Heart (Attack) of a Champion!

PIE EATING AND PARTICIPANT RIBBONS


I know there's a movement now that's anti-Millenial, or anti-No Child Left Behind, or anti-”Everybody Wins.”  And in theory, I agree with that.
Look, there are times you're going to win some stuff, and there's times you're not going to win.  Everybody doesn't always win.  That's why sports are so popular.  And televised singing competitions.  OK, not everything is going to be a good example...


When I was growing up, it seemed like Dennis Chavez Elementary School was constantly toeing that line.  Back in school, we had competitions for everything – science fair, lip sync contests, President's fitness award, school awards for fitness, break-dancing, spelling bee – I seriously can't remember a time when I was in a class and not out on the playground competing for ribbons.
And that's what you got:  Ribbons.  The thing is...If you participated, you got a ribbon.
Yes, there was a 1st place ribbon – usually a ribbon WITH a 1st place button on it.  Yeah, that was next level.
Then there was 2nd place – usually a different colored ribbon with a slightly smaller button.
3rd place, just a ribbon.  Same as 4th and 5th.
Then, everybody else got bland, basic dark purple “Participant” ribbons.
Meaning...You were there.  You showed up and did something that denoted participating.  Essentially you got rewarded for skipping out on class for any reason that the school would offer.


But here's the thing about those ribbons that everybody got:  We hated them!!!
I think I had a converted photo album that turned into my ribbon scrapbook.  There was 1 solid 1st place ribbon, maybe 2 or 3 2nd placers, a handful of thirds, fourths and fifths.  And a crap-ton of that mocking dark purple.  “Good job!  We saw that you accomplished as much as checking your name off of the attendance list for a particular event.”


So now, if I do any kind of competition, I do try harder.  I compete.  I don't just show up.  Because if you give everybody the same metal, it's just as bad as handing out those damn grape ribbons to everybody.  And I don't want to participate.  If I show up, I'm competing.


I only preface this story with that so you know why I did what I did.  Why I was so cut-throat, determined.  Why I would bend the rules in a seemingly innocuous challenge.  When there was no viable prize on the line, you will know the killer instinct that caused me to “fuck it.  It's go time!”  This wasn't just a pie-eating contest at the Orange County State Fair.  This was the goddamn Olympic games!  And I was going to win...


I don't frequent fairs.  I don't need to eat deep-fried bacon-wrapped pop tarts with mayonnaise on a Dunkin Donuts jelly-roll with Hershey's syrup dipping sauce.  I don't need to spend $50 dollars in tickets to ride 3 basic rides and one urine-stained funhouse in what amounts to about $12 per admission.  I'm not interested in spending last month's rent to toss a rigged ball into a rigged moving bucket on a rigged lazy river in an attempt to get a giant, stuffed Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim baseball.  I'm not interested in seeing ZZ Top, Foreigner, Sisqo, the Spin Doctors, the remaining members of Bozy 2 Men or a Styx cover band.
So fairs:  Not my scene.


But was at the Orange County State Fair because a buddy said: “Hey, wanna go.”  And I said: “Yes.”  I have that disease.
He also said we were going to be on the pig races.
NOW you have my attention!


As we're wandering through the dust and kids and heat and smells and lines – sounds awesome, doesn't it? - My buddy Joey said, with some authority: “There's a thing called Milk Demon at 1:30pm in the barn.  I've heard of that.  It's supposed to be awesome!”


Now, Joey Soft-Hands is the kind of guy you listen to intently.  Mostly because he's so soft-spoken, you have to listen to him intently or you literally won't hear him.  Also, he's the kind of guy that could wear Speedo's, a fishing vest and Ugg boots in public and you would say to yourself: “That works.”  It's true...He actually wandered the streets of Ensenada in that same ensemble, unironically, and nobody blinked an eye.  You listen to a guy like that.  We called him Soft-Hands for 2 reasons: He had ridiculously soft hands, and he liked to make sure any females shoulders and arms knew that throught the art of improvised massage.  You listen to a guy like that.


So we made our way over to the “Milk Demon” barn.


