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We always practiced at night. The dohyō, sumo ring, stood beside an occasionally maintained but well-used baseball diamond. Ringing from the bats of the Junior High boys cut through the night—no different than your local hometown park. Only a thin slice of asphalt lot away, the Kuma County Sumo Association was coming to life under the dim wattage of a few loose bulbs. “Oi, oi. Maikeru, ganbatte,” Akaike-San’s gravelly voice barked. He wanted me to fight harder. Akaike was my coach in a way: a source of advice and brash, tough love. My fingertips curled against the grit of Fukushima-San’s mawashi, sumo cloth. Our skin glistened with sweat under the pale light. The bushy hair covering my head buried into his clammy shoulder. Entwined in a deadlock, this match was at a standstill. Our labored breaths flowed into the saturated night air. I caught sight of Fukushima’s ankle pressed against the edge of the ring. I had him on the ropes. With a tense pull, my free hand lunged at his front leg. My goal was to hoist it up and drive through—a technique I often used in rugby matches. Unfortunately, Fukushima Shinya was a boulder of a man: short and densely packed. As I lunged, he leaned. All of his weight crashed down into my over-extended back. My knees jolted to the ground as a frustrated grunt signaled my third loss of the night. The next afternoon, I glanced at my knuckles as I deftly balanced a pair of chopsticks. The sight of the caked dirt and cracked skin nearly held me from biting my fish. I had forgotten—a shower and one scrubbing was never enough. The physical signs of wear reminded me of the rules my nights lived by now. A sumo match cannot begin until both combatants place their fists on the dohyō floor. Then, they are welcome to proceed with bashing into one another. If you placed your fists first, you would have to wait for your opponent to place theirs. I liked being first, and my knuckles wore the signs of it. “Kitanai ne…” A muffled comment from one of the Junior High students crept into my ear. She had spotted the filth. My eyes rose from my meal to meet hers as I displayed the dirty hand for discussion. She replied by slowly miming a washing of her own. The English teacher in me could sense she was searching for words. “Two times. I washed,” I was hoping my short sentences would help her comprehension. She returned with a blank stare. It was time for my broken Japanese, “Ni-kai. Shimashita.” Twice. I did it. This time, I received a nod and an understanding smile. Another coating of soap and hot water did the job. I returned to my meal with clean hands. Briefly, I paused, staring at my pearly knuckles with slight remorse. I wore the marks on my skin with a bit of pride—similar to soreness I felt before. The familiarity brought me back to being Mr. Markofski, North Carolina high school teacher and rugby player. I limped down a hallway with a heavily bruised thigh restricting my gait. Among the crowd marching to their morning classes, a student carrying her books stopped to inquire. I grinned before offering a response that bridged place and time.