There's an unspoken rule, a delicateness that must be followed for that perfect score. Every prominent figure and aspiring competitor in the games knows it, adheres to it, fears it. Judges will crane their necks to catch you doing it. And if they start scribbling on their notepads, well, then I’m sorry but your dog is cooked.

The rule is this:

No dirty eye contact before the competition.

Knowing the outcast nature of the people who compete against me, I think most of them like this rule. Staring into someone else's eyes must be like holding a hand for them. And god forbid anyone hold their hand except for mommy. Damn wimps. Tom tried explaining the rule to me, something about not wanting to upset your competitor’s stomach before the real gut-busting began. But it still doesn't seem fair to me. I mean, what's a hotdog eating competition without a bit of psychological warfare?  

“Contestant number four-zero-six, Abby Sherwood, come to the stage.”

I walk through the auditorium lights, pick up my card from the judges, and settle down with the other chubby youths at table three. I scan the room carefully, bouncing from nametag to nametag until I find Tom. Tom is at Table five, the lucky son of a gun.  

I’m on the verge of thirteen, So I am sentenced to eat against the smallest stomachs here. I inspect them and there is only five of us shoddy youngins at table three. It won't even be close, I’ll smoke them all. I inspect their soft faces and runny noses, I see childhood anxiety brimming in their terrified eyes. I see this, and know with all the certainty my earthly world can offer that I will outeat them into first place. But my heart still flutters for a second, a short technicality, like a car sputtering out smoke before starting. Damn. I want to win.

My brother is fifteen. Although, Tom doesn't look half his age. I realize that this a compliment middle-aged golfers dole out to their buddies while smoking on the green. But for Tom it's more like a slap on his youthful cheek. We avoid the subject, mostly. Anyways he's up against teens with higher metabolisms and fiercer hungers. These stringy adolescents with their mouths hanging open are serious, too. Their eyes fix onto slow-moving ceiling fans and picture frames on the wall, away from any human eye contact. But I’m confident Tom’s technique will blow those scrawny suckers out of the water. After all, I helped him develop it.

Uncle Chris is tucked behind a magazine that I can't make out. I can see his molars rolling over something with practiced indifference, probably chewing tobacco. He flips his magazine page by first licking his thumb. He’s always been a good spectator. Chris has a dark handlebar mustache, a beer belly he pokes fun at, a furry and massively tattered jean jacket that I have never seen absent from his shoulders, and a misplaced cosmic purpose to atone for sins he didn't earn. I may call him my Uncle but the truth of it is that he’s my unofficial stepdad. He watches my games, drives me to and from school, and encourages me with sayings that are as universal as they are wise, like, “Toughen up buttercup” and, “Keep on keepin on.”. I can imagine his face when I walk over with my first place ribbon. His cheeks full from a smile he can't control, he may poke me in the gut and ask jokingly if I want a celebratory ice cream cone. He loves how much I hate that joke.  

At table ten sits Bip Stafford, and others like him. He is the proverbial king of this holy dominion. And it shows, his ass is poking out of the arms of his chair like a tight bag of dough. His neck stacks up to his chin in thick rolls. And pimples freckle across his face like a game of connect the dots.

Needless to say, I am in love with this man. I know, I know. He's way out of my league. But I can't help it. To date, he has won sixty-four of seventy-one competitions. To put that in perspective, I have only won four out of fifteen. Not to brag, but that's considered prolific in this community.

I see a boy approach Bip, they talk, and the boy nervously taps Bip’s famous gut. What a privilege, I can only hope for so much when I try to make my move today. I’m waiting until after I win so I can totter up to him courageously, and we can congratulate each other, and stand as equals.      

My mooning is interrupted when the girl sitting next to me pipes up with her shrill, ten year old voice,

“I’m Kat” she says.

“I used to call myself Kati with an I, and then I’d draw a heart around the I, but then I got super sick of it, because like, every other girl I knew was doing it.”

I can feel my eyes glaze over, staring at the wall with more intimacy than I probably ever will with Kat.

Kat’s fingers snap in front of my eyes.

“Hey kid,” I say, partially ignoring the baby fat still stacked on my own face,

“I’m on a strict no look policy.”

Her snaps become nonexistent and I can see out of my periphery the humble beginnings of a sulk.

