1 Sumo Wrestling: Akebono Tarō
The only slim thing about sumo wrestling is the chance of becoming a yokozuna, or grand champion. Throughout the centuries, only 69 men have done it. Before Hawaii’s Chad Rowan stomped into the ring, no foreigner had ever held the honor. Of course, improbable things can happen when you stand 6'8" and weigh more than 500 lbs.—gigantic even by sumo standards. After abandoning a college basketball scholarship due to arguments with his coaches, Rowan threw himself into sumo.
In 1988, he went to Japan with only a single set of clothes and a limited knowledge of Japanese. But Rowan wasn’t there to chitchat. Within a year, the quick study had learned how to use his towering height to make devastating thrusts at opponents’ throats. That March, he made his professional debut as Akebono—“dawn” in Japanese—an ironic moniker for a man who could block out the sun.
At the Wife Carrying World Championships in Sonkajärvi, Finland, first prize is the wife’s weight in beer.
As Rowan’s victories piled up and his Japanese improved, he won more and more fans. His jovial demeanor didn’t hurt, either. In January 1993, Akebono was promoted to yokozuna—a title he held until retirement. By the time he was ready to hang up his belt in 2001, he’d racked up 566 wins and 11 division championships.
2 Bullfighting: Sidney Franklin
In 1922, Sidney Franklin was just an artist from Brooklyn who’d moved to Mexico City after an argument with his father. One day, he decided to take a break from painting to see his first bullfight. Franklin immediately fell in love with the sport—particularly the crowd’s reverence for the fighters. When he told his Mexican friends that he was surprised by the absence of American matadors, they replied that Americans didn’t have the guts to step into the arena. The ribbing irritated Franklin so much that he embarked on a quixotic mission to become a legendary bullfighter.
In need of a trainer, Franklin brashly solicited the services of renowned Mexican matador Rodolfo Gaona. The request was basically the equivalent of asking Peyton Manning for free football lessons, but shockingly, Gaona accepted.
Franklin’s fearlessness didn’t translate into instant success. During his first fight in 1923, he fell down twice before killing the bull. Within five years, however, he was thrilling Mexican crowds. But the victories weren’t enough for Franklin. Looking for bigger challenges, he set out to conquer the motherland of toreadors—Spain. Franklin’s gutsy performances in Spanish arenas earned him throngs of fans, along with several gorings. They also earned him the friendship of bullfighting aficionado Ernest Hemingway. The author would later immortalize Franklin’s technique and bravery in Death in the Afternoon, saying Franklin’s life story was “better than any picaresque novel you ever read.”
3 Billiards: Willie Mosconi
It’s hard to believe that billiards world champion Willie Mosconi learned to play pool by hitting potatoes with a broomstick. It’s even harder to believe that his parents, who ran a pool hall in Philadelphia, forbade him from playing because they wanted him to pursue a career in vaudeville. Luckily for them, the obstinate Mosconi taught himself late at night with the only implements at his disposal.
In no time, Mosconi became a cue-wielding child prodigy. His talents supported his family during the Great Depression, and Mosconi went on to win 15 world championships during his career. Impressively, he still holds the world record for running balls without a miss, sinking 526 consecutive balls in a 1954 exhibition.
Of course, Paul Newman might argue that Willie Mosconi’s greatest accomplishment was teaching him to play pool. Allegedly, Newman had never played before filming The Hustler. After taking intense pool-shark lessons from Mosconi, however, Newman was nominated for an Academy Award for best actor in 1962.
Ohio State University has produced so many Olympians that if the school were a country, its 77 medals would rank 31st overall.
4 Polo: Sue Sally Hale
It’s tough to imagine anyone taking the title of “Sports’ Best Cross-Dresser” away from Hale. Hale, who received her first horse at the age of 3, was determined to play polo, even though Southern California’s thriving early 1950s polo scene forbade women from the field. So when she was old enough to play, Hale simply dressed as a man. Before each tournament, she would don a baggy shirt, stuff her hair under her helmet, and draw on a mustache with mascara. Playing under the name A. Jones, she competed with such ferocity that one commentator claimed Hale “could ride a horse like a Comanche and hit a ball like a Mack truck.”
After each match, she would transform back into Sue Sally Hale, then go carousing with her teammates, who were happy to play along. For the next two decades, Hale maintained the ruse while campaigning fiercely to get the United States Polo Association to change its policies. The association relented in 1972, and Hale finally received a membership card, along with the freedom to play under her real name.
5 Cricket: John Barton King
Cricketers in the United States may be traditionally associated with wealthy men of leisure, but the top player ever produced this side of the pond was a middle-class baseball fan from Philly named Bart King. What made King so great was his ability to dominate both as a bowler and a batsman—the equivalent of being a top-notch pitcher and slugger in baseball. As a bowler, King created a pitch he called “the angler,” which dipped and swerved in a way that confounded batsmen. As a batter, he was one of the top scorers in North American history.
The gregarious King was also beloved for spreading tall tales about himself. Perhaps his most famous story came from a 1901 match against a team from Trenton, New Jersey. As the legend goes, King was about to bowl to the Trenton team captain when the batter started to talk trash. Remembering a stunt he’d seen in a baseball game, King ordered the rest of his team off the field. He reasoned that he wouldn’t need anyone around to catch the ball, because he was about to strike out the loudmouthed batter. The cocky move proved effective. King fired off his angler, and the befuddled Trenton captain didn’t stand a chance.
When he first came to the United States, 7’7” Manute Bol’s passport listed him as 5’2”. “They measured me while I was sitting down,” he said.