Match of The Year
A great tragedy is watching the end of something while thinking it’s only the beginning. These moments serve as painful reminders that life is fragile, and nothing can or should ever be taken for granted, even though many things often are.
The framework surrounding the match between Kazuchika Okada and Katsuyori Shibata on April 9th 2017 is always going to expand out to these bigger questions about life, tragedy, pain and loss. It’s a framework that’s impossible not to notice, surrounding everything, because as much as we hope for the continued recovery of Shibata in the horrid aftermath of the match, nobody knows how the story truly ends. So far we only have these frames to consider everything in, which is not to say the frames can never change.
But it would not do justice to the career and ultimately the legacy of Katsuyori Shibata to forget the match that he poured his all into, and only discuss its consequences. There is just so much more to it. It is a match too good to be forgotten for its actual merits, its story and its strange, brutal beauty that has lead many of us to numerous rewatches, no matter how much it twinges our hearts to do so. It is also a match that I will always hold close, but never argue if people tell me they are unable to rewatch, or even watch for the first time. I understand that it hurts, because it hurts me, too.
It is a match I happened to be lucky enough to see live, and a match that felt special, sitting there in Ryogoku Sumo Hall. I still remember all the details. The sea of Shibata merch wearers in my section. The boos coming down on the champion, who played into them. The Rainmaker, which did not take Shibata down, but which did leave the audience gasping and ended up an iconic Weekly Pro Wrestling cover photo.
The match was always going to be special, even when it was just a hope in the minds of fans. People that follow New Japan knew that Shibata and Okada were decidedly kept apart throughout the years, not even being matched up in tags apart from a few occasions. Theirs would be an interesting pairing in terms of wrestling styles, as well as characters. There was contrast there. Where Okada was flash, Shibata was lack thereof. Where Okada’s rise was meteoric, Shibata’s was slow, hesitant on the part of the company who did not know whether the man who was once left was ready to stay for good, or keep his options open. Where Okada has his manager in Gedo, his buddies in CHAOS, Shibata was still the somewhat separate, unaligned babyface, who played by his own code of conduct even when teaming with others. Where Okada represented the Bushiroad-owned new era, in all its international ambitions and broken attendance records, Shibata represented the old way of pro wrestling. It’s little wonder New Japan didn’t want them battling each other in forty tag matches and a couple of singles bouts per year — the combination was too potent a story to be a throwaway program.
They did tease it in 2014, after Okada had handily put away Shibata’s friend and Meiyu Tag partner Goto. Okada told Shibata that if he wanted to face him for the IWGP Heavyweight title, he’d have to win New Japan Cup to do it. Trust New Japan to pay off this tease, only three years later, when Shibata finally did win the Cup to make the challenge.
Going into the match, during it, and even after, the story is all about Shibata — his journey within this promotion, his style and philosophy behind it, his destiny and eventually, his career’s tragic, potential ending. This is not necessarily a bad thing. Okada is definitely there, like the great, chameleon-like performer he is, adapting to just about any style on the planet, but he is never the true focal point of our attention. Like a finely tailored item of clothing, he is the seams you never see hold everything together. He wrestles Shibata’s match, allowing his opponent all the importance, so that even when he wins the match, Shibata’s is the effort that first gets praised. Okada is the selfless dance partner, the tweener who doesn’t mind eliciting boos because it tells the better story, but because of Okada’s decision to adapt more to Shibata’s style than try to force the bout to go the other way, as I attempt to explain what makes the match special, I will focus more on Shibata. It just feels right.
What always shocked me about this match is what a complete, multi-faceted but simultaneously simple story it told. I do not think it’s hyperbole to call it the platonic ideal of a Katsuyori Shibata match; the complete tale of who he is, how he presents himself and what his strengths and weaknesses are. When I showed it to a family member who had never really watched wrestling before but indulged me in watching this one match I had witnessed live, he remarked his own, almost unbelievably spot-on interpretation of the outcome: ”His arrogance cost him.”
