The sidewalk below me buzzed with dozens of fans who stood behind cordons and strained for a glimpse of their favorite rikishi (literally "strongman"). They were easy to spot: Not only were they the largest, toughest mammals in town - mostly 300-plus-pound longshoremen in a land of jockeys - but they were the only ones wearing beautifully printed cotton yukata robes sashed with thick, colorful obi belts. Their hair was black and shiny, lacquered into the distinctive topknot they wear in public throughout their professional careers.

The top-ranked yokozuna, who are forbidden by the sumo code of conduct to lift so much as a sausage-size finger on their own behalf, arrived in huge SUVs (driven by equally outsized attendants), squeezed themselves out of the cars, and waddled off to do battle. None of them waved or stopped to sign autographs; they simply nodded gravely and shuffled heavily past the crowds and into the arena.

As they did, I experienced a delightful frisson of recognition when I found myself a few feet from Hoshitango, a man whose story I knew. A 38-year-old Argentine (every sumo takes a single Japanese ring name that becomes his identity for as long as he's in the sport), he had never achieved sumo stardom but was good enough to continue wrestling in the lower ranks. He was triply unusual: first, as one of few non-Japanese rikishi; second, as one of the sport's oldest competitors; and third, as surely the only Jewish sumo wrestler on the planet. As he strolled by, I realized all at once who he was.

"Buenos d¿as, señor," I called out.

He looked up and smiled. "Hola," he responded without breaking stride.