Editor’s Note: Talos, a member of the National Wrestling Alliance, reached out to Slamwrestling.net recently and informed us he will be doing a tour for the All-Japan Pro Wrestling promotion. Per Talos’ request, certain names have been changed to protect their anonymity.  Plus, who are we to argue with a seven-foot giant? 

Here is another excerpt of his recent adventures in the Land of the Rising Sun.

By Talos – For Slam Wrestling

Day 14: “The Life of a Dojo Trainee: A Day in the Fire”

Today was a quiet one at the dojo in Yokohama, which gave me the chance to step back and observe something I’ve been meaning to share: the daily life of one of our live-in trainees—who, for the sake of this story, we’ll call “Deshi.”

Deshi stands about 5’8”, lean and wiry with a buzz cut and a posture that’s always alert. He carries himself with the kind of quiet discipline that doesn’t ask for recognition but earns it anyway. He doesn’t talk much unless spoken to, but there’s always a polite smile on his face—unless he’s working, in which case every muscle in his body is locked in on the task at hand.

He’s up at 8 AM sharp, before anyone else in the house. By the time most of us are shaking off sleep, Deshi has already cleaned the gym floor, wiped down the weights, scrubbed the bathrooms, and tidied up the common area.

No shortcuts, no complaints; just part of the rhythm he’s built his life around.

After that, he moves to the kitchen, where the scent of fresh steamed rice fills the air. Lunch prep begins early—some days it’s miso soup and grilled mackerel, other times it’s a simmering pot of pork and vegetable stew or curry over rice. He keeps it simple, hearty, and traditional, cooking for everyone in the house as part of his role.

By 10 AM, it’s time to train. Under the guidance of the older trainees—guys only a step ahead of him but already well-respected—Deshi begins the grind. First comes an hour of intense bodyweight conditioning: push-ups, crunches, squats, and more squats. We’re not talking sets of 20. These go into the hundreds. You can hear the thud of palms hitting the mat with each rep, the creak of the ropes as he moves from drill to drill.

Then comes the bump set: 50 back bumps, 50 face bumps, and 50 one-legged bumps—25 per leg. The ring sounds like it’s breathing under him, echoing with every fall. After that, the real technical work begins—grappling drills, chain wrestling, holds, escapes. He does the basics until they’re second nature, again and again, always chasing precision.

Training wraps sometime after one o’clock. He takes a quick shower, then it’s back to the kitchen to finish preparing lunch. After we eat, he’s the last one at the sink, washing everyone’s dishes, wiping the counters, making sure the space is spotless again.

The rest of his afternoon varies—laundry, grocery runs, helping the senior trainees get around, or organizing supplies. If there’s time, he’ll squeeze in another gym session or help out with the dojo’s maintenance. Evenings are quieter. Sometimes he reads, sometimes he just stretches out on the floor with a protein shake and scrolls through his phone. Lights out is usually around 11. He does this six days a week. Sundays are technically his “off” day, but he’s always ready if someone needs something.

Then there are show days.

If the week is a marathon, show days are a sprint. Deshi’s up earlier than usual, loading the van with gear—foam rollers, resistance bands, boxes of merchandise. On the road, he’s the one taking headcounts, making sure no one’s left behind. He’s first off the bus and last one on, carrying luggage, checking the checklist, filling in wherever he’s needed.

At the venue, he helps assemble the ring, sets up lights, and checks on the merch tables. Then he warms up with the same workout he does at the dojo—like clockwork. And just before the doors open, he starts doing bodyweight squats and continues until the fans begin filing in.

During the show, he’s backstage and ringside—part of the crew, sometimes even taking bumps during matches if needed. Afterward, while others are still cooling down, he’s already packing things up. When we finally roll back into Yokohama, he’s the one unloading bags into the darkened dojo.

By the time Deshi hits his futon, it’s midnight. And still, the next morning, he’ll be back at it—quietly, dutifully, like it’s the only way he knows how to live.

This isn’t just training. It’s a way of life. And even if he never says it out loud, you can tell Deshi understands something that can’t be taught in drills or matches: here, before you can earn a spotlight, you earn your place. Every dish washed, every bump taken, every quiet hour spent cleaning when no one’s looking—it all means something.

He’s not just becoming a wrestler. He’s becoming part of a brotherhood. And that’s something far more lasting.

Days 16 and 17: “Battles, Buses, and Rice Paddies – Two Days on the Road in Japan”

Days 16 and 17

June 14th kicked off with a long-awaited return to the road. I woke around 7 AM to sunshine pouring through the windows, the last of the rain finally gone. My bags were packed the night before, so after a quick shower and a pre-made breakfast from 7-Eleven—eggs, chicken, and rice—I made my way down to the team bus.