Shibata did not lose the match because he was unable to best Okada at his own style, but because he lost sight of winning, and wanted to win in his own manner. He wanted to not just be dominant enough to win, but so dominant that it would reflect the superiority of his way of thinking. His pride in himself and his own way of thinking was the ultimate chink in the armor that Okada could exploit. Shibata had opportunities to win, throughout the match, but his philosophy drove him to pursue a particular kind of winning outcome that he had envisioned — the outcome that never came.
Okada just went for the kill, because for him the victory didn’t have to exist in a particular way. His guiding philosophy is simple, self-centered but understandable enough — he wants to be the center of this company, the leader of it, and the best way to get there is just to be himself, confident and dominant. Okada has principles, but to be perfectly honest, they’re not very complex.
When it comes to Shibata, his principles are his entire character, and like so many wrestlers, he embodies them with his every movement. If he could win by not being himself, then a victory would never be worthwhile. This is why the match stands out so much; Shibata’s strengths morphed into his weaknesses throughout the long, grueling encounter, but this is also why the match itself tells us everything we need to know about him.
From even before the opening bell, we see Shibata’s stoic stance in the foreground to Okada’s superstar pose amidst the rain of money. He glances at his opponent, then looks back down; his focus evident. He has never cared for the pomp or the circumstance, so you get the sense he simply waits for it to pass. Once the bell rings, he will care.
From the opening exchanges you get the sense that while everything is the two opponents feeling each other out and trying to gain a strategic advantage, Shibata is so technically superior he doesn’t mind toying with Okada a bit. When he gains the upper hand, his ego can’t help pause for a moment, to see if Okada can do anything about it. Astride his opponent, Shibata stays put while Okada wiggles about, struggling out of it. Okada is smart, too, not allowing Shibata to grab a body part to bend or extent into a hold, but Shibata is just that little bit better, inching into a cross armbreaker, forcing Okada to struggle into the ropes and then spill outside the ring to re-gain his composure.
What I particularly love about these early exchanges is how the audience reacts in awe to every single little detail in Shibata’s work. Every time he does something, gains the upper hand, does not go down with a move but fights through the pain, the audience gasps, reacts, cheers, loses their minds. This is another reason why the match is so incredibly potent; the relationship between us, those of us there that night so desperate for him to win, and Shibata, our warrior in the ring, is so strong. We live through this match alongside him, with him every step of the way. It’s another wrinkle in his story — the audience who learned to trust him not to leave again, cheer for him, channel themselves through his actions. I mean, for goodness’ sake, the man got a pop for a side headlock.
Shibata showing off his technique frustrates Okada; the next time he backs Shibata into the corner, he doesn’t bother with his usual forearm strike tease into a cordial clean break spot. Instead, he just forearms Shibata, viciously. The audience lets him hear it, booing surrounding him from all sides. Okada just laughs in response.
After a few exchanges where Shibata was the dominant one, Okada gains the advantage with a railing drape DDT on the outside. When Shibata rolls back into the ring, Okada hits him with a neck breaker and goes for the pin. He needs to win, and fast. Shibata hasn’t attempted a pin thus far, his vision of precisely how he wants to beat Okada still clear in his mind. Okada just wants the win, any means necessary; the next time Shibata gets to the ropes to break a submission, Okada lingers in the hold. The crowd is once again annoyed with him, but the reaction comes at a delay. By the time we boo, Okada has released the hold; enough to get away with it, but not as clean as we’d like.
The match soon picks up pace. Okada delivers a set of back elbows to Shibata in the corner, but when he walks away from the corner, Shibata follows him, asking for more. None of Okada’s strikes seem to get results; it is only after Okada gets leveled with one of Shibata’s own that Shibata doubles over, hand touching the area where Okada’s strikes hit him. We all know this part; the pain does not register if the opponent can see it. This is, after all, a match of minds, too.