Along the way, we passed sign-ups for the Orange County Fair pie-eating contest.  It caught my attention...mostly because the guys barking people to sign up were of such the off-putting variety, that you wanted to sign up quickly just to make them stop for 10 seconds and do some paperwork.


None of our group wanted to sign up.  However, I hadn't had my fill of heart-stopping fair food, and I do love me some pie, and free shit, so I signed up.  Why not?  I'm usually pretty good at getting blindly hauled into something if it's by pure luck.  I win raffles, occasionally win Bingo and can more-often-than-not secure a window seat with no middle passenger on a Southwest flight.  This streak has never extended into the lottery or high stakes blackjack, but you take your victories where you can get 'em.  I signed up.


And as soon as I did, I started formulating my plan for when my name was eventually called....It was about to be on.


The only reason I mention the “Milk Demon” demonstration is because that's what brought us near the sign-up table for the pie-eating contest.  We took our seats, excited for the “Milk Demon.”  A very friendly, older farmer came out and told us a bit about irrigation.  OK, it wasn't Chris Rock Live from DC, but he was giving it his best.  Then his wife came out and told us about animals on the farm and the technology of how we get milk, how it's shipped and how it's pasteurized.  It was as exciting as I just made it sound.
Then, the capper!  They proceeded to...milk the cows.  Live.  For us.
Yes, that's what we waited more than 45 minutes to see.
Turns out, Joey was wrong.  Turns out, the flier that listed all of this particular barn's events wasn't as wide as they had hoped.  Turns out, “Milk Demon” is what you get when you cut off the end of “Milk Demonstration.”
We had to laugh at that.  And I'll be damned if I didn't learn something about milk.


I can't get into that now, because the pie-eating contest was nigh!  And I was sure I was going to get pulled from the random drawing!  I mean, we're in Orange County signing up for a pie-eating contest.  How many people in the OC can't eat carbs, gluten, sugar, corn syrup, or anything non-Vegan, right?  My odds of getting pulled were great, as opposed to signing up for a pie-eating contest in, say, Wisconsin.  Or Alabama.


There were 10 contestant slots.  And when my name wasn't called amongst the first 9, I did start to panic.  I didn't sit through a bovine-milking demonstration just to have that be the day's topper.  But this wasn't the lottery, so the very next name called: “Joel Bryant.”


My handful of friends went crazy.  Maybe too crazy.  They had to settle down.  If there was a tie at the end, this was going to come to an audience vote.  I didn't want to be John McCain to their Palin.  Their rowdiness couldn't sink me.  I was already in a hole.


We donned our garbage bag smocks.  I shook hands with the guy next to me...Sizing him up.  OK, normal size.  5' 11”, probably 175, nice guy, didn't have the killer glint in his eye.  I peeked down the line.  OK...no Joey Chestnutt ringers, nobody bringing a John Candy-esque physique.  Also, no sneaky skinny Japanese kids that always seem to astoundingly win these things.  I measured up pretty good.


The MC went down the line, introducing the contestants to the audience and asking them a few questions: Name, where they're from, and occupation.  Most amateurs would think nothing of this.  Us pros know:  The competition has officially begun!


Most contestants answered with “Orange County” or “LA” when asked where they were from.  It was an obvious response because I don't think anybody travels all that far to hit the same county fair that will be in their county next month.  That answer started to get old...and I could sense it.  Noted.


The occupations seemed to resonate with the audience as well.  Got to remember:  If there's a tie, the audience is the deciding vote.  Noted.


They got to me.


“What's your name?”


“Joel Bryant.  Happy to be here.”  Nice addition.


“Where are you from?”  The audience had their fill of OC and LA.  I gotta stand out, maybe throw out a curveball and see if someone doesn't take a swing at it.


“Seattle, Washington!”  A group of 10 ladies, presumable from Seattle, went nuts.  I shot blindly for a city that may have a fan or two in the crowd and I hit the bullseye.  Perfect.


“And what do you do for a living?”


