Here is a mountain of corned-beef sandwiches, each crammed with meat. Eleven men and one woman—some of the world's top competitive eaters—intently scrutinize the sandwiches as they're wheeled by on a trolley toward the stage. We're at an outdoor shopping mall in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida, the site of the third annual TooJay's World Class Corned Beef Eating Championship. One contestant drove a thousand miles to be here. He got a flat tire and had to double back to Avis in the middle of the night, but he's made it, and he's ready to battle. I'm intrigued and mystified by the dedication of these athletes, as some of them call themselves. Who are they? What motivates them? I notice them glancing at one another in complicated, intense ways.

But a sense of fatalistic doom pervades the air. This is because one man is quite simply predestined to win. His name is Joey Chestnut, and he's a charismatic, sweet-natured 28-year-old Californian in surprisingly good shape for someone who bulldozes hideous amounts of food into his stomach on a regular basis. In the past six years, Joey has completely dominated the "sport" of competitive eating as it has expanded from a once-a-year carnival stunt to a worldwide tour. He holds world records for hot dogs, asparagus, funnel cake, jalapeño poppers, gyros, grilled cheese sandwiches, chicken wings, cheesesteaks, shrimp wontons, tacos, and at least a dozen other "disciplines."

About 200 people have turned up to watch him try to break his own corned-beef-sandwich record. Fans surround Joey for his autograph. One of them sidles over to me. His name is Sam Barclay. He's such a devotee, he says, that he's actually got himself a job with the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE), the sport's governing body, as a helper and part-time emcee. And he is in total awe of Joey.

"Everyone, since the dawn of time, has eaten or they've perished," Sam says. "But that man is the best eater who has ever lived, in the history of the world."

The fans are mostly ignoring Joey's challengers. There's the world number two, Pat "Deep Dish" Bertoletti, muscular, wiry, a Mohawk haircut, almost always the bridesmaid, rarely the bride. There's a beautiful woman in her twenties named Maria Edible—a cupcake and a burger tattooed on her arm and the word EDIBLE tattooed inside her mouth. There's a bear of a guy named Bob Shoudt—about the only family man on the circuit. He has three kids and puts any prize money he makes into their college funds. I notice another challenger—a waif of a boy with long dark hair—staring fidly at Joey from across the crowd.

I approach Joey. "Who's that boy?" I whisper.

"Matt Stonie," he whispers back. "He's new. He's good. I watched a YouTube video of him in training. You hear his mother in the background encouraging him. When I saw that, I thought, 'Why would she be encouraging him? There must be something wrong with him for her to be encouraging him to eat.' " Joey lowers his voice. "Apparently when he was 15 he was anorexic."

I take this in. "Wow," I say. "I'm not so sure competitive eating is such a good idea for him."

Joey nods. "You'd think someone with anorexia wouldn't like food," he says. "It's weird. He's a good eater. But I don't think he'll ever be an awesome eater, because surely he doesn't love to eat. I love to eat." He smiles slightly. "I analyze them all. I've got to always find a reason why they'll never beat me. So I'm telling myself that if he doesn't have that love, I'll always be better than Matt Stonie."

Our conversation is interrupted by the emcee, Rich Shea, who is telling the audience how blessed we Americans are to have the freedom to eat as many corned-beef sandwiches as we like under a big blue sky. He introduces the contestants. Each takes his place on the stage. Joey is, of course, last: "...the bratwurst- and pork-rib-eating champion of the world, the calzone champion of the world, the Nathan's Famous hot-dog-eating CHAMPION OF THE WORLD! JOEY CHESTNUT!"

Matt Stonie, the new kid

For two days now, I've been listening to Joey extol the sport as a sensei would a martial art. He has told me, for example, how he has studied the ingestion techniques of snakes: "Their muscles are contracting constantly. You'll see when I'm eating, there's a constant weird up-and-down motion. I'm using my whole rib cage to compact the food."

Then there are the years he's spent determining how long to fast before each contest (three days) and which oils best lubricate the digestive system. He's settled on an exact combination of specific brands of olive and fish oils, but he won't divulge more. "I had to figure it out," he said, "so why should I let it be known?"

So after all of Joey's talk of science and preparation, I was imagining the corned-beef contest to be somehow more graceful and balletic. But as Shea counts down to zero and the eating begins, what I see instead are twelve people grotesquely cramming huge piles of meat and fat-sodden rye bread into their mouths. The juice drips down their arms, saturating their shirts. Their puffed-out cheeks are beetroot red. They resemble sweaty, meat-smeared squirrels. The sickly smell of fat permeates the hot air. I notice that the fastest eaters are squeezing the sandwiches in their clenched fists before swallowing them. With one hand they're shoveling in the food, with the other they're gulping liters of water or, in the case of Pat Bertoletti, bright red cherry limeade. Coupled with the semi-masticated sandwiches that are spraying from their mouths in globules as they slobber onto themselves and the table, the whole thing looks like an unimaginable crime scene.

It's a ten-minute contest. By minute six, most of the field is belching and cramping. But not Joey Chestnut. Pat Bertoletti is doing his level best to keep pace with the champ, and young Matt Stonie seems remarkably adept for someone so slight. But Joey is on another level. He's Usain Bolt, but with sandwiches.** **He had been telling the truth about the "weird up-and-down motion" in his rib cage. He looks like he's performing a disquieting contemporary dance routine. "In competitive eating there's a natural slowdown," Sam Barclay tells me. "But Joey? Nonstop."