Dec.
2003, Xene #37
(Everybody Was) Snowball Fightin'
...These kids were fast as
lightnin'!
By Vanessa Fortyn
When you think snowball fighting, the image that comes
to mind is a bunch of kids scrabbling in the white
stuff and hurling handfuls of it at each other with
breathless laughter, insults and cuss words. There
is little method to the madness, and it continues
until everyone gives up because their clothes are
too wet or someone takes a hit to the eye or nose
and it ends in tears. Ah, but snowball fighting is
so much more sophisticated nowadays. In fact, in Hokkaido
snowball fighting, or
yukigassen, is an organized
sport complete with teams, coaches, referees, and
an annual
yukigassen competition that takes
place every February at the foot of Mount Showa-Shinzan
in Sobetsu, right near Lake Toya.
The year 2004 will see the 16th Showa-Shinzan International
Yukigassen Tournament. International? Oh yes.
Yukigassen is hugely popular in at least one
other country that has loads of snow: Finland. Every
year a Finnish team comes to do battle with fellow
snowball aficionados in Hokkaido. Other groups of
expatriates from all over the world visiting or living
in Japan get together and try their hand at this novel
winter sport, too. More teams come from the rest of
Japan, for a total of some 150 teams entering the
general division and 35 entering the women's division
of the tournament.
The story has it that
yukigassen was conceived
back in the 1980s when a Sobetsu resident was watching
a group of South-East Asian tourists reveling in some
snowball throwing outside Chitose airport. As Sobetsu
was quiet in the wintertime, what better way to bring
tourism to the area than to hold a competition that
takes advantage of the snowy conditions? In July 1988
the official Showa-Shinzan International
Yukigassen
Executive Committee was established. They created
the rules and regulations, and a local agricultural
machinery maker started manufacturing helmets, snowball
moulds and other materiel.
So what is
yukigassen? It takes place on a
snowfield the size of a tennis court. Two teams of
seven members compete to take the best of three 3-minute
games. Each team occupies one half of the field, and
the object of the game is to hit your opponents with
snowballs, in which case they must leave the field.
The team with the most members left at the end of
the three minutes wins the game. Alternatively, one
team can charge across the field and steal the opposing
team's flag from deep within enemy territory.
There are restrictions on this, though: Only three
members can charge for the flag at a given moment.
The snowballs are prepared in advance, and they're
not the crumbly things you hurl at your mates as you're
walking to the station. They're hard-packed, perfectly
round balls that are made using a special cast-iron
mould. The mould has two parts; snow is shoveled into
the base, and the heavy lid is slammed up and down
on top to form the baseball-sized snowballs. Usually
two or three people work the moulds while their teammates
take the balls out and squeeze them even firmer. The
result is uniform snowballs hard enough to break your
nose. This is why everyone has to wear a helmet. The
balls are placed in shallow crates and counted by
officials before the match begins. Each team gets
90 snowballs per game, and these are kept at the back
of the court. It is the job of the three "backs"
to feed the snowballs by rolling them to four "forwards"
who attempt to encroach upon enemy territory. There
are several snow walls, each 90 cm high, on each side
of the field for protection, and sometimes the best
way to hit your opponent is by lobbing a high ball
onto a player lurking behind a wall. The closer you
get to the enemy, the better your chance of hitting
them, but the farther you are from your snowball supply.
This is where teamwork and tactics come into play.
The teams that do well in the
yukigassen tournament
are serious about their snowballs. They practice hard
and play tough. So it's no wonder that, in the 2003
yukigassen tournament, our ragtag team of semi-sporting
foreigner types was annihilated. We had a great time
anyway.
It's about 8 a.m. on February 22, 2003, and our team
is lined up with hundreds of others at the opening
ceremony. It's freezing cold and there's a definite
nervous energy permeating the crowd. Dignitaries and
organizers welcome the teams, and the anticipation
builds while speeches are made and the previous year's
winners return their trophies. Finally, a cheer goes
up to mark the beginning of the tournament, and fireworks
explode in the morning sunlight.
