occasion, or walk to the side of the room to lift weights, his control remained absolute.

We had arrived before 8am, and no one would eat until training was done.

It was a quiet space – one of seriousness and hard work. The men of this stable looked between 17 and 24 years old, composed of subsistence-professionals (black muwashi) and full-fledged professionals (white muwashi). Sumo wrestling was their life and, for the latter, a lucrative profession in rewards and renown.

For some, this was the final practice before entering the Fukuoka Kokusai Arena that same afternoon, in front of 10,000 people. Japan’s sumo tournament was now in Kyushu. It has six alternate months of action – and November’s venue and crowd are considered charmingly mild and intimate, compared with the frenzy of Tokyo.

***

Hiro has loved sumo wrestling since a child. In retirement, he now travels Japan as a sumo guide.

‘It doesn’t pay well’ he said, smiling. But he gives me the impression it pays well.

We find immediate rapport over a cup of coffee. To my surprise, I am the only person on his tour today, and I grab the opportunity to pump him with questions.

He speaks of the art of sumo wrestling, its history and traditions, and the men who dedicate their lives to the sport. A detail strikes me forcefully, but he has already moved on before I can enquire further.

***

In order to maintain silence in the training space, Hiro uses a whiteboard to scribble down what we are witnessing. I respond with observation or questions, and the ongoing exchange blackens both our hands. My guide is expert, and lists titles and reputations of many of the individuals, as we watch them practice.

But I am less consumed by the honours and titles. It is the skill that draws me in. The famously bulky physiques of these wrestlers stand in opposition to the balletic fitness now on display.

One does the splits beside me. Another lifts a man twice his weight off his legs, placing him outside the ring.

When skulls collide, the sound produced is hollow yet shockingly violent. And indeed, when chest meets chest, the shrill crack of flesh can make an observer wince. Sweat pours from the young men, but they rarely lose their breath. The Master does not want his stablemates to peak too soon.

From time to time, a few of the wrestlers meet my eye as I discreetly take photos – a privilege Hiro has negotiated for me. One smiles as he preps his weights. He is not camera shy. But then again, the kid is no more than 20 years old, and surely part of an Insta generation.

In that moment, the detail Hiro mentioned returns to me, again forcefully.

I grab his whiteboard, using block capitals so every word might be legible.

‘It is a big sacrifice to die at 65’

I was referring to the outrageously short life expectancy of professional sumo wrestlers in Japan. These young men pay for their passion by losing more than ten years of their lives.

He had explained it as a throwaway fact. But now, reading my words on the whiteboard, Hiro bows his head for a beat. His eyes have moistened.

He nods back at me slowly, as the clash of flesh and the purging of sweat continues around us.

‘Yes’, he mouths, in agreement.

A sacrifice. Yes.