Popular in Pumas

My return visit to Douyoto School this week was much improved from my initially disappointing reception in May. Perhaps students felt my three-week absence. Perhaps they felt more comfortable around me the second time around. Or perhaps they felt the power of the Pumas.

This has to be the single hottest brand here. Youth wear Puma shirts, tote Puma umbrellas, and store writing implements in Puma pencil bags. In Japan, each student has a cloth pencil case holder, and Puma has about a fifth of the market. But few locals sport Puma footwear. So, while in New York, I snagged myself two pairs to serve as trendy “indoor” shoes.

The entire school took notice. As I paced around class pronouncing numbers one through 21 or the vocab du jour, heads turned down to my feet with magnetic attraction as the mountain lion logo over my toes navigated aisles cluttered with uniform backpacks. Kakoii they call me. Cool guy.

My rising popularity became official when the lunch bell rang and three eighth grade boys asked me if I’d eat lunch with their section. Honored, I instantly accepted. This touched off squabbling as to who would sit next to me. With precious lunchtime minutes ticking away, as a compromise, I ate at the front of class facing everyone.

Lunch ended, and clean up (read: chaos) began. A bully hoisted the teacher’s swivel desk chair and turned it sideways. Legs spinning, it resembled a giant drill press pulverizing a student into the blackboard.

With the trays cleared, the lunch cart doubled as an arm wrestling arena. I’m quickly chosen. The first opponent put up a fight, but the sensei 12 years his senior triumphed. I felt pretty good about upholding my tough guy image.

Then, from the back of the room, Nebiko emerged. A sumo-in-training, he already surpasses my size 12 foot not to mention my 32” waist. Reluctant to take on this predator for fear of losing face (or a finger), I’m strong-armed by peer pressure. The bout began. Size was on his side. Half my age, Nebiko is one-and-a-half times my weight. Our strength equalized into a stalemate. But slowly I gained the upper hand, and defeated the favorite to a chorus of “ooohs.”

After using my weaker left arm to topple a rightie, I’ve averted humiliation at the hands of eight graders. I wiped my brow. Challengers exhausted, 15 minutes remained before class. “Do you want to play some soccer?” someone asked. “Of course, ikimashoo!” I slipped into my “outdoor” dressy Rockports and trotted onto the clay field also used for track and baseball. Whether he liked it or not, Nebiko played goalie, but for the other team.

The crowd roared as I took the field. Girls in the upper deck raced to fourth floor windows and shouted “Jefu!” The window girls waved down to their teacher who last played soccer during his own junior high days. Nevertheless, I registered two impressive, but wholly accidental blocks. A shot on our team’s goal glanced off my hip, and later my groin suffered the brunt of a Nebiko kick; a sumo always gets revenge. The game ended in a 1-1 draw, but I sensed victory in becoming one with the students.