“I teach 2nd grade!”  I've never taught second grade, I barely remember my own second grade, I couldn't tell you what you learn in that particular grade, but I know people love 2 things: Teachers and kids.  Just to drive the point home, I added: “This one's for my students back home.”


The crowd went nuts.  I guess nobody realized this wasn't being televised live and there's no way my students were even aware I was about to eat a boysenberry pie in Orange County in their honor.  Didn't matter.  People love teachers and kids.


I had the tie-breaker, I figured.  The least I had to do was eat enough pie to at least end in a tie, if not an out-right win.


Beautiful thing about this pie-eating contest – of course, I combed through the rules with a microscope when I signed up: It wasn't about how much pie you ate.  It was about how much of the bottom of the pan you could see when the buzzer goes off.


That's how I took it.  I literally didn't have to eat any pie.  As long as I could clear a space at the bottom!


Here's the technique: 
At the whistle, stand straight up and bend 90 degrees from the waist, full face into the pie.  This allows you to avoid the harder and belly-filling crust and gets your gob right into the gooey, malleable middle.  It's coming in straight versus trying to attack it from an angle.  The bonus to this maneuver is that it also keeps the pie tin from sliding away from you since you couldn't use your hands to secure it.


You're going to get dirty, so know that.  Thrust your face into the pie and see if you can't get your nose to touch the bottom.  Yes, you should take in a mouthful of pie.  Why not?  Free pie.  But this move is pure physics.  What it does is displace the pie from the center out, meaning upon your first thrust, you've already knocked most of the crust, the part that holds the pie in the tin, out of the tin and onto the table.  Virtually all you have left is the center sweetness of the pie – the moving, almost liquid, easy-to-chew jelly of the pie filling.


As I said: Eating a bit of pie is unavoidable.  Suppose you shouldn't sign up for a pie-eating contest if you're allergic to pie.  But the key move is keeping a full mouth with full cheeks....once again, going for area displacement.  Then, instead of futilely trying to chew and ingest pie, keep the rules in mind:  They're just looking for the most exposed area on the bottom of the tin.  Instead of eating, move your fattened jowels back and forth and up and down.  Instead of swallowing the pie, you simply move it around like a pig excavating mud when he's truffle-shopping.  You literally use your face to knock the pie out of the tin.  Rub your dirty face on the bottom of the tin back and forth and the pie will make it's way to the table without you even having to eat it!


Well, I was pretty damn proud of myself.  I know, I sound like I've been on the pie-eating pro circuit for years, but this was all just seconds of consistent improvisation and inspiration as the game went on.


When the buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild.  I had honestly forgotten they were there, I was so in my head.  Totally understood how Michael Phelps felt on his tremendous Beijing Olympics run.


We all pulled our heads up from our desserts and, with boysenberry smeared from eyebrow to chin-scruff, we honestly looked like an extras casting call for “The Walking Dead.'' Just reddish-bluish smears, wide-open huffing mouths and dead eyes.


The judges came around.  I had already sussed out the competition and declared myself the winner.  They weren't as friendly.  It was between me and a guy 2 seats to my right.  No way, I thought to myself, I have more pan showing than he does!
It's amazing how you can get so indignant in a competition when you knowingly bent the rules...


Nevertheless, this played right into my plan.  It came down to the audience vote.  Bring the noise, fan of teachers from Seattle!
They had an informal ranking.  The guy's family went wild, as did a couple of casual fair-goers.  When they announced my name, I kicked off the cheering with my battle cry just to inspire more noise: “This one's for my students!!”
Of course, I won the applause-o-meter.  I mean, I'm fake shaping the fake future of my fake students.  Throw the fake teacher a bone!


What did I get for all of my pie eating and shoveling, and for the hour I spent in the bathroom pulling boysenberry filling out of my nostrils, and for using the beleagured plight of teachers to serve my own purpose, and shouting out love to kids I'll never have, and bending, twisting and breaking every rule in this friendly fair's pie contest?
I got a ribbon.
But a big-fat 1st place blue ribbon with a double tail and a big-ass button.  This thing won't even fit in my scrapbook!


Oh, and the boysenberry filling left a huge dark purple stain on my face...just for participating.