“I still can't see how he did it ?"

It's a line and an inside joke my teenage son, Adam and I use to break the ice with each other when we are in those awkward father-son moments where we are lost in silence and want to bridge the gaps between generations and talk.

The "he" we are talking about is Takeru Kobayashi, the greatest eater in competitive eating, and without a doubt, if considered a sport, beats the Babe, Wilt, Kareem, Gretzky, Spitz, Bonds,  and Armstrong, all transcendant sports savants, as the most dominating of the dominant athletes of all time. Or, as I was once quoted as saying: "The Tiger Woods...   of Michael Jordans."

What ”he” did--- what created my son and I's special memory, was eat 50 hotdogs and buns in 12 minutes, doubling the world record of twenty five, on hotdog's holiest day. July 4 th ,   in Coney Island, New York, 2001.    I was on stage that day competing against Kobayashi.   My son was in the crowd.   We saw him do it,   still couldn't believe what we saw….

and although my son seems to have gone on with the typical teenage male's passion for girls and cars…

I…

me…

a 48 year old man…

have never been the same since seeing it.

I   am Coondog O'Karma, a professional competitive eater from Cleveland, Ohio.

Competitive eating????

Am I kidding?  

That's crazy.

Only in America, you say?     

Well, yes.

No.

In the age of reality television?

ESPN says it the world's fastest growing sport.

I got my start in competitive eating back in 1972 as a 15 year whiz kid on the old WJW Big Chuck and Houlihan show. The Big Chuck Show was on late Friday nights and featured a pizza eating contest   which was a weekend “can't miss” social experience for the huge, awkward, pimpled, and forgotten fraternity of boy I was bequeathed to.  

The champion of the contest, Mushmouth Mariano Pachetti, was a dictator of dough, and a master of mozzarella.   He was the winner of over 100 matches….   and a peerless prince in the world of pepperoni, until the day I got some cheeky adolescent nerve, finagled a match on the show, took my place in the challenger's seat at the table across from him, and won.

That was the day skinny, gangly Dave O'Karma died…

and Coondog was born.

I remained the champion of the Big Chuck Pizza Fight for 4 episodes until edged by Pachetti in an epic, messy rematch.   Defeat was hard for my youth to swallow, but I still had a voracious appetite for the strange sport, and sought it out.   In the following two years, I competed in eating events for radio shows and fairs setting world records for eating eggs and doughnuts.   It was all good fun, played for laughs and memories, when the inevitable Father Time showed up and started it's dictate.

First I turned 18---

then I graduated from high school---

Finally, the grizzled voice of maturity told me to grow up----

and

I listened and obeyed----

well, kind of…

for almost 30 years.

“So you're friends with Kobayashi?” asks Jason Fagone, a writer from Philadelphia Magazine. We are on the phone, and he's   interviewing me for a book he contracted to write for Random House about competitive eating.

“Kind of….   “ I explain.   “The first year at Coney Island we were both newcomers to the event and at the introduction ceremonies outside city hall with Mayor Giuliani the press pretty much ignored us.   They were following the current champ, Kazutoyo Arai, and all the big, fat American eaters that were running their mouths promising to beat him.   Kobayashi looked as lost and left out as me, so we hung out.   I gave him some t-shirts and gifts, we arm wrestled…   just tried to communicate the best we could without language.”

So, then I did the grown-up stuff.   Jobs… marriage… mortgages… babies… bills… divorce…   dating… marriage, again… and teenagers.  

I got lost.

I got found.

I succeeded.

I failed.

I got going again.

And then----

stuck.  

Stuck was the worst.   A middle-age purgatory with no hope.   The kids were getting grown and life was passing me by.   I felt regret… I felt invisible…. and I felt I was too young to become invisible.

I wasn't ready to buckle in for the fade out.   I still wanted to take chances, breathe new air, and taste new things.

It was a time to shake life up.

Time to get a little lost.

