Searching For Joey Chesnut

Society searches for eating's next World Champion

The mid-morning sun fired across an Iowa cornfield and right through the window of Coach Bill Reed’s office, casting a blinding glare through the glass trophy case adorning the office’s entire south wall. As he waited for the coach to arrive, somewhat more nervously than he’d expected, Rob Calloway ran his considerable hand across it for a closer look. It was filled with trophies and plaques adorned with forks and knives commemorating victories in the rapidly emerging sport of competitive eating. 

And there, centered for maximum effect, was what Rob had come to see; those four Division III National Championship trophies; shiny gold piles of miniature hot dogs formed into a giant No. 1 design. Consumption College, while tiny in size, boasted an outsized championship legacy of gastric dominance at the small college level. Rob carefully read each inscription in quiet awe.

“Ah, Mr. Calloway. We finally meet.”  Coach Reed smiled, then strode purposefully into his own office and extended his hand.  

“Wow, the famous Boss Hogg in the flesh.”  

Still lean and noticeably fit, the energetic Bill “Boss Hogg” Reed, his silver flecks of hair peaking out from under a bright red EAT U ball cap, took quick note of the enormous father of the enormous young eating prodigy his program desperately sought. 

“Please, sit.” Coach Reed moved a stack of papers on his desk. “So, when do we get to meet Connor?”

“Connor and his mother are touring the school this morning. We’ll get him over here and in front of you tomorrow.” Calloway struggled into the tight seat designed for only one person at a time. “I wanted to meet you and see the program first…before I bring him by.”

“Fair enough.” Coach Reed concealed his disappointment. “I’m anxious to show you and Connor how we do things here at Consumption.”  

Rob Calloway suddenly found his footing. “You and I have spoken on the phone many times, Bill. And I know your program has seen and heard how impressively my son can eat. It’s unheard of for a kid his age.”  

He sat up straighter now, having finally wrestled himself fully into the chair. “Nebraska sent recruiters to the house last month. Wisconsin and Ohio State, hell I can’t get’em off the phone.”  The proud papa would play his ace early. “My son could eat and win at any D-I school in the country. Why here? In Division III?  It’s such a small school.”

Salesman Reed smiled. He would take his time, the prize too important to rush the pitch. 

“We have a staff of proven professionals here, Bob. My team builds champions. Those big schools, sure they have name recognition, and they typically get the most attention…and admittedly they end up with most of the talent.”  Coach Reed stood and moved toward the trophy case.

Most of the kids that helped us achieve this level of greatness weren’t prodigies, Bob. They came to us raw. Hungry. We taught them how to eat from scratch. We BUILT them, Bob. Quite literally…from the inside out.”

Rob attempted to remain unphased. “Have you seen the videos of Connor?”

Coach Reed smiled. “Oh, we’ve watched a lot of tape on Connor.” He shuffled more papers on his desk. “And tape doesn’t lie, Bob.” He glanced back over at the trophy case, then back to Connor’s dad. “It showed us a lot.”

Rob Calloway never tired of talking about his son’s legendary viral moment; Happy’s Steak House, the “Gastric Challenge”, how Connor inhaled their famous 72 oz porterhouse in just 19 minutes, then tossed down a molten lava cake afterwards as a flex. Connor’s picture now hangs proudly at that restaurant for all to see, commemorating an achievement many locals compare with Bob Beamon’s ‘68 Mexico City Olympic long jump.

As Rob spun his yarn, two notably lean middle-aged men quietly entered the coach’s office, their rapt attention careful to not interrupt the storyteller. Coach Reed waited for Rob to finish. “Bob, meet Jerry Chyme, our Digestive Coordinator. And Alan Villi…Head of Gastronomy.” The rather serious men greeted Rob and took seats. “I’ve asked these two guys, key people in my organization, to accompany us.”

Alan Villi waited for a break in the conversation.

“Mr. Calloway, I’ve never seen a digestive system like that on such a young kid.” Villi tried not to give away his excitement. “Here’s what I see. The teeth…all adult teeth, right? The way they fire up and down, macerating like a thrashing wood chipper.” He couldn’t suppress a smile as he continued. “Your boy’s throat strangles food the way a Burmese python takes large prey. And then those incredible stomach enzymes, liquifying digested matter like an acid bath. Then, at the literal tail end of it all, that spectacular colon.”

Alan Villi looked like he might leap to his feet at any second. “What barrels through that kid’s colon would make most mortals explode”.

Jerry Chyme then added. “Ha…and then the lava cake thing! Crazy!”

Coach Reed abruptly stood up. “Walk with me, gentlemen.”

