Livin' On Tokyo Time

“Brody, you’re gonna wanna get up, dude,” Toby shouted from the kitchen, accentuated by the sound of air popped popcorn and the roar of commentary coming from the living room TV. “The pre-show’s almost over, man, you’re gonna miss the good stuff!”

I roll over and mean mug my alarm clock, taking dutiful note of the red digits glaring back at me.

2:47 a.m.

“This better be worth it,” I mumbled to myself as I leapt out of bed and into my clothes, grabbing the first pair of shorts and relatively clean shirt from the ground and tossing it on with haste.

I take a brief moment to gather myself before exiting my bedroom, and it’s a good thing that I did. If it weren’t for the lack of sun peeking through the windows and the brand new 2015 calendar flipped to January, I would have guessed it was dinnertime on Thanksgiving Day. A cocktail of flavorful aromas flooded the apartment, smacking me in the face as soon as I had stepped through my door. Every light in the house was on, albeit dimmed, as the living room television roared with music as I made my way down the hallway toward the living area. 

“Jesus, dude, I doubt the neighbors care about Japanese wrestling,” I gruffly expound as I reach the mouth of the hallway, by the entrance of both the kitchenette and the living room area. 

I spotted the remote on the hallway bookshelf and grabbed it, quickly turning the TV’s volume down a couple notches. Toby let out a laugh as he dished up the popcorn into a large bowl from the air-popper. He grabs the bowl and a small container of melted butter, walking toward me.

“And a good morning to you, too,” he said with the cheekiest grin. “Here, go put these over on the table and get yourself a plate dished up.”

With a tired huff, I took the containers, heading into the living room. Our usual living room setup had been slightly adjusted for the occasion, with seating being arranged in a more direct-facing manner. Behind the chairs, against the wall, was a small card table, topped with a variety of treats. Performing my own census as I placed the popcorn in the vacant spot, I spotted bowls of dips, trays of meats and crackers, a vegetable platter, a couple side salads, guacamole, salsa, and a medium-sized crockpot full of spicy little smokies.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me,” I said, having difficulty containing all the drool forming in my mouth.

“Please,” Toby scoffed, bringing out two-liters of soda to complete the ensemble. “Seducing you would take much less effort. This is just love of the game right here.”

Grabbing a small paper plate, I started dishing up anything and everything that caught my eye. As I made room for Toby, he grabbed a plate and began dishing up as well. Whereas my attention was almost entirely on the fruit’s of Toby’s labor, his attention remained on the television. 

“Pre-show’s been pretty good so far,” he said, briefly looking away to make sure he’s grabbing the right spoon. “Usually they just use this time to boost some of their young talent. Right now they’re finishing up the battle royal.”

Pleased with the makeup of my plate, I turned away and took my seat in my recliner. On screen, I saw a guy I didn’t know throw another guy I had never heard of over the top rope. Bells rang, indicating the end of the match.

“Riveting,” I sarcastically mused, shoveling a spoonful of hashbrown casserole into my mouth. “Won’t see anything like that here in the States.”

Toby rolled his eyes, with a smirk to rival my own, knowing that my barb was, primarily, in good jest. Having been friends with one another since third grade, we have certainly found our own language to speak. I doubt there’s anybody on Earth that understands me like Toby, and vice versa. In spite of this, however, there has always been an extreme point of contention in our friendship, and ironically enough, that topic lies within the same past time we both hold dearest: professional wrestling.

While it wasn’t professional wrestling that started our friendship - that would be Boy Scouts - wrestling had become the backbone for our bond. We both had been fans of the sport since before that, having been introduced through family members at young ages. For my 11th birthday, our dads took us to go see a televised event from one of the big federations, and that day marked the true beginning. After that, we began watching whatever bits of wrestling we could, whether it be the newer, live-produced American promotions or reruns from the territory days. We would beg our parents, offering mowed lawns and other services in order to watch the occasional pay-per-view event. There was even an instance where we snuck into his dad’s storage to dig out an old VHS player and tapes from old southern lucha libre promotions. Regardless of the source or content, we were eating it up.

We would soon hit a fork in the road, but not in the typical sense of growing up and growing out. His family always tended to be a bit more modern than mine, jumping quicker to upgrades such as flat screens. As such, he found himself in possession of his own personal computer much sooner than I did, and through that he found wrestling matches of all kinds, from all over the globe. Above any kind,Toby found himself most fascinated by the promotions from Japan. 

“Puroresu is pro-wrestling in its truest form,” he would always state matter-of-factly. 

Puroresu, despite being used in Japan as a universal term for professional wrestling, is the term used internationally to refer to the Japanese style of pro-wrestling. The style is one with more focus on the fight and less focus on the show. Combat tends to consist of strong, full-contact strikes while using a multitude of mixed-martial arts in tandem. Puroresu is treated much more like a sport than American pro-wrestling, which has taken much more of an entertainment approach to the artform. 

I’ve seen a couple clips here and there, watching the occasional rerun match with Brody, and it’s good stuff, but I don’t see the hype. My main problem is, and this may just be a me-thing, that I’ve always found it difficult to enjoy something that’s in a language I don’t understand. Even with things like dubbed films, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it. This has admittedly been a point of embarrassment for myself, a bit of a skeleton in the closet so-to-speak. So I silently stick to what I know, content with the wrestling around me.