Time to break out of Purgatory.

And win,

lose,

or draw…

I was getting back in the game.  

But… How??????

It's 4 th of July, 2001 and   I am on stage in front of Nathan's Famous Hotdog Stand on the corner of Surf and Stillwell, in   Brooklyn, New York.   I am methodically stuffing Nathan's hotdogs in my mouth as fast as I can chew and swallow.   There are hundreds of people in front   of the stage screaming and cheering… and I think it is for me… but it's not.   They are cheering for the small, muscular, Japanese kid who has just swallowed and doubled the 17 hotdogs that I've already eaten. Startled… my guts about to burst, I drop my hotdog in defeat, and watch, as Takeru Kobayashi, dips, dunks, shakes, wiggles, and dances down another 16 hotdogs to total fifty hotdogs!   Fifty hotdogs AND buns!   And all the while I am thinking: This is one really weird dream.

In 2001, I make my break from midlife monotony…. I read about a hotdog contest in New York.

The famous Nathans 4th of July Hotdog Eating Championship, a hallowed holiday tradtion in NYC.   It's also a tradition that's been dominated by Japanese competitiors since the mid-90's, and there's a national search for an American to eat back the title.

  I query the sponsors and find there are fifteen qualifiers around the country.   My wife mollifies me in the pursuit of my larkish desire and we pack the kids in the car and drive 400 miles to Middletown, New York, where I qualify…

not only for the World Championship in Coney Island on the 4 th of July,

but for a second go around as my old buddy,

Coondog.

     “'I've been researching everything I can about competitive eating and Kobayashi and all there is the standard public relations   dribble. No one's ever done a real interview with him.   It would be great to go over there and get the real story, find out what's really going on.”   Fagone tells me. 

“Man, I've always wanted to go to Japan and eat, see how they train, to find out the secrets.”   I answer.   “You ever see the movie,   Close Encounters of a Third Kind?   How the Richard Dreyfuss character becomes totally obsessed after seeing the UFO?   How he can't let it go… and leaves everything---wife-kids-home-job---EVERYTHING, to follow his maniac curiosity?

“Well.. that's me!   That's me after seeing Kobayashi… it was like seeing a UFO.”

The 2001 finals in NYC are the shot in the arm my tapped-out senses have been lusting for.

I'm back… and big time.  

Because of Kobayashi's incredible feat and the behind the scene genius public relations skills of Coney Island's version of P.T. Barnum, George Shea. competitive eating piques the interest of America and catches fire and in a career that should have the shelf life of a fruit fly… I have more lives than a cat's times nine.

I am invited to Hollywood to compete in the “Glutton Bowl,”   a Fox television special featuring the    world's fifty top competitive eaters.   Then it's off to the Philadelphia Wing Bowl, where my performance is destined to be cemented forever in the board game, Trivial Pursuit, Volume 6.   After that, it's NYC again for a guest appearance on Sally Jesse Raphael Show, which leads me right back into hotdog season.

In the following years I'm interviewed on

ESPN by Darren Rovell,

CNN by Jeanne Moos.

I have blurbs or quotes in

GQ magazine,

Wall Street Journal,

and Sports Illustrated.

I'm featured in newspaper stories about comp eating in Australia and Japan.

I eat doughnuts on the Steve Harvey Big Time Show,

I perform in TV specials

on Travel Channel,

Discovery Channel,

and Food Network.

In a sport that is a mongrel mix of pro wrestling and Hee-Haw,

I am a star…

and for 4 years I bask in my D-list celebrity.

     Getting an interview with Kobayashi would be great for my book.” explains Fagone. someone I've just met on this call… a telephone voice… a stranger who got my phone number from some person who knew somebody that knew me. “If I could arrange it.   Would you want go to Japan?”

     “I'd   wanna go to Japan!”

My celebrity, to most, and even myself, is much ado about nothing,

just fun and curious eccentric ephemera for cocktail parties

and holiday dinner entertainment.  

