Hot dogs, a chestnut, and the pursuit of happiness

4th of July

To Corey and I, a couple of humble (yet proud) Australians, it was just another day. However, from the moment I woke up, I could tell there was something special about this day. There was a peculiar feeling in the air; a feeling of celebration, a feeling of achievement, but most of all, a feeling of independence. Today was a day to sit back and reflect on a time when a nation had the courage to stand on its own two feet and laugh in the face of its English captors. In searching for a place sacred enough to celebrate a day of this magnitude, a few options came to mind; the Washington Monument, Mt Rushmore or maybe even the Lincoln Memorial. Obviously, we chose Coney Island.

For those unaware, Coney Island, on the 4th of July, is home to the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest. This was my first exposure to the sport of competitive eating. Obviously, every sport has its detractors, and competitive eating is no different. Some people claim it glorifies gluttony, whereas others suggest that it promotes excessive and inhumane consumption of animal products. I ignored these protestors, peddling their narrow-minded and ill-informed propaganda, and settled in to appreciate the spectacle that was about to unfold. Not only is competitive eating an exploration into willpower, determination and the human spirit, but it’s a sport for us all. Who hasn’t, in their time, tested their intestinal fortitude, by cramming in that extra morsel when it seemed impossible, gone back for thirds when seconds was more than enough, or laughed in the face of one whose eating skills paled in comparison to their own? I know I have.

So there I was, crammed in amongst 50,000 passionate fans, jostling for position in the desperate hope of catching a glimpse at even one of the world-class athletes that were assembled before us; the best the world had to offer in the only truly universal sport. However, in a field of worthy contenders, only two men had captured the hearts and minds of the crowd. Takeru Kobayashi, hailing from Japan, had won the last 6 titles, and was considered by many to be the best eater of them all. His only recent defeat was at the hands of an Alaskan Kodiak bear; and while a strong competitor, the bear was noticeably shaken when confronted with the icy stare of this Japanese eating machine. Today, however, was the 4th of July; America’s day. If ever the USA needed a patriot, it was now. This man was Joey Chestnut. Chestnut moved across the stage with an air of confidence, and this confidence quickly spread amongst the crowd, and, via ESPN, throughout a nation. The stage was set, and the atmosphere was thick with anticipation, the aroma of hot dogs, and most of all, a sense of destiny.

A hotdog eating competition goes for 12 minutes. For 12 minutes, not a murmur could be heard in a crowd that was 50,000 strong. For 12 minutes, not a breath was taken. Without disrespect to the calibre of athletes present, it was, from the outset, a battle of two men. Within a minute, Chestnut and Kobayashi had each eaten more than 10 hotdogs, with buns. Upon seeing the prowess of these two men; the jaw strength, the finely honed hand-to-mouth coordination and the mental strength to keep eating when it didn’t seem humanly possible, even the staunchest animal-rights protestor was soon converted. Shouts of ‘no more meat’ quickly turned to impassioned cries of ‘eat, Joey, eat!’ For 12 minutes, time seemed to stand still, and a nation dared to hope.

‘5…4…3…2…1!’ The crowd counted down. The scores were tied. The commentator announced that a plate count would be necessary. Both athletes appeared to have eaten 63 hotdogs. On recount, and by virtue of a Kobayashi ‘reversal’ (a competitive eating term used to describe vomiting), the official score of 66 hotdogs for Chestnut and 63 for Kobayashi was announced. The ‘Mustard yellow belt’ was returning home to the shores of Coney Island. One man had carried the hopes and appetites of a nation on his shoulders, and triumphed against the best in the world. Names like Neil Armstrong, Lance Armstrong and Louie Armstrong faded into obscurity, buried in the annals of forgotten history. America had a new hero. Joey Chestnut stood tall and proud, the Stars and Stripes draped across his shoulders. He took the microphone, and yelled words that echoed the sentiments of each and every red-blooded, hot-dog eating American; ‘I feel pretty freaking good.”