Several of the guys were already gathered, chatting and loading up. As usual, Deshi—our go-to bus wrangler—insisted on carrying my bag and stashing it below. I thanked him and boarded. Our bus isn’t glamorous. It’s a basic Japanese tour model with clean, patterned seats in maroon, black, and teal. Two seats per row, one long bench in the back—Stan and I almost always claim the same spots.

Once Deshi took a headcount, we rolled out. Driving through Japan never gets old. One moment you’re cruising out of a steel-and-glass city, and the next you’re weaving through misty mountain valleys, thick forests, and temples tucked into the hillsides. Then just as suddenly, you’re by the sea, fog draped like a curtain over the coast.

We stopped at a highway rest area for lunch. These roadside stops are unlike anything back home—offering everything from skewered meats and local sweets to quirky drinks and oddball souvenirs. Japan has a habit of surprising you in the most unassuming places.

We reached Gifu around 2 PM. The venue looked like something out of an old TV station—square and nondescript, with a modest atrium and a spotless but dated interior. I found the locker room and got the day’s plan: a six-man tag match. I’d be teaming with Jack Kennedy and Aizawa #1 against Hokuto Omori, Kumarashi, and Takashi. Hokuto-gun vs. Hokuto-gun. Officially, this was a “team-building” match. But with the six-man titles on the line, I couldn’t help feeling a little more motivated.

The match kicked off with Hokuto and me in the ring. We didn’t stay there long. Within minutes, the action spilled to the floor. It became a chaotic brawl that lasted nearly 15 minutes. Eventually, Jack was isolated, and the other side picked up the win. They earned it.

After the show, we headed to the hotel to shower, then out to eat. We landed at Coco’s, a chain restaurant known for its hamburger steaks. The place reminded me of a Japanese Denny’s—gumball machines by the door, soda stations mid-floor, families scattered at booths. What stood out most were the robots. Instead of waitstaff, our food was delivered by little wheeled machines. They looked like mini trash cans with open sides and shelving. One rolled up, chirped “thank you very much,” and waited for us to grab our trays before scooting away.

“A Novelty.” Photo Credit: Talos

A novelty, for sure—still not sure if I prefer it over human service.

On the walk back, it started to drizzle again. As we crossed a neighborhood street, something strange caught my eye—small rice paddies scattered between buildings. These weren’t massive rural fields, just little plots, maybe the size of a suburban lawn. I asked around. Some said the city maintained them to support low-income families. Others thought they were privately owned by the homeowners nearby. Either way, seeing patches of cultivated rice in the middle of an urban setting was surreal.

We made it back to the hotel and called it a night. But the next morning didn’t start as planned. My alarms failed, and I woke to Hiroki calling—already on the bus, waiting. I threw on clothes, grabbed my bags, and sprinted downstairs, ten minutes late and embarrassed. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make two trips in.

A few hours later, we pulled into Kyoto. Lunch was another rest stop—this one known for dried meats and boxed candies. Our venue for the day was KBS Hall, and it immediately took my breath away. The theater was built like a coliseum around a central stage, with towering columns and the most striking stained glass I’ve ever seen—an enormous window depicting biblical scenes that cast rainbow-colored light across the arena.

Talos makes an impression at KBS Hall. Courtesy of Talos

We were warned not to fight on one specific side of the crowd. Curious, I asked why. Turns out the building was constructed on an ancient battlefield, and the section in question was considered sacred ground. Salt and paper wards are still placed during combat events to appease the spirits. Whether it was tradition, superstition, or just local lore, everyone respected it—and so did I.

Our match was third on the card: I, Hokuto, and Kuma Rashi vs. Kento Miyahara, MUSASHI, and Davey Boy Smith, Jr. Kento started against me. Even against a monster like me, he managed to make the crowd roar—whether in laughter, anger, or something in between. The match went back and forth until I finally got MUSASHI up and drove him through the canvas with a chokeslam—what Danny Dealz would call “riding the lightning.”

Talos makes Kento Miyahara “Ride the Lightning.” Photo courtesy of Talos.

After a short intermission, we took our spots at ringside for Takashi’s title match against Yutaka Miyamoto. Miyamoto’s reputation preceded him, and one look confirmed it—stocky, scarred, and stoic, with eyes that told stories you didn’t want to hear out loud. His body was a roadmap of pain and survival. The match was tight until a slip-up gave Takashi the opening he needed. With a furious combo of strikes and a massive slam, he pinned Miyamoto and brought the GAORA TV title home to the Hokuto Army.

The crowd loved it. We didn’t stick around long after. By 8 PM, we were back on the road, heading for Yokohama. The bus rolled in after midnight. I showered, exhaled, and collapsed into bed—exhausted, but grateful to be back in motion.

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