But as my clock of notoriety continues rolling

the shtick becomes

routine and predictable,

with every question the same,

and the answer pat.

All but one,

the magic button for some passion:

Is competitive eating a true sport?

And my answer,

every time,

something I absolutely truly believe,

a conviction that always gets the eyes rolling

and the table shaking

is: Yes.

And--- Boom!   There's the gauntlet.

“It's stupid.”

“It's boring.”

“It's silly.”

“It's wasteful.”

“It's gross.”

And it may be all that and more, but as I always point out, it has measurable abilities in speed, capacity, endurance, and technique, and when placed in the parameters of a competition… qualifies it as a sport.

It may not be a fitness sport.

You might not have to put on shorts,

or pads,

or helmets,

or jocks

You may not have to throw or kick

a little ball in a hole or net.

or smash it with a stick or club.

There may be little debate whether it belongs more in county fairs

than in a multi-million dollar stadiums…

but, it's still a sport…

and the really good competitive eaters

are athletes,

And I consider myself one of the best.

     “ Hey, Coondog.   It's Jason.” exclaims the excited voice on the phone.   I just talked to Kobayashi's manager, Bobby Ikeda, and he told me Koby is excited to meet with his good friend, Coondog in Japan.   You still wanna go? “

    And without even the thought of asking my wife, my employer, or my bank account, I hear a voice answer.

   “Yes.” I reply.

Okay…

It's stupid, wasteful, and gross…

I'll give anyone that.  

I am also of sound enough mind to know that most folks don't view competitive eating as anything but ridiculous folly and cheesy sport parody.

I can laugh at the silliness of competitive eating as well as the next guy.   I really can.

I can tongue-in-cheek about my “athletic greatness” with the best of them.   But when I am around an eating competition

I am a dead serious addict.

I want to compete…

and I want to win.

It's rough sport that demands

that you keep going after your brain and body tells you to quit.

If feeling full is your 100%,

then you have no chance with the big boys and girls.

100% never wins against the serious competitors.

It takes a special breed of maniac to be good,

If you can stick a knife in an electrical outlet, get shocked, somehow not die, only to stick the knife back in the outlet again, then you have the makings of a great competitive eater.

Those makings are mine

and along with the unique natural ability, I train.

I drink gallons of water to stretch my stomach.

I eat pounds and pounds of fruit in single settings.

I lift weights,

run stairs,

and bike hills

to build the mental toughness and endurance,

I hope will help me get better.

All this

and I am one of America's top eaters,

but still no match for the top Japanese,

and not even half as good as Kobayashi…

and it makes me CRAZY.

For I know there are far more important things in life,

BILLIONS of them…

but it still bugs me:

What are they doing that we aren't doing?

How can they be so much better?

     “You travel Japan?” asks the neatly suited man seated next to me on the Shinkansen, a Japanese bullet train rocketing these rails at 180 miles an hour.

     “Hai.   Yes.”   I answer, pleased, after weeks of study, to be able to use a Japanese word on a real Japanese person.

     “Where from?”   he continues in brittle English.

      “Ohio”   I answer, realizing too late that Ohio, in Japanese, is Ohayo, or hello.

     “Ohayo gozaimas.”   he nods going back to his beer and nuts, as I turn, glancing out the window to a foreign world rushing at me at speeds I've never experienced before.

     “We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”   I say aloud, looking over to my smiling new friend, neither of us having a clue.

Jason Fagone is a gangly 6-6   27 year old writer from Philadelphia who has been contracted by Random House Books to write a book on competitive eating. We met months earlier in phone conversation as he researched a story for Philadelphia magazine about the Philly Wing Bowl, an annual city celebration dedicated to the death of decorum.   The event, inspired, sponsored, and nurtured by Philadelphia sports radio WIP Wing Bowl routinely draws and packs 24,000 rowdies into the city's basketball arena for a chicken wing eating debauchery where for four hours the Friday before the Super Bowl, strippers, drunks, fat guys, and Insanity are the stars.   Me and Insanity have partnered and competed in Wing Bowl three years running.

