Son Kelson and I watched sumo wrestlers on TV at 5 o’clock in the afternoon. Before the hefty Japanese men tried to push each other out of the ring the night before in Tokyo.
You could do that impossible feat in 1975… if you lived in Honolulu, watched film flown in from Tokyo, and finished your day studying and teaching at the University of Hawaii. International Dateline lies just west of Hawaii. Afternoon in Honolulu was long after nighttime in Tokyo.
Don’t take my word for the phenomena. Just Google International Dateline:
A few hours west of when the sun sets into the Pacific, Kiribati’s easternmost islands, the southern Line Islands south of Hawaii, have the most advanced time on Earth, UTC+14:00 hours.
Sumo wrestling got so popular in Honolulu—because of TV exposure and a large Japanese-American population—that the wrestlers were booked into the Honolulu coliseum. Tickets were expensive. I hocked my three girls mainland inheritance and bought two ringside seats.
Didn’t buy a ticket for Kelson. I was a widower, a visiting professor from Texas. And Margaret was an unmarried, spunky fourth grade school teacher who had moved her three children from Colorado. We met at the large condominium party to welcome newcomers.
In her younger Colorado days Margaret modeled clothes. She was still built for show. And even in middle age, Margaret still turned many eyes. The hefty under-clothed wrestler near our front row seat took notice. He blew Margaret a kiss. She blew one back. And the crowd laughed.
Don’t remember if her wrestler won. Lucky she married the skinny guy. Me.