If Okada has one strength, it is to play into his opponents’ game. This is what he does with Shibata, masterfully. Shibata strikes hard, slaps hard, baits Okada with disrespectful slaps and kicks to the head to stand up to his challenge, but Okada in turn flips it on him, sinking into a cross-legged sitting position to ask for some of Shibata’s stiff slaps. Shibata is all too eager to oblige. It’s a trap, though, meant for Okada to get the upper hand once again, by any means necessary. Insult to injury, after doing so he finishes the sequence with a dropkick to Shibata in the corner; a mockery of the move Shibata used on the outside to gain the upper hand just minutes ago. Shibata will not stay down, however, and gets out of the corner, and delivers a dropkick of his own as Okada bounces off the ropes, an imitation of Okada’s own famously beautiful one.
Another sequence that signals the character of Shibata occurs; Okada sets up a dropkick to a sitting Shibata, but the man does not go down. At first he springs up, then he flows over into a standing position. The crowd is in awe, but the moment is not over. Just when Okada seems to have finally managed to set up his Rainmaker finishing move, Shibata blocks the move by kicking first the arm that was set to lariat him, then Okada himself. But Okada is determined, and so the Rainmaker comes after all, only to be absorbed in the chest with a stunning thud, leaving the crowd absolutely brethless. This is the defining moment of the match, where everything has been building up until this point, and where everything will spiral from hereon out. What happens next is also defining, but in a different sense altogether. Shibata headbutts Okada, and as he shakes his head after the blow, a stream of blood comes down his forehead.
Much has been made of the headbutt both before and after this particular instance of it. Most agree it’s stupid and unnecessary, but as it gets discussed what shouldn’t go unsaid is that this is the macho encapsulation of all that is bad about Shibata’s unwavering, stupid at times, admirable at other times, philosophy in pro wrestling. What is a strength can also become a weakness, and almost nothing tells that story better than the next sequence of the match, where Shibata does a ripcord slap to Okada, surely not for any other reason than to send a message of utter superiority and the humiliation of the opponent that you can dominate in that moment. It serves little other purpose than to send that message. But this is how Shibata is, was. (The name for this particular move was coined by Wreddit users, ‘The Bitchmaker’. It doesn’t take a Gender Studies degree to parse the meaning of that one.)
Shibata keeps hold of Okada’s wrist, delivering unbelievably loud kicks to his chest. Even as Okada sinks to the mat, shoulders down, Shibata does not relent and go for a cover. Instead, he kicks. Again, and again. Once more, for good measure, just to nail this one in the way that he wants it to end. Why doesn’t he go for the cover? Why doesn’t he lock in a sleeper hold? On every rewatch, I get caught up in the moment. Victory is so close. We can all feel it in the building, on our home couches. Why did he hold onto his own thinking so much? Why did he not want to win, but win his way, and his way only?
The wrist being held only plays into Okada’s opening, when he manages to deliver the second Rainmaker of the match. Okada doesn’t waste time any longer, knowing better than anybody he has not much left, and so he gives Shibata the third Rainmaker moments later. We can see Shibata’s arm bend slightly to go for a forearm strike, but the counter never comes. The match is over.
When I call a match perfect, it may seem like hyperbole, it may seem like overwhelming bias towards the participants, just the memory of being there live that night or a particular fondness for a style of wrestling. And perhaps, it is all of those things, simultaneously influencing my take on something. But I do know a story told perfectly when I see one, and Shibata versus Okada at Sakura Genesis is without a doubt such a story.
To tell a story so comprehensible that a first time viewer can pick up on its core theme, and a long time viewer can parse it in detail through multiple, enjoyable rewatches; to encapsulate a man’s career, his philosophy and perhaps the very driving force of his being in a purely physical performance, no words necessary, no translation needed; to set a record attendance in the building that night; to capture the hearts of so many fans, that a match with devastating consequences still inspires a few of them to get into the sport themselves.
To do all of these things in one match is a staggering accomplishment, and whether it’s an ending or a beginning, one question remains on my mind, and it’s entirely rhetoric:
If this isn’t great art, then what fucking is?