Insanity like genius piques the interest of poets and philosophers and my high status in the sport is a fertile source of information to the inquisitive writer, Fagone.   Story after story eventually leads to my familiar obsession with the Japanese competitive eating culture and somewhere between a writer's prodding   and a lunatic's zeal, the obsession   becomes Fagone's ambition… to go to Japan, to get the scoop---- to discover the key to Japanese eating dominance and interview the mysterious, mystical, Takeru Kobayashi.

Tired and uncomfortable I scamper behind   the big, loping strides of Fagone.   An undertow of humanity seems to gather around us as we make our way through the Shibuya train station.   Faster and faster, space is compacted, drawing together into the voluminous   horde that is swept through the exit creating the exploding orgasm of humankind known as, Tokyo.

“Bright lights , big city, got nothing on this baby.” I think, gobbling it in quickly while frantically trying not to lose Jason.

It's dark when were arrive in Nagoya.   On the train trip from Tokyo we pick up our interpreter, 29 year old, Marina Kinno.   Marina is Japanese born and raised, but has spent the past six years attending college and living in San Francisco.   Married to American. Tom Nixon, she's recently moved back to Tokyo and is 6 months pregnant with her first child.   She has the beautiful glow of pregnancy and her ripe, happy countenance is so comforting to me after the slam bang newness of this foreign country that I ask her if I can call her mommy.   She laughs heartily and tells me; okay.

The next day, Jason and Marina stay at the hotel to set up coming interviews and travel arrangements, as I set off on foot to explore Nagoya.

The city is as drab as Tokyo is exciting.   The banks of the river that runs throughout the area are concreted, which at first I find interesting , until I realize that everything in the city is concreted. The few trees that managed to survive the indurate soil are over-pruned as though to discourage leaves and life .   I am slightly heartened when I hear birds chirping only to discover it's just a recording coming from the utility poles. All this compounded difference builds a mood and I begin feeling like a ghost walking in a twilight zone…

and panic.

Once again, I'm an invisible man.

Scared…

And for the first time,

am bulldozed by the craziness of this trip,

Finally wondering;

What the hell I am doing in Japan?

But,then I tell myself I am Coondog,

the crazy, happy , fun person.

Yep, 6,000 miles

away from home and slightly lost in this foreign city of 4 million

I am telling myself to believe in my cartoon alter-ego

someone who's goofy,

but brave,

and who's here to find something.

And I keep telling myself this…

and as I do

wander into a huge Japanese fish market.

Miles and miles of fish

and   suddenly my mood

goes from melancholy to marvel

as to how the Japanese have figured a way to scoop out half the ocean

and dump it on these city streets.

Human life teams through the mountains of dead fish…

cutting

boxing

cleaning

and selling.

I watch with deep fascination

at the precision

of a Japanese man with a three foot sword in a New York Yankees cap slicing through a six foot tuna.

when to my surprise he lays down his instrument and asks me in broken English if I am an American.

I nod yes, and he flashes me a smile and a peace sign

then picks up the sword and is back to filleting the sea monster.

His kind acknowlegement

gives me bones

and I am feeling better

as I find my way back to the hotel

only to discover Jason Fagone in a panic.

Marina has talked to Kobayashi's manager, Bobby Ikeda, and been informed Kobayashi has gotten cold feet

for the interview.

He wants to meet with me, his old buddy, Coondog,

but not Jason.

“How can he do this to me, Coondog?”    Fagone pleads in the long, empty hallway of our hotel. “I've come all this way and invested all this money. How can he back out like this? Bobby Ikeda said that Kobayashi read my Wing Bowl article and was upset because I described Ed Jarvis as a” fat” real estate agent from Long Island.   He thinks I am writing a negative book on competitive eating. You've read the article.   Did you think it was negative?” he begs, and for the first time I really see Jason.