******

They proceeded down a corridor, passing a workout room with two short Asian boys, one sitting up on his knees. With both hands, the taller boy carefully guided what looked like a plumber’s snake down the throat of the shorter one, a trainer taking notes on a clipboard, stopwatch in hand, providing careful verbal guidance to both boys..  

“Esophagus work. Alan here actually invented that instrument right here in our science lab. A generous grant from Nathan’s Famous funded the whole thing. Pure cutting edge here, Bob. You won’t see that kind of work going on at Ohio State.”

The group continued toward a set of propped-open double doors. “Let’s have a look at the practice field.”

As they walked, Jerry Chyme ventured. “What kind of esophagus work has Connor been doing?”  Rob remained silent as Jerry continued. “Does he have a colon guy?”

Coach Reed interceded. “We know Connor’s a natural, there’s no question. But even that level of talent has a ceiling, Bob.” 

They approached the open doors, their eyes adjusting to the bright Iowa mid-day sun as Rob heard someone loudly barking instructions at five teenage boys in shorts moving about on a section of artificial grass. Coach Reed explained the regimen, coach-like. “Tuesday’s - Interval Training - Ten regulation dogs and buns in 2.5 minutes with 2.5 min rest. Repeat for a full hour.”

Rob Calloway silently took in the unfamiliar scene. A sixth boy appeared off to the side of the others on one knee, hurling his stomach contents into a corner of the field.

Jerry Chyme took note. “Dylan’s a freshman. He’s getting stronger.  A quick learner, that kid.”

“Take a look around, Bob. What do you see?” Coach Reed pointed to the surrounding seating which to Bob’s eye might hold as many as a thousand people.

“This here…..This is where we compete. When you visit Nebraska or Ohio State, they compete inside, usually in some dark gym where they play hoops or volleyball or gymnastics, whatever, they might draw fifty or so diehards to come out and watch.” Coach smiled proudly, letting himself admire it all. “We built this entirely for eating. Only eating competitions happen here, oh..and graduation. That’s all we do here, Bob. This school doesn’t have a football team or any of that. At Consumption, we EAT!”

Rob noticed one older boy standing next to a table full of hot dogs, cramming down two at a time, a trainer watching him closely.

“That’s Pete Gobbelario. You must have heard of him, Bob, no?”  Rob Calloway looked back blankly.

“Better known as Piranha Pete?”

Rob watched as Piranha Pete choked down the last of a large plate of dogs, a digital clock running behind him rapidly counting down to zero.

“Pete’s our ace, I’m sure you know of him.”  Coach Reed searched Rob Calloway’s eyes for recognition that wasn’t coming. “Put down fifty-nine regulation dogs and split rolls inside ten minutes last fall. A D-III league record.”

Rob looked unimpressed. “He looks pretty full to me. You think your Piranha’s up for some lava cake about now?”

Coach Reed frowned. “Not every kid’s blessed with the genetics Connor has.” Coach Reed paused to make his point more forcefully. “Look, Pete over there has three years of intense training.  He’ll eat anyone his age for lunch, literally. AND, and I’ll bet my professional reputation on this….he won’t get hurt doing it.”  They pause and glance over to watch the Pirahna on the ground on his back, banging out the last of one hundred crunchers. 

“Now Bob, your boy can only eat like he’s eating for so long before something gives.” The coach stopped to visually evaluate Mr. Calloway up and down, his non-verbal energy suggesting similar concern.  

“I build winners here, Bob. WE build winners, sustainable winners.  We built Pete over there and I guarantee you, Pete’s gonna go pro soon and probably take a few Nathan’s belts one day.” 

“No short cuts,” Jerry chimed in.

Coach Reed was triggered. “Absolutely no short cuts. No cheating in this program, ever.”  

Jerry filled in the historical blanks for Rob Calloway. “Back in 2022, they caught a few of the big schools running what we call “hollow dogs” for the home teams in competitions. ADs were fired, kids lost scholarships…a real mess.”

Coach Reed had more to say. “When you love this sport, it pains us to see that happen.” He shook his head, visibly bothered by the memory. “Hollowing the dogs was a very dark chapter for everyone, but it got a lot of testing and controls in place. Hard to believe programs ran their game that way. Now the dogs all come in special packs, sealed and certified by the conference, with weights and measures certs, then they’re 100% remeasured before every competition.”  

Satisfied the point was made, Alan Villi spoke. “Connor’s a natural, Mr. Calloway.. Like Secretariat. Like Babe Ruth.”  He paused. “But I really think that our program here could turn Connor Calloway into a….a human garbage disposal.”

