The Dose

“When I say hungry, you say focused. Hungry.” Focused! “Hungry.” Focused! I never imagined my first bona fide rap call & answer experience would be here, at an International Federation of Competitive Eating event. Eric “Badlands” Booker is entertaining the crowd with a sampling of his rap stylings before the start of the Verizon Voicewing Chicken Wing Battle Championship in Boston. His rap CD (“Hungry & Focused”) is coming out soon and he throws a CD sampler into the crowd which lands right into my hands. Everyone looks at me and I can only assume that this catch must have some sort of significance here. Am I destined to marry a fat chick? Will I die of a coronary within the next 7 days? The not knowing kills me.

The main lights dim as the beat of Eminem’s “8 Mile” starts its slow crescendo. IFOCE President Richard Shea takes the stage and bellows the following declaration: “They say that competitive eating is the battleground upon which God and Lucifer waged war for men’s souls, ladies and gentlemen. And they are right!!“

With that the competitors are introduced to the stage one by one as Mr. Shea recites their impressive credentials. Many of them are world record holders in more than one of the 61 IFOCE-sanctioned categories, from Armour Vienna Sausage to Watermelon.

This is the Championship, all of the competitors having qualified previously at regional buffalo wing events to be here. It is a veritable Who’s Who of competitive eating. But who are these people?

Besides being one of the more exuberant IFOCE personalities Badlands Booker lives with his wife and son on Long Island and is a conductor for New York City’s #7 Train. His frequent competitor Ed “Cookie” Jarvis, the 29 year old 409-pounder who ate 21 cannolis in 6 minutes to take that particular title, is a realtor from Nesconset, NY.

There’s “Humble” Bob Shoudt, the quiet Philadelphian who is reportedly a vegetarian when not in competition. And Tim “Eater X” Janus, the 27 year old NYC native who paints a colorful Mexican lucha libre mask on his face for each event.

Joey Chestnut from San Jose is the up and coming young buck on the circuit who drinks large quantities of water to train his stomach to expand quickly at game time. At age 21 he is already ranked #3 by the IFOCE. Jason “Crazy Legs” Conti was a one time spectator and is now a star of competitive eating, recently being featured in his own documentary entitled “Crazy Legs Conti: Zen and the Art of Competitive Eating”.

Richard “The Locust” LeFevre looks like he could be your grandpa. At age 60 this Nevada resident holds multiple titles and is still going strong. And to make things even sweeter his wife Carlene is also a competitive eater. My grandparents went to Boston and all they got me was this crummy 8 pounds of chicken bones!

And Sonya “The Black Widow” Thomas, all 98 pounds of her, seems out of place wedged between these behemoths. But don’t be fooled — despite her deceivingly harmless appearance Sonya is an incredibly fierce and feared competitor, currently ranked second in the world.

“Are you here to root on anyone in particular?” asks the young woman next to me. I tell her I’m trying to lose some weight and thought that seeing this would help suppress my appetite for at least the rest of the weekend. I pose the question back to her which she answers by pulling down on the front of her t-shirt to reveal a silk-screened face of Jason “The Erbivore” Erb, her boyfriend. He won the qualifier in Washington and they flew out for the finals. I look on stage and spot The Erbivor wearing a white head-band with his moniker across it in black marker, just in case you didn’t know who he was.

As can be expected there are many subtleties to the science of eating as many buffalo wings as you can in 10 minutes. I watch as Badlands arranges the wings in his tray for maximum grabbage. Humble Bob brings his own iced-tea which he pre-pours into several cups. Eater X positions his trays just so. Someone asks for a chair.

Just as Mr. Shea is about to begin the count-down-to-chow Cookie Jarvis leans over and whispers something in his ear and we are informed that Cookie would like to take a moment to say grace before the eating commences. It takes every fiber of restraint I have to not blurt out, “On a wing and a prayer, Cookie!” Although Cookie keeps his thoughts to himself I can only assume he is praying for the end of the avian flu. Interestingly enough Cookie will stay kneeling for the entire event.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1, EAT! The crowd cheers as what ensues is an orgy of saliva, sweat and sauce. It’s impossible to determine who is excelling and who is lagging behind and before you know it we’re in the closing minutes. To be honest it’s not even that gross to watch, just a bunch of people eating really fast and not using napkins. That is until the buzzer sounds and several eaters bring fingers to their overstuffed mouths and push inward to make sure nothing falls out and you realize just how much food is in still their mouths yet to go down their gullets. It’s actually this image that puts me in the epiglottic danger zone. Cruel memories of thick orthodontic mold filling my adolescent mouth flash before me. The panic of oral claustrophobia. My breathing gets noticeably heavier.

I swallow intensely. Interestingly I am told that the V word is verboten here. My only guess is that the contagious nature of the act is simply too feared to be spoken aloud. Any unfortunate incident, of which I see none, will be called a variety of euphemisms such as “The Roman Method” or “A Reversal of Fortune”.

In the world of competitive eating buffalo wings are considered a “debris food”, meaning there are parts of the food that are not consumed. In a debris food competition determining the winner is slightly more complicated and involves weighing all of the food before-hand and then re-weighing all of the competitors’ “remains” afterwards to determine who has consumed the most. Someone who has gone through a large number of wings may not win over someone who has eaten fewer wings but picked them bones cleaner.

After the winners are crowned (the title goes to Joey Chestnut who debones and ingests 4.2 lbs pounds of chicken meat in 10 minutes) free wings are offered to the crowd. I politely pass. To my surprise watching all of this eating has made me incredibly tired. I think I need a wet nap.