He's no longer the urbane, hip writer from Philadelphia I've clung to like a lost puppy these past few days as he skillfully maneuvered us through the crowded, confusing subways, airports, train stations, and taxis of Philly, New York, and Tokyo. I see him as a desperate and disappointed 27 year old kid, exposing me to the fact I am old enough to be his father..   And now it's my turn to maneuver. I summon a parental calm.

I try to explain—that no matter what the general consensus is on competitive eating, even if most of the world thinks it is ridiculous, that to the upper echelon eaters--- it is a sport--- and there's an honor among us to these eating competitions… a battle worn sensitivity that bonds us against the outside scorn, so I am not truly surprised by Kobayashi's sudden reluctance to be interviewed.   That in competitive eating,   Ed Jarvis, at 450 pounds, “is”   fat, but no joke. He is a monster competitor, and a   champion, and that Jason's simple description of   “Cookie” Jarvis as a fat real estate agent from Long Island, New York, in his Wing Bowl piece, misses that fact.

“A huge chunk of this book is riding on this Kobayashi interview” he complains. But he still doesn't understand… he's missed everything I've just said…because he's not one of us.

  Finally I do what all good fathers do when things aren't working and they don't have an immediate answer.   I lie.

“It'll be alright.”   I assure him. “ Have some faith, we have time, and we'll work it out.”

A night of sleep helps us realign the panic of the possible loss of our trophy interview.

Instead of giving in

to fret and worry

we determine to dictate what we can of our destiny

and head into the week

traveling the country

meeting and interviewing lower tiered Japanese eaters.  

From them we learn of Oguii,

the Japanese   tradition of Big Eating.

Created in

the past   generations of the

country's annual harvest festivals,..

and continued to present day

Oguii is---

rather than an act of gluttony----

a practiced celebration.

Eating contests of rice and soba noodles are signs of vigor and health of the community.

Eating, and eating a lot, honored the season.

the people who labored it,

and the chefs that prepared it.

Throughout the week we also discover,

that except for a few food challenges throughout the country,

and the Oguii of the harvest festivals, that there is no professional league of Japanese eaters.   That the Japanese television shows that had featured competitive eating, and the likes of Takeru Kobayashi, were no longer in existence.   and had been gone for almost two years.

“Scammed!”   I think, when finding the truth.   I'd left my family, home, and country hoping to find a Guru- Buddha- Meditation- Mind Over Matter Magic, that would somehow explain the Japanese dominance in competitive eating.   I was determined to learn some kind of secrets--- and nothing.   Just   conned by a slick NYC Madison Avenue Svengali pimping the Japanese mystique to create interest in the press for his Coney Island hotdog contest.

But, the funny thing is--- I don't care.

League, or nor league,

this is the country of Oguii.

Where the participants of the tradition

possess the dignity of great athletes…

not the stain of eccentricity.

It believes in Oguii,

and for the first time in my life as a competitive eater

I don't feel crazy or weird or ashamed…

I am at home.

Late in the week,   Marina receives an e-mail from Kobayashi saying he will meet with me at the Nagoya Train station the coming Sunday at noon.   I can't contain my joy and pump my fist in the air with glee.   Finally--- I'll get to meet with my friend…. and then I realize there is no mention as to whether the invite extends to Jason. I can see the lack of clarity in the message has him nervous, and assure him everything will turn out fine.   He tells me he has resigned himself to the fact that he may not get what he wants, but that the week has provided enough colorful interviews and facts to have made the trip worthwhile.   Still, I know he wants the great white whale of competitive eating.

We have a free day before I am to meet with Kobayashi and decide to fill it by heading a few hours north to Marioka, Japan, where we will both take part in the country's oldest eating venture---

The Wanko Soba Noodle Challenge.

