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Thanks to months of practice and a little bit of luck, I recently became a national champion. Sadly, however, the physique of a champion egg thrower is no match for the body of a mainstream national champion.
So it’s time to get my ass in gear. Literally.
Actually, I won’t be able to do that until July 18th, when I’ll be competing in a pack burro race in Idaho Springs, Colorado. I’ll be running for miles on a rugged course alongside a donkey weighed down with 30 pounds of mining equipment.
I realize this may sound crazy, but pack burro racing is a serious sport commemorating Colorado’s 19th-century miners. These prospectors used burros to carry their mining tools and supplies through the Rocky Mountains in search of precious metals. According to legend, two miners once found gold in the same location and raced back to town in order to stake a claim to the discovery. Due to the heavy loads the donkeys carried (aka, assloads), the miners couldn’t ride their donkeys. Instead, they had to walk and run beside their burros, which explains why riding your donkey is strictly prohibited in this sport.
Today, the Western Pack Burro Ass-ociation (WPBA) celebrates “60 years of hauling ass” by sponsoring six races, including the World Championship Pack Burro Race, a 29-miler that kicks off the triple crown of burro racing. Lucky for me, the weekend that Carie and I will happen to be in town, there’s a tamer, 5-mile event targeted at novice burro racers like me.
Believe it or not, long before I had ever heard of burro racing, we were already planning a trip to Colorado. Carie works for a non-profit organization headquartered in Boulder, where she had previously scheduled some meetings. Lured by fresh mountain air, a few nights of backpacking, and the chance to check out Colorado’s first microbrewery, I jumped at the chance to tag along and make a long weekend out of her business trip. The race actually fell into my lap when one of Carie’s colleagues, Catherine (aka, Pumpkin) found the WPBA’s website.
While I’m somewhat nervous about running five miles with a donkey (I’ve never been the biggest fan of hoof stock), it’s about time for another physically demanding challenge. I’ve been training hard for the past two months, but that training has required little exercise. Hollerin’, obviously, required none. Egg tossing wasn’t much better.
A long ass race is just what I need.
HAGERSTOWN, Md.–As soon as I release the egg, I know it’s a rotten throw.
I’m certain it’s destined for a premature, shell-splitting, yolk-splattering death 62 feet away in my best friend’s right hand. When you’ve been throwing eggs twice a week for the past two months, you develop a pretty good feeling about these things. Except that this is a terrible feeling—the worst feeling an egg thrower can experience. And it’s happening in the final round of competition on the greatest egg throwing stage in the nation. This is inexcusable. This is a complete letdown of monumental proportions.
Normally, such a weak, short toss wouldn’t have been a problem. My partner simply would have run closer to the egg to make a clean snag. Problem averted. But now that we know the official rules—that you can’t cross that line—running over it to secure a better position is not an option.
Little do we know, this rule is about to reward us with a glorious second chance.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
As national championships go, the National Egg Toss Championship (NETC) isn’t exactly on par with the Super Bowl. The NETC takes place on a Sunday and the winners receive trophies, but that’s where the comparisons should stop. Unlike most national championships, which are held in massive arenas, the venue for the NETC is Municipal Stadium in Hagerstown, Md., home of the Hagerstown Suns minor league baseball club. Willie Mays played his first professional game there in 1950, but the seating capacity is only 4,600. And unlike most national titles, which require years of training and rounds of qualifying, anyone can buy a ticket to a Suns game, show up with a partner in right field after nine innings, and compete for the national title. Most of the contestants are Little League players. As far as I know, ESPN has never covered the event. Erin Andrews has never interviewed the champions.
This didn’t stop Mike Hepp and I from approaching this contest like professionals. While our wives, Carie and Jodie, also planned to compete in the NETC, they rarely practiced. Mike and I, however, shared a standing, twice-weekly date in his front yard. There, he had spray-painted marks in 10-feet increments so we could measure our progress. The first practice wasn’t impressive, but we rapidly improved. One evening, we each completed throws of more than 90 feet—a distance that would have been good enough to win by 50 feet last year. On the Friday night before the contest, however, I worried that our confidence was morphing into cockiness.
“When we win this thing, I bet we can get you on the radio,” Mike said.
“Whoa, buddy,” I said. “Let’s slow down. We need to win it, first.”
“Whatever man, we’re going to be national champions. I’ve even got a perfect quote ready when the newspaper interviews us after we win.”
