John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” is playing on the P.A. system. I’m sitting in the grandstand at an internationally recognized and beloved sporting event. I’ve parked, secured admission and had a little lunch in preparation for the Little League World Series International Championship game. Total cost thus far? Let me see…parking…plus ticket…add in a hot dog and a Powerade…total the column, carry the remainder…OK, if my math is correct, that comes out to a grand total of $4.50.

I haven’t even seen a pitch yet and this is already one of the best events on the “It’s Game Time Somewere” Tour schedule to date. But then again, any day that starts with meeting a sportscasting legend certainly does get things rolling in the right direction.
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Back when I was kid, when we played the game with stuffed brontosaurus skins and woolly mammoth tusks, there was a single three-syllable word that encapsulated all of my fondest baseball dreams: Williamsport.

I barely knew that Williamsport was an actual place, let alone how to find it on a map. It was more like a concept whose existence you took on faith. Much like Valhalla to ancient warriors.

You went there only if you persevered, played your absolute best, and had the gods of baseball smiling down on you at just the right time. Every kid that ever played Little League knew that each August, just one All-Star team from each of four U.S. regions (now eight regions) was able to play their way to Williamsport, Pennsylvania and the Little League World Series.
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Here’s the thing about sumo – it is a sport with all pretense stripped away. A one-on-one flashpoint collision with one sole objective: To overwhelm and physically dominate one’s opponent. Testosterone on testosterone. And if you lose, it can often be in humiliating fashion.

Yet over the course of three hours spent at the U.S. Sumo Open, I witnessed not a single display of anger or bitterness. Literally dozens of matches took place without incident. No taunting. Zero smack-talking. Not a trace of the intimidation techniques so common (and celebrated) across the pro sports ranks today.

These guys just lined up, looked each other in the eye, and had at it, with the best man winning that particular match. And after each match was done, both sumos stood to face each other across the ring and bowed. It was an environment of deep mutual respect and competitive humility.

It was the anti-NFL. The NBA with a muzzle. It was dignified.
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There’s really no other way of looking at it. I spent three hours of a Sunday afternoon watching very large men engage in a centuries-old tradition. In diapers. That is to say, they were in diapers, not I. “How did this come to be?” you might ask.
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The other day I was talking with my friend Jerry – aka “Da Guy” – about my upcoming maiden visit to a pro wrestling event, and how intrigued I was to find out what all the commotion was about.

He listened for a bit and then relayed to me a story from his television journalism days, when he had covered a WWF event. As he told it, he arrived early and was setting up shop at a ringside media table, when a representative from the WWF sauntered over and said with voice lowered, “I’m not so sure I’d pick that particular spot”.

Da Guy took that advice at face value and moved to another table. Sure enough, early in the first match of the evening, one of the wrestlers was tossed entirely out of the ring and landed with a thud on the very table that Da Guy had initially occupied.

“That’s an amazing story!” I said. “What were the chances of that happening?”

Da Guy was quiet for a long moment, as if he were contemplating something. “Enjoy the show, Tim”, he finally said.
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