“Oh. Right. Okay. You're one of those. Got it. I am so with you.”  

There is a long silence before I hear tapping noises that I have to assume is Kat. I rest my head in my hands. While I’m never against my fellow female competitors, of which they are the proud few, she could at least have the decency to shut her trap.

I don't have to wait much longer before a plate of sausages slides in front of me. The entire auditorium echoes with the sound of clanking plates and excited murmurs. A judge leans forward into her microphone,

“Ladies and gentlemen begi-”

before she even finishes her sentence my mouth is completely stuffed with dogs.

The mechanics of hotdog eating are ingrained in me, I complete the task at hand with little to no thought. At this point I’ve eaten so much, that if a pro-lifer saw me walking down the street they'd probably hand me a pamphlet.

I'm on my last dog when I hear a prominent choking noise. Whoever it is, sounds like a tiny frog. Unfortunately, it doesn't go away with the moment. I turn my face, puffed up with food, towards my left. And for the first time I am locking eyes with Kats. Her blue eyes are terrified. She is as scared as a person with five hot dogs shoved into her mouth can be.

I should have known Kat would be the one stupid enough to go too hard too soon. There’s one at every comp. They just don't usually sit next to me.

I finish my last dog with gusto, a new plate is set in front of me, and still, no one is rushing to save her. This is one of the more serious competitions, the dogs Kat might eject are disqualified from the count. No one wants the weight of a lost dog on their shoulders.

The ingesting masses are peeling their eyes away from their plates one by one. They are quietly looking at her, and then looking at me. Everyone is hoping that she will swallow the blockage, or somehow unchoke herself. Especially my compatriots at table three.

Oh No. I catch Bip’s determined eyes for only a second but I am filled with massive shame.

I look for Tom, my heart is beating fast, all I can taste is adrenaline. Adrenaline tastes a lot like mustard. I lock eyes with Tom’s for a second and I raise my eyebrows. What am I supposed to do? I don't know the Heimlich. The best I can do is pray and I don't think that's gonna cut it.

Kati tugs on my shoulder, she is crying. The wet of spit and tears fall in messy streames on her skin. She’s been choking for less than a minute but her face is all twisted and purple.

I yell for assistance, mouth still full, “Sumburdy half hur!”

Even I am crying too.

There is a silence within the dining hall. Plates cease to clatter, mouths chew softer, drinks are siped instead of gurgled. This is the sound of stranger’s terror. I close my eyes. I can feel the undigested sausages boil in my stomach, they inch upwards.

I have sustained my eating career thinking I was better than my contemporaries. For eating faster, eating more, for being ambitious, and logical. But i'm not. I'm a damned wimp too.

And that's when it hits me. I mean really hits me, a flying hotdog smashes my face, hitting me square in the jaw. Tom’s precise and frantic aim has awoken me, and I am all action.

I stand up behind Kat’s chair and I squeeze her chest with my hands. I push as hard as is physically possible. I hit her stomach, hug her small body tight, and jump. None of it really seems to work. I might be doing more harm than good. I hit her chest again for good measure, and finally, a brigade of pork is being expelled from her throat. It piles into a gooey mess on her plate. She coughs as if she's been drowning and slumps back into her chair, alive.

“Thank you.” Kat says. Her voice is raspy and her face is strawberry red.

A man at table ten knocks over his chair as he stands up. He starts clapping with hands as loud as drums, and it is infectious. It fills my ears, the whole dining room is in on it now.

Kat perked up a bit, and still folded in on herself she screams, “She saved my life!”

Kat looked at my name tag and added, “ Abby Sherwood saved my life!”

Someone is taking a photograph of me, and I haven't even won anything. Tom raises a dog in the air and cheers for me too. Everyone is cheering.

Uncle Chris has abandoned his tabloid and spit out his chewing tobacco,

“That's my girl!” He hollers.

Chris makes me feel like I’ve just earned something huge, but what the hell is it?

Bip, with his loud and gracious applause makes my heart melt. He is looking at me now with his clear, pale eyes, and this time I don't look away.

I feel a clumsy smile spread across my face. And I haven't even won anything. After so many years of being anonymous to my competitors, the sound of my name, and the looks from their eyes is intoxicating.

Kat starts waving to the crowd, and I do too.