This was exactly why I had decided to reach out to a few national champion coaches the week before. Figuring we needed to maintain a strict mental focus, I solicited advice from Duke basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski (a four-time national champion), North Carolina basketball coach Roy Williams (a two-time national champion), and Alabama football coach Nick Saban (another two-time national champion). Unfortunately, none of the coaches could spare some time to offer a couple of egg throwers some words of wisdom. If they had, they probably would have advised against a booze-filled binge the day before the championship. We had a mini-reunion with our good friends Dave and Diddy, and our new friends Tracy, Paul, and Lisa. After watching the US-Ghana World Cup match in a bar, we caught a yawner of a game at Camden Yard between the Baltimore Orioles and Washington Nationals. Later, we dined and drank at a nearby watering hole. Mike and I also had a few more drinks at the hotel bar before going to bed. Certainly, Coach K wouldn’t have allowed this spree of debauchery.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
On the morning of the contest, my shirtless reflection in the Marriott bathroom mirror told a pathetic tale of excess and laziness. A hairy, expansive gut and flabby chest begged for less beer and fewer second helpings of garlic bratwursts. A wiry, undefined pair of arms cried for attention, for nothing more than an occasional visit to the gym or the fleeting rush of squeezing a stress ball. Multiple zits wondered what they were doing on the face of a 29-year-old.
This, I thought, was hardly the body and face of a national champion. More like a champion doughnut eater.
My self-doubt had some company. As we walked to lunch, Mike revealed that he was nervous.
“Don’t be,” I said. “This is all just for fun.”
“I know, but what if we don’t win, and I’m the weak link?”
Not only were we lacking confidence, we were feuding. At dinner on Saturday night, we stumbled into an inevitable road trip pothole: an epic argument. Pointless road trip arguments of the past have included the following who-could-actually-care-less topics:
-Who’s going to be the better pro: Vince Carter or Corey Maggette?
-Who would you rather take in the NFL Draft: Michael Vick or Drew Brees?
-Was Tiger Woods faking his knee injury at the 2008 US Open?
The argument du jour was whether or not current NBA and NFL stars could be world-class soccer players if they had started playing soccer at an early age, instead of their respective sports. Long story short, Mike said yes. I said not really. An entire restaurant was lucky enough to hear the entire spat, blow for worthless blow. It even spilled over to lunch on Sunday as we waited for our plates at Jimmy’s, a diner in Fells Point.
“Hey Page,” Dave said. “Are you ever going to try and qualify for the US Open?”
“I don’t think I’d have a prayer,” I said. “I think you have to have an incredible handicap just to sign up.”
“I think it’s 1.4,” Mike said. “Dave, what’s yours?”
“I think it’s something like 8.”
“So you’d have to be 8 times better than Dave,” Mike said.
“Well,” I said, “maybe, when I was younger, if somebody had put a golf club in my hands instead of a pen, I’d be in the US Open.”
Everyone laughed. I smirked. My vocal jab felt good. But Mike wasn’t going down without a fight.
“No,” he said. “You’d still be just as bad a golfer as you are a writer.”
Everyone laughed again. Louder this time. I was pressed, but he had yet to knock me out. I had one more comeback in me.
“Right,” I said. “But everybody knows you can’t read!”
Ha! He didn’t respond, because it’s true. Mike would rather poke his eyeball out with a toothbrush than read a book. That’s what movies are for. When he sees how long this story is, he probably won’t even read it. The only problem was that nobody laughed this time. It was clear to everyone that this argument had escalated beyond playful ribbing to uncomfortable needling. I felt like a bad friend. And a terrible egg throwing partner.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
During the drive to Hagerstown, my phone buzzes. According to the Twitter stream for the World Egg Throwing Championship (which is held in Swaton, England, on the same day as the American contest), the newly crowned World Egg Throwing Champions are two 12-year-olds. If the best egg throwers in the world are 12-year-olds, maybe Mike and I are past our prime. Maybe we aren’t cut out for this event.
Fortunately, there is a bit of good news waiting for us at Municipal Stadium, when we arrive in the fourth inning. With the Suns losing 4-0 to the Hickory Crawdads, many fans are already leaving. Fine with me. Those are just potential competitors walking out the front gate. And there aren’t that many people here in the first place. The announced attendance is an ambitious sum of 1,162.
I barely watch the game. I’m far too busy calming my nerves. I chat with my Uncle Jim, who drove up from Frederick to join us and film the event, but I’m a lousy conversation partner. All I can think about is the upcoming competition. Near the end