We are sitting crossed-legged on the floor at a table

in a very small restaurant

obscurred in the crowded backstreets of Marioka, Japan.

Except for Jason, myself, the owner, and our kimono clad server,

the place is empty and possesses the quiet solitude of a Shinto shrine.

The rules of the contest are to eat as many shot sized lacquered cups of soba noodle as one can withthstand.   The more that is eaten, the more pleased is the cook.

The soba server removes the empty cup and places   another full cup in front of the contestant with the lightning dexterity of a   shell game carnie and continues this manuever until the contestant gives up by placing a lid on their cup.

We begin…

I slurp my first bowl in one gulp and it is instantaneously replaced by another.

The quick slight of hand of the server and the rhythmic clicking of the lacquered cups echoing in the empty seclusion of the restaurant creates the mystical magic and   illusion I was hoping to find in Japan and I quickly find myself in a hypnotic eating groove.

“Maitta!   Enough!”   I cry, as I slam down the lid on cup number 163.

I wiggle back from the table, rub my fat puppy belly and then turn my attention to Jason.

He's in the 90's and I can see is suffering.

“You're doing great!”   I tell him.

“I'm going for 100.”   he groans, and fights through the discomfort and   eventually nails it.

Our hostess happily approves our performance and the owner gives us each a cheap wooden plaque with our totals magic- markered in on them,

and then, right before my eyes…

the molting of the urbane, young writer from Philadelphia begins.

“Can you get a picture, Coondog?”   he beams, proudly hold up his little wooden trumpery, and I begin to feel a lot better about the future of this trip.

Jason's got the bug.

He can now call himself a competitive eater.

He's one of us.

The big day arrives and the three of us are at the gates of the Nagoya train station. Jason's a nervous wreck, because no matter what he says, he wants this interview, and going home without it would be a loss to his book.

Me?   I'm just plain excited, and when I feel good like this, everything seems to always turn out ok.

I've always been a people person and decide to let my social instincts lead this day.   I've brought some gifts for Koby, and his girlfriend, Kumi Ozeki, from the states, and so has Jason.   If I see he is upset by Jason's presence I will explain that Jason wanted to come say hello and give him his gift and leave.   It leaves both parties with a chance I think they both   deserve.

I also believe when he witnesses my trust in Jason it will relieve his apprehensions about an interview.   Bottom line for my confidence is this:.   I know when Koby and I are finally together, Coondog will take over.

Koby arrives and so does that spirit of friendship I was so confident in.

We hug and greet.

“O-Hisashiburi--- Long time, no see!”   I say, as he and Kumi raise their eyebrows and nod their approval of my Japanese.

Marina then makes cordial introductions of herself, and Jason, and I can tell that Koby is trusting in my judgement for the day.

I give my little buddy a quick gift of an Ohio State Buckeyes ballcap as Marina and Kumi decide on a place for lunch and conversation, and then the five of us are off to our destination.

Walking through the crowded   train station I search one last time for any kind of wariness in Kobayashi's demeanor to Jason's presence.   I hate to think   I may have breeched a cultural etiquette, and maybe insulted my friend, when he takes off the Ohio State cap I gave him… holds it out in front of himself for a good look, then holds it out in front of me and says:

“Cool…”  

The next five hours we are old buddies playing catch up.   We eat – we arm wrestle- and we talk like happy children about family, friends, language, hobbies, pets, and baseball.    Marina can't keep up with us and Jason is hunched over his paper taking notes faster than a dog scratching fleas.

I'm having   the best time of this trip as I begin to realize what the alien was that I flew half way around the world to find….

“Okay….   What are you going to say to the press in New York when you win Coney Island next summer?”   I ask Koby after a few rehearsals of the quick English lessons I have been giving him during the day.

Slowly and firmly, he replies…

“I eat it… to defeat it.”

