PHOTO BY ASSOCIATED PRESS
Joey Chestnut crams down the record-breaking hot dog Monday.
By STEVE KRAUSE
Two thousand and fifteen was, if you’ll pardon the expression, a lean year for Joey Chestnut.
The engagement that he magnificently announced a year earlier — on the cusp of his annual July 4 Coney Island eat-a-thon — went kaput. And so did Joey.
The man who had worn the Mustard Belt, signifying the most prolific chower-downer in Major League Eating for the last eight years, lost the title to Matt Stonie. And after that ignominious defeat, Joey was bound and determined to rise again to the top of the food chain.
He worked out. He ran. He actually did exercises strengthening his jaw so that he could chew faster and therefore chomp more hot dogs and rolls.
This stuff is totally for real. This was one motivated eater. And when the final frank disappeared down his gullet at Monday’s Nathan’s Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest, Joey Chestnut was, once again, top dog. Once again, the Mustard Belt is his — even if it might take him a week or so to be able to get it around himself.
It’s confession time here. I’ve watched this thing for years, and I’ve always marveled at how gross it really is. Of course, the whole thing, to me, is Americana in action, 21st century style. If Americana once represented a wholesome look at our history and our traditions, that’s no longer the case. Today, Americana is a cross between wretched excess and hyperbole. Only in 21st century America could we get such a kick out of watching grown men and women cram hot dogs into their mouths in the name of competition.
Monday, for example, the two announcers narrating this glorious gluttony on WatchESPN, which streamed the event live, talked of two significant athletic events going on simultaneously. The first was Wimbledon. The second was … well … you guess.
So there you have it. Strawberries and cream in London, and hot dogs at Coney Island.
I can’t say I’ve spent a whole lot of time pondering the grossness of this event, preferring instead to focus on the sheer absurdity of it all. Two years ago, the same narrator who seemingly compared Joey Chestnut to Serena Williams was hoping, PRAYING actually, that Joey would eclipse the 70-hot-dog mark. If he could, said the announcer, “it would be one of the most significant accomplishments in the history of mankind.”
Right.
I watch Joey Chestnut and wish Babe Ruth was still alive. Supposedly, The Babe gorged himself on 18 hot dogs before collapsing and being taken to a hospital, presumably to get his stomach pumped out. This was a man whose dedication to excessive living was legend, and he could only pound down 18 franks before his body gave out on him. Monday, Joey got to 70 just before the timer hit 10 minutes. I don’t even want to know what the rest of Joey’s day was like. Speculate if you must, but I’ll pass.
I’m pretty sure of this, though: if The Babe had ever known that his records for gluttony were in peril, he’d have figured out a way to challenge Joey Jaws. Who knows, maybe he’d have eaten 714 of them!
I learned a few things Monday. First, just like in other sports (apparently this qualifies as ESPN broadcasts it), body dimensions are crucial to success — although there is some disagreement. One of the two guys announcing was talking about the tallest competitor, saying that he was at a disadvantage because it was a long way from his mouth to the table. Fair enough. But then the other one said, oh nay nay, the extra torso space gave him more room to pile on with the food. Either way, he was sniffing Joey’s and Stonie’s vapor trails by the 10-minute mark.
I’d like to say something really profound at this point. I’d like to be able to say that after having experienced the pain and anguish of a triple bypass last January I’m a wiser man, and absurdities like a hot dog-eating contest are, I now know, not conducive to good health and that I no longer consider such a shining example of slobbery funny.
I’d like to. But I’d be a liar. I think it’s hysterical. Gross, but hysterical. Watching this thing has become as much a part of my July 4 as horribles parades, fireworks and cookouts. As a matter of fact, I didn’t leave for my friend’s cookout Monday until I was sure that Joey had not only won, but that he’d kicked that pretender Matt “Megatoad” Stonie back to the stone age.
I truly relish the opportunity to watch every year.
