Kobayashi...

Now, I've always been a fairly competitive person. I have a fairly high confidence level when it comes to trials of either a physical or intellectual nature, especially if these contests are 1-on-1. I'm seldom quiet about these views leading up to the heat of battle. For the most part I can back up these boasts, either with actual skill or through cunning misdirection, creating the illusion of actual skill.

With this personality type, I watch the Nathans Hot Dog eating championship annually. Even though I maintain a fairly high level of awe (tweaked with a slightly lower value of envy), I still tell myself year in and year out that I can hang with these guys (and gals).

Flash forward to July 4, 2008. It's decided amongst a group of friends that we will hold our own Hot Dog eating contest (heavily instigated by yours truly, of course). We buy a bunch of hot dogs and then proceed to barbecue, play poker, and get hammered. At about 8pm we realize that we haven't actually had the contest yet. At this point everyone has had several plates already, as well as quite a few drinks; but the show must go on.

Rather than waste dogs, we decided to have a race to 5, as opposed to a time limited free for all. All the guys present participated, even one against his will. We tried to get some of the women to, but they all declined. In a decidedly sexist act of bravado I personally challenged all of the women to compete against me; my score versus all of theirs combined. They ignored me.

As showtime inched closer I chuckled to myself as I watched my competitors slather toppings onto their wieners. They were just making it harder on themselves. They, too, ignored my suggestions. I was fine with that, though. Then the moment of truth arrived...

The starting pistol sounded. I immediately grabbed 2 dogs out of their buns and forced them into my waiting maw, imitating my idol: the Kobayashi. Meanwhile, my opponents were chowing down on dog-bun combinations. Fools, the lot of 'em. As I pushed the last portion of the second dog in my mouth and dunked the first bun into my cup of water I stole a glance across the table. To my surprise someone, lets call him the Abomination, was finishing up his complete 3rd dog. I nearly wept openly at this sight, but being the soldier that I am, I ventured on with a drive not seen since the Crusades.

Then the Blue Moon hit me.

Then the hot wings hit me.

Then the cheeseburger, then the 151.

I couldn't complain, though. These men were on level ground. I saw in the eyes of each of them a feeling of nauseau that matched my own. The cheering and laughter from the sidelines in no way drowned out the incessant reverb eminating from my stomach. Then, all of a sudden, it was over. The abomination had won, in just under 5 minutes. Though that hardly seemed like a time worthy of a mustard colored belt, there I was, still with nearly an entire dog in my hand.

Right now I finally understand the futility of my dream. Even with the excuse of a full days worth of meals already in my belly, I didn't stand a chance. It's a feeling akin to those sessions at the batting cage with the setting on baseball-fastball. For me at least. But then again, I strike out in slow pitch softball, so what do I know.