“You better believe it, buddy!”   I laugh

So, what did I find?

How does he do it?

Straight and simple,

here's what I learned----

Takeru Kobayashi

is 27 years old and grew up outside the industrial city of

Nagoya Japan.

He is 5”-7”. 135 pounds of rock solid muscle.

He loves baseball,

skiing,  

track and field,

weightlifting,

and body building.

He has a degree in economics,

but when asked his profession, will say:

Food fighter.

Although there is no longer any eating television shows or money-making Oguii challenges in Japan,

he has won enough yen in the last 4 years

to live comfortably

and pursue his strong interest in physical fitness training.

He loves visiting America , but hates learning English,

so tries to pick up as much as he can by watching the American television station, Nickelodeon.

His favorite television show is “Hey, Arnold”

a cartoon that features a thoughtful little kid with a football-shaped head growing up in Brooklyn, New York.

His favorite athlete, is American cyclist, Lance Armstrong,

most admired for his tremendous work ethic and his courage in his personal fight against cancer.

Kobayashi wears Armstrong's   Live Strong yellow bracelet when performing, but only when he feels he can meet   the personal peak physical qualifications he sets for himself so as not to dishonor   the” ne plus ultra” influence of his athletic touchstone.

Kobayashi trains six months before the Coney Island contest by doing huge eats, gaining up to 30 pounds.

When he is satisfied in his mind he can attain certain levels of of eating

he begins an intense training regimen, slowly tapering the huge eating, and losing the weight he has put on.

He tries to direct all of this training to a two to three day window around the beginning of July hoping to peak on the Fourth at Coney Island.

Kobayashi has a girlfriend Kumi Ozeki.   A kittenish beauty, they have been a couple for many years, but are not yet married.

He loves children, but thinks they are a big responsibility, and doesn't want to start a family until he feels he can give them the attention he thinks a family deserves.

As he tells me these things, I realize the alien I've been chasing.

In an era of selfish athletes

featuring a modern sports page that reads like a police blotter,

Takeru Kobayashi, is a throwback to the age I grew up with,

an age that is almost entirely gone today.

He is an Eagle Scout who holds doors open for old ladies.

A humble person who should not only be on the cover of a Wheaties box….

but could eat half the inventory of General Mills in a single setting.

He is a Jack Armstrong All-American hero…

only made in Japan.

It's the end of the evening.   It has the” It's Been a Great Day, Isn't This What Holidays Are All About Feel,” and my gluttonous curiosity has been quietly sated.

As we ready to make our formal goodbyes,   Kobayashi turns to Marina

and asks her something in Japanese.

“Kobayashi would like to ask one more question before you leave.”   Marina informs me.   “He has always been very curious.   What type of dog is a coondog?”

“Tell Kobayashi that a coondog is a very determined hunting dog

that relententlessly searches the globe for Kobayashis.”   I tell her.

My answer is translated to laughter and more Japanese from Kobayashi.

“Kobayashi says: He has heard of this dog”   Marina giggles.

Then all of us shake hands,

bow…

and promise to meet again.

So I found the alien, but there's still that one nagging question:

How does he do it?

And even with all Kobayashi has revealed to me, I'd have to say,

I still don't know---

My best guess, is that he just can.

The capricious gods of genius touched him with a special talent.

But, that's not what makes him so special.

In a sport that gets less respect than Rodney Dangerfield,

he trains and refines it with the passion of a Lance Armstrong or Michael Jordan,

searching to perfect his genius to the highest point it is able to attain.

He competes not for money, but to stretch the belt of human achievement.

Eating hotdogs or food contests may seems silly to most people,  

and maybe it is,

but Kobayashi is still a champion.

His special talent bridges over the mundane and phony,

into a world of curiousity and awe.

It melts the ice between the awkward moments of silence of teenagers and dads, opening the doors of conversation…..

And isn't that what heroes and champions are supposed to do?

  Cleveland Magazine