Monday, April 16, 2007

Call Me Ahab

In Moby Dick Captain Ahab is on a quest to find his White Whale. On Saturday night, I attempted to harpoon my own and enter the esteemed 9-9-9 Club.

In what would become one of the greatest training blunders in all of sports, I did not make the club, but that doesn't mean I'm throwing in the towel. I am the Brett Farve of meaningless competitive eating, and one day, I will rise like the Phoenix.

Help us gut Brian Giles like a stuck pig, after the jump.

I feel a little like Santiago Canizares today. Our sexiness got the best of us.

my weakness is booze, his was aftershave

In 2002, Santiago Canizares was on top of the world. He played soccer for Valencia and was set to be Spain's goalie for the World Cup. Then, on a fateful night when he was just trying to sexify himself, he dropped his bottle of aftershave and sliced tendons in his toes. Tough break, right? Santiago remained upbeat, saying, "I still believe that the best moments of my career are yet to come and, health permitting, I will be aiming to be successful in the next World Cup."

That didn't work out so well. Since then he's "fallen down the pecking order at international level," and been replaced by Íker Casillas, a Spainard whose got a hell of a trivia section on his Wiki page.

The reason I bring up obscure Spanish goalies and the tendons they slice is because I, too, fell victim to my own sexiness. Last week I suffered through one of the world's worst sore throats. It hindered my gorging/training, but I still felt confident in my abilities. Being sick doesn't make one feel sexy, so the first night I felt well enough to go out, Friday night, I attended a "White Trash Party" replete in my best Southern regalia. I was in sexy mode. It had been a full week since I'd tasted the hooch and I broke bad. I consumed alcohol at an alarming rate. I kicked ass at Beer Pong, thanks to my much-more-talented teammate, MoJenk.

Cups of Glory

One thing led to another and I ended up drinking all night. And by all night, I mean I didn't stop drinking until noon Saturday. I drank and drank until I thought it best for me not to drink anymore. Then I realized it was time to go to the stadium and join my brethren. Lets just say I wasn't thinking clearly.

As we entered the All You Can Eat Pavilion I explained to my cohorts the condition my condition was in, and their words of support and encouragement led me to believe that, yes, I could go through with this, and what a feat it would be. I sauntered up to the beer vendor, I moseyed to the concession stand, I procured my dogs, we found our seats, and I was off.

I'd took down the first two dogs, lickety-split. I gulped the booze. It was the top of the second inning and I was already ahead of the count.

My stomach proceeded to inform me that that was all the competitive eating I'd be doing that day. My sleep-deprived, poisoned body gave out. As jeers and cheers abounded, as Baby Ruth's soared to the heavens, and as the Padres spanked the Dodgers, my body scream "NO MAS" and shamefully, woefully, I plunkered down for inning upon inning of scorn and embarassment.

But I'm not licked yet. I'm not going gently into that good night. I will not sit idly by while my White Whale swims free. One day, I will enter the 9-9-9 Club, and when I do, you beauiful, smexy readers will be the first to know.

God calls his Baby Ruths back to heaven

1 comment:

Hats Bagelman said...

seriously you're failure on saturday was a bigger letdown than the last episode of Seinfeld.