Wakashimazu Mutsuo

We’re saying goodbye to a giant of a man, in every sense. To us, he wasn’t just the great ōzeki Wakashimazu, the man who charged through the dohyō with the force of a storm and held aloft two glorious championship banners. He was Uncle Mutsuo. Our rock, our gentle giant, the man whose laughter could fill a room and whose hands, though built for the fierce grip of sumo, were always so careful when he’d ruffle a child’s hair or steady an elderly friend’s elbow. I’ll never forget the way he’d come home from the stable, sometimes late, his back still proud but his face softened into pure exhaustion and contentment. He’d sink into his favorite chair, and Auntie Sachiko would appear with a bowl of miso soup and a plate of fried chicken—his secret, guilty pleasure after years of strict training diet. He’d talk about his boys at the stable, not with boasts of tournaments won, but with the pride of a father. “That one finally got his stance right today,” he’d say, eyes twinkling. “That one is so kind, he helps clean the dohyō without being asked.” His true yūshō, we always felt, wasn’t measured in trophies, but in the steady, respectful men he shaped in that small Hanaregoma heya. His love for his family was the quiet foundation of everything. He was a son who called his mother in Kagoshima every Sunday without fail. A husband whose partnership with Auntie Sachiko was a masterclass in quiet support—she managing the world so he could manage the stable. And to his nieces and nephews, he was the best present-giver, a soft-spoken Santa who remembered everyone’s favorite sweets. He carried the spirit of his island home in his heart: resilient, humble, and deeply connected to the people around him. The impact he had? It echoes. It’s in the former wrestler who now runs his own business, crediting Mutsuo for teaching