The competitors disperse, and since our first match
is not for another hour, we wander around taking in
the scenery and action. In front of us looms Mount
Showa-Shinzan, the world's newest volcano. This baby
came into being after a series of violent earthquakes
in 1943. The subsequent geological shifting radically
altered the landscape, pushing up farmland to form
Showa-Shinzan. While it doesn't have the majestic
conical beauty of Mount Fuji - it's more like a huge
lump of craggy rock with menacing wisps of steam -
it's a fascinating reminder of the power of the Earth,
and provides an impressive backdrop.
Some of the competitors look very professional; dressed
in white or in baseball garb, they move smoothly and
cleverly around the fields, tossing snowballs with
pinpoint accuracy. Others are in costumes and are
clearly here for the party atmosphere. On the sidelines,
some competitors warm up their throwing arms by firing
baseballs at each other. Others stretch or jog. The
snowball-making area is crowded with people making
balls, and the thump of the snow moulds can be heard
above the chatter. Many people are watching the matches,
while others are found in heated shelters having a
cigarette, a laugh or ... Is that a beer I see at
10 a.m.?
Soon
it's our turn to go to the snowball-making area. We
get our production line going with a couple of our
team members on the moulds and the rest on ball-squeezing
duty. 270 snowballs later (enough for 3 games), we're
ready to go to war. We've decided on a simple strategy:
attack hard. The other team looks like a group of
librarians, and I'm sure they're wearing cardigans
under those ski jackets. After a few exchanges of
"ganbatte," they smile at us like we've
just returned our books early. We glance sideways
at each other, nodding knowingly: We can take 'em.
Helmeted and numbered, the two teams take to the field.
We grab handfuls of snowballs and stand at the ready
behind the back line, hearts thumping. The whistle
goes off and we all launch our balls. Our forwards
dash to the first walls, and our backs rush to the
crates to get more balls to feed the forwards. It
all happens so fast. People are shouting, snowballs
are whizzing past, my helmeted breathing sounds like
Darth Vader, and I think I popped my shoulder with
my first throw. Hiding courageously behind a wall,
I stick my head up for a better look, only to feel
a sudden explosion on the side of my faceguard. The
referee points at me, but I know I've been hit. As
I depart from the field, I'm torn between being disappointed
at having to leave the game so early and being impressed
at the fine shot to my noggin. Then there's a rapid
succession of my teammates leaving the field. At the
end of the first game, only a couple of us are left
standing. The second game we fare better. We manage
to take out a few of their players and almost get
to their flag. But these librarians are a mean bunch,
and they take the well-deserved winning honors. Just
goes to show you can't judge a book by its cover.
Our next match isn't for a few hours, so we visit
some of the food stalls near the courts for a cup
of steaming pork soup. The soup is made by Sobetsu
senior citizens, who are among the 400 or so local
volunteers responsible for planning and organizing
the event. We also take the chance to chat with our
fellow competitors. The Finnish team sings us some
songs and tells us about their home
yukigassen
tournaments. We watch a couple of matches, discuss
tactics and practice throwing snowballs at a tree.
I wander over to the stage area where there are activities
for families. Someone offers me some hot amazake,
a fermented rice beverage, and I pick up a couple
of souvenirs from one of the shops that line the road.
Then it's time to do battle again.
I won't go into details about our second match. However,
it was closer than our first, and we fought
valiantly
but were unable to beat our opponents. As we walked
from the field, we all vowed to return in 2004 --
and to spend the summer of 2003 practicing our throwing
skills. (Hmm, I'd forgotten about that.) Although
we had been knocked out of the tournament, the day
wasn't over yet. At 4 p.m. there was a huge jingiskan
barbecue, and all the competitors got to eat and drink
together in an atmosphere of bonhomie. While we feasted
and drank beer, we relived the day's events amidst
much laughter. We may not be the best snowball fighters,
but at the end of the day that didn't matter. The
yukigassen tournament was a memorable experience
and damn good fun.