The group took Coach Reed’s silent cue and headed inside, back down the long corridor, passing a training room. Hip-hop music from an unseen speaker played as another Asian boy sat in a whirlpool tub scrolling a smartphone. Across the room a curtain concealed audible activity from behind it on the other side of the room.

“Perforated bowel. Soft tissue injury. Kai’s working it off. Expect to activate him by early November.” Jerry Chyme explained. “Tommy and Jake missed their colonoscopies last week, they’re makin’em up today.”

Coach Reed turned to Rob. “The boys get colonoscopies every few weeks here. Colons on these kids are like Formula I sportscars. Strong, agile, tough. They prep with a powerwash hose, then the actual scope. It finds the tiniest particulate food impaction and every soft spot. 

He pointed over to the curtain, the scopes beeping loudly from behind it. “Irving Barium gets all the credit for that.” Bill Reed then bragged at length how they’d poached their esteemed Bowel and Rectum coach from his previous Head of Proctology position at Cedars Sinai.

“The guy took a massive pay cut to come here, but was committed to our vision.”  Bill Reed’s chest flared out with pride. “One helluva colon guy. He can be a real asshole sometimes, but he’s the best in the game.”

Alan Villi chimed in. “Any chance we could scope Connor this weekend?” Rob Calloway’s eyes widened. “The staff can’t wait to measure his density, wall thickness,…”  

Coach Reed jumped in. “Alan, the boy’s not ready for that. Not yet.” Coach turned toward Mr. Calloway. “Your son’s colon’s nowhere near ready for competition at this level, Bob.” He paused. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and presume he’s never been scoped?”

Rob Calloway took a moment to process everything Consumption College was offering his beloved son. 

“No, Coach. We’ve never had Connor scoped. We’re not wealthy people, fellas. On my salary I couldn’t afford pallets of hot dogs or fancy eating prep schools. We just did a lot of those all-you- can-eat places.”  

As he continued, Rob Calloway’s momentary shame became humble pride. “I’ll never forget the day we knew Connor was special. In Pre-K, his teacher told us how that first week the kids were all a bit socially nervous and wouldn’t eat their lunches. But then on the second day the problem disappeared, so they figured the kids adapted. Then they caught little Connor…believe it or not he was actually little then…finishing off the last of the lunches of eighteen toddlers while they napped.” Roy Calloway beamed with pride. “He’d been doing it every day for two straight weeks. They’d never seen a kid eat like that.”

“Connor needs to lose weight. Frankly, quite a bit of it.” Coach Reed said it matter-of-factly. “In our program, Connor won’t be eating actual food, except for competition training.”  

Alan Villi interjected, “Everyone on this team eats four carefully prepared meals a day. Intravenously. They get absolutely everything a body needs…an elite body at that. Actual food clutters the digestive system, slowing it down. You’ll see a dramatic physical transformation in the boy in just a few months here. It’ll blow your mind.” 

Rob Calloway looked on in quiet disbelief.

Boss Hogg straightened his red ball cap. “Mr. Calloway, we can’t begin to tell you how excited we are to meet Connor tomorrow. You know, every program in the country is searching for the next Joey Chesnut, the next big thing…that once-in-a-generation talent that takes everything to a new level. And we think Conner Calloway might just be that guy.”  Coach Reed paused, readying his final pitchline.

“Let us take him. We’ll make him…unforgettable.”

********

The Calloways opened the front door of Lucky Star, one of Ames, Iowa’s more popular Chinese buffets, complete with the fake trickling bead waterfall and the golden cat with the ever-cocking right paw. Already three-quarters full with a hungry dinner crowd, a few at the bar drank and played Keno on an overhead screen. A Chinese Muzak mutation of “Ain’t No Sunshine” was audible in the background, unrecognizable from the Bill Withers version.

Within a few minutes, Connor Calloway lumbered back to their table with two plates stacked high; fried shrimp, General Tso chicken, spicy beef, crab rangoon. As Connor began attacking dinner, Rob noticed a few patrons recognize Connor, a cell phone or two now subtly aimed in their direction. It was becoming a common occurrence of late.

“Son, I just don’t know if Consumption is the right school for you.” 

Connor didn’t seem to hear his father as he’d already nearly finished half of plate number one. In just a minute or so, he’d found that comfortable digestive pace that only the most elite eaters can hold for long stretches. Rob and Barbara Calloway just sat back and smiled proudly for the cameras. Their son was entering the zone, oblivious to everything happening around him. They both knew that Connor Calloway would never need a Nathan’s belt or a national championship to satisfy the craving that begged from deep inside of him. 

Good old fashioned food did the trick nicely.