There are still those times when my back pain will sneak up on me and I’ll suddenly realize how much pain I’m actually in. As luck would have it this time around the realization hits me at Club Lido in Revere amidst a sea of seething mixed martial arts fans eager for the start of T.K. O’Riley’s Fight Night. This isn’t boxing, this is No Holds Barred Ultimate Fighting. Of all the places to feel brittle and vulnerable, this is not a top choice. In my current physical state I could easily be toppled by two girls scouts who felt I did not buy the minimum acceptable amount of thin mints. I polish off my vodka tonic and go to the bar for a second one thinking that it may at least soften the ground when I take my eventual fall.

I knew what an event like this would potentially be like though. Hell that was part of the appeal, right? Midway through the first fight the guy to my right starts crowding me, our shoulders often touching for extended periods of time seasoned with an occasional bump. Expecting something like this might happen I’ve come prepared; intentionally wearing my glasses to the event. You know what they say: “You can’t hit a guy with glasses.” Right? Well, that’s what they say. Something tells me this guy doesn’t care what “they” have to say. He probably had a dinner with no vegetables, went swimming immediately afterwards, picked up a tiny stone from the bottom of the pool and threw it at the glass house next door, and then drove over to the fights without using his blinkers.

As tempting as it is to stand my ground, especially since I was there an hour before he was, I’m smart enough to know my audience and I give him as much room as he wants. The result is me shifting inch by inch until 15 minutes later he has effectively moved me 2-3 feet to the left as he roams his new domain proudly. But my leniency pays off as it causes him to wander away uninterested like a lion who lets the injured gazelle go free simply because he’s not as hungry as he originally thought he was.

The fights are fast, almost all of them ending in the first round. Someone wins by triangle hold. Someone wins by knockout. Someone wins by rear naked choke hold. I don’t think anything with the words rear or naked should be anywhere near this sport but I keep that thought to myself. Trina’s husband wins in impressive fashion and she releases a big sigh of relief that it’s over. We high-five. One fighter comes out to “It’s Raining Men” which I think is just great. I decide that my entrance song would be “Why Can’t We Be Friends.”

After the main event ends the crowd spills out into the club parking lot. It’s literally minutes before ambulances and cops arrive in response to all the post-fight fights. It’s like the Jets and the Sharks and the Cobra Kai are all fighting each other at the same time. Ma-ri-aaaa, I just met a girl named Ma-ri-aaaaa… and Johnny swept her leg.

Meanwhile I’m safe inside in the fighters’ back room where Trina’s husband packs up his stuff and collects his prize money. I meet a few of the other fighters from his school and to my embarrassment each conversation is the same. Where do you live? “I wrestled in high school.” So Andy, you work with Trina? “You know I wrestled in high school.”

I notice they have a small table set up with bottled water and snacks. I start towards it…. I wonder if they have any thin mints.

I’m at Logan Airport, Terminal D. I’m reading the Boston Globe and savoring a sausage, egg & cheese sandwich on a croissant, my iced-coffee is in striking distance, both courtesy of Dunkin’ Donuts. (4J-4J-4J-4J) I’ve never eaten anything more slowly in my entire life. I put the paper down as I don’t dare multi-task and risk diluting this epicurean experience. I don’t moan but my eyes do close occasionally. I imagine an Animal Planet voice-over: “Unlike other species the American Andy will neither hibernate nor copulate for months after devouring his hunt. Crikey!” (4J-4J-4J-4J)

I check the time on my cell phone and glance up at the arrivals screen. The flight from Denver has landed right on time, baggage claim at carousel #2. I go back to reading, allowing the ebb and flow of travelers to wash around me. Eventually new arrivals touch ground and bump the landed Denver flight off the screen, erasing it from history. With a heavy sigh I rise. I crumple my breakfast wrappers and start to reassemble the paper into a single block.

I’m not here to actually pick anyone up. I’m here just to be here. Well, I’m here just to get here to be more accurate. It’s called exposure therapy. You know, scared of bees? Cover yourself in honey and go play piñata with a beehive. Scared of snakes? Kill one, eat it, and proudly fashion a belt out of its hide. This is my 4th such visit to the airport this month. I started with Terminal A and went down the line, so E will be next. (4J-4J-4J-4J) Ugh. I catch myself clearly doing it this time. It’s a coping mechanism. I’m not supposed to do it but I can’t help it. I take out my black book and make a note about it.

I step up to the parking kiosk and pay in advance. The automated walkway takes me to the elevator. The elevator takes me to Level 4. My feet take me to 4J, where my car sits quietly. Good boy.

I pull out of the airport and head up Route 1A. As I pass Suffolk Downs I see the sign for it, the largest yet most obscure sculpture in the city, The Don Orione Madonna Queen National Shrine. Towering atop the highest point in East Boston sits a 35-foot bronze sculpture of the Virgin Mary facing an open plaza. I drive up winding residential streets that slowly allow my way to the summit. I park, get out, and yup, there it is. Although I can’t see them supposedly there are red lights fastened at her top to alert incoming air traffic from Logan.

Just across the street from the Shrine is the Don Orione Home for the Elderly. From what I’ve heard, the shrine actually extends four floors down into the hill housing a gift shop, a church, function rooms, and more. I’ve also heard that once a week, deep down under the Madonna, bingo is played. I am here by design. I fondle the highlighter in my pocket and head into the bowels of the Madonna.

To be continued……..