My psychosomatic symptoms were raging; night fall on Fourth of July and I was wandering the streets of Brooklyn watching the fireworks through the Manhattan skyline and trying to process the physical and psychological ramifications of my actions earlier that day.

Psychologically, I had consumed hundreds of hot dogs. Physically, I had only eaten one.  Yet I kept trying to do the Joey Chestnut “shake” to make the tension in my throat, chest and stomach go away. This is the signature move of the reigning Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating champion who jumps up and down throughout the competition, ostensibly to move the hot dogs and buns down the alimentary canal and into the stomach, thus making room for more. What else was I making room for?

That morning, I had woken with youthful excitement, feeling that the Hot Dog Eating contest on Coney Island was not only the ultimate All-American Fourth of July activity, but also a perfect introduction to the depths of my new surroundings, Brooklyn. My two options for adventure mates were a non-practicing Jewish-Muslim who has been abstaining from pork for six years on personal principle or a vegetarian. The Vegetarian, a one-time former witness to the contest, showed his dedication once again by meeting me with enthusiasm at the train—10 am sharp.  Joining him was an Australian Poet Scholar whose excitement made my tenacity for the event look like half-hearted childsplay.

The hour train ride south was filled with talk of literature, art, hot dogs and the repetition of the statement, “I am so excited.” The Australian Poet and I vowed to eat three hot dogs each, at least, and the Vegetarian, a large fries.

Arriving to the mayhem, we headed in for the kill. With hot dog number one in hand, we joined the masses occupying the shut down corner of Surf and Stillwell Ave. The Master of Ceremonies and true star of the show, George Shea, was in full effect, spewing line after scripted line that were both covertly racist and sexist, as well as, hyperbolic anthropomorphized biblical references. I was instantly a convert.

Our excitement was at its apex as the women took the stand for the first official women’s competition. It began. A dozen women who weighed under 130 pounds proceeded to force encased meat and over-processed wheat into their delicate mouths. We fell silent but for the whispers of “Oh my god”.  Unable to consciously process what we were witnessing, I looked over to my once overzealous companion to see her eyes vacant and the color drained from her cheeks. I knew I looked the same — viscerally sick and emotionally drained. And this is when the symptoms began: heartburn, indigestion, high blood pressure, intense bloating. My only respite was the occasional ocean breeze that dared to penetrate the thick heat compounded by the density of the crowd. 

Gaining emotional composure and drinking a ginger ale, we faced the men’s competition with the hardened shell and cynicism of a soldier ready for more. Although still burpy, the passion and vigor coursed through our veins as we watched the five-time champion, Chestnut, “shake” down 30, 40, 50, 62 dogs and buns.

There I was with him. Shaking it all down. Making room for more. More hog dogs. More Brooklyn. More madness that is everyday here. I am ready, Major League Eating, to consume it all. I just need to get rid of this heartburn before I can go back for my second or third hot dog.

Major League Eating Records: http://www.ifoce.com/records.php