To his credit, Toby has always been cool about it. He’s never tried to pressure me into watching anything, but he always makes it a point to share his favorites with me, even if I never get around to watching it. That started to change a bit a few weeks ago when we were watching a televised match from an American promotion during which a wrestler named Cade Gomez made a stellar debut. He came out, smoked his opponent with style, and then got on the microphone and put the whole locker room on notice. I was excited, rambling about how good he was, and Toby cracked a smile.

“Yeah, Caden’s great,” he said, really drawing attention to the ‘N’ thrown on at the end.

I knew where he was headed without even looking at him.

“Lemme guess, he just left Japan,” I said.

“Gee, it’s almost like a prime export of theirs,” Toby chuckled. “I’m telling you dude, you’d enjoy it if you gave it a real shot.”

“We’ve been over this, just not my style,” I said. “Hard to get into.”

Toby turned to me, a lone eyebrow raised.

“Man, we just established it’s the same cast,” Toby stated. “How is it hard to get into?”

“For starters, I don’t speak Japanese,” I spout without thinking. 

Toby paused the TV, which, unless pizza was ordered, is always a red flag in our apartment.

“So, it’s like a cultural barrier?” he asked.

I thought for a moment, and sheepishly nodded, half expecting to be chastised for it. Instead, he revealed to me that the upcoming pay-per-view from his favorite promotion would be debuting a simultaneous broadcast with English commentary. One thing led to another, and there we were, on the couch, buffet of food, living life on Tokyo Time.

The opening and first match went by as quickly as the contents of my plate did. To Toby’s credit, the English commentary definitely helped, but my lack of investment in the product prior was now where the issue lied. I got to watch good wrestling, and the commentary made more sense of it, but I found myself scratching my head with each match. Who is this? What championship is that, and how important is it? 

The biggest question I had wasn’t with the promotion itself, but with the audience. There was a tag match in the first half of the show that featured a pretty intense spot from the turnbuckle, and as I started to get excited, I realized that I was probably louder than anyone live in attendance there. I sat back down, puzzled.

“The hell are they so quiet for?” I asked, annoyed. “That would have sent the West coast fans up in a roar. Are tastes just that different?”

“It’s not about taste, and it’s certainly not about enjoying it,” Toby replied. “Watch the people in the audience. Do they look bored?”

As I scanned the crowd amidst the action, I could see what Toby was getting at. The expressions on most fans’ faces was that of an unbreaking focus. The only way the crowd could have been more involved with the match was if they had jumped in the ring themselves.

“Huh,” I thought out loud. “I mean, you’re right, but damn, that’s weird.”

“Scan the crowd at any American football game, then tell me what audience is weird,” Toby laughed, bapping me in the chest with the back of his hand. “It’s a respect thing, nothing weird about it. Cultures show respect differently during performances. And besides, they’re not completely silent the whole time. Trust me, it will make the big pops much more worth it.”

I politely shrugged, excusing myself to get more of Toby’s cuisine as the commentators moved us onto the next match. The show continued, and I found myself getting more and more involved as the night went on.

Despite my endless internal interrogations, I found myself thoroughly enjoying the most of it. The wrestling was outstanding, and I began to get silently invested in myself. The more I watched, the less the dubbing and translations bugged me. While this made for a more enjoyable experience, it almost made me feel dirty. Had I really avoided great wrestling due to things as menial as time zones and languages? Before I knew it, the main event was on.

Most likely hearing my thoughts, Toby began to speak, his eyes unbreaking from the screen as the champion lays into the challenger with several vicious chops.

“Have you ever met my Uncle Ricardo?” he asked. “My dad’s brother?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not that I can remember.”

“Well, unless you’ve been around, like, Mexico City, I doubt it,” he responded. “He stayed behind when my family moved up north. Can’t blame him, that was the home that he knew and loved.”

An attempt is made to cover the slight quiver in his voice, followed by him taking a quick sip of water, as if to play it off.

“Dad said the two of them would always go to the arena to watch the luchadors when they were kids,” Toby shared. “They really bonded over it. One day when they were there, an American champion came to town. Put on one hell of a show. That sparked something in my dad, I guess, and he sought out more of this guy’s matches.”

Toby sets his water down and turns slightly to me. 

“That expanded his worldview, a lot, setting off a chain reaction,” he said. “Dad told me it was English commentary that got him started on the language. If it weren’t for that one wrestling match, who knows where I’d be.”

The sudden, surprising burst of excitement from the crowd snapped us to attention. On the screen, the challenger had kicked out right before the referee’s third slap of the mat. Toby and I react with shock, and continue to watch the match. The proceeding back and forth between the opponents felt like both a moment and an eternity. In the end, the challenger stood tall, belt in hand, the new champion.

As the show closes and we begin to tidy up, sun starting to peek in through the windows, Toby hit me with a question.

“So, Brody,” began Toby. “What did you think? Worth the rise?”

“I suppose so,” I said. “The food certainly helped.

He laughed, punching my arm as he walked by carrying the rest of the dirty dishes.

“Honestly, that was a fantastic show,” I responded genuinely. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

By the look on his face, I could tell Toby was pleased with the result.

“Down to do this again for the next one?” he asked.

I paused, pondered, and gave a cheerful nod.

“Yeah, but one thing,” I said. “Next time, let’s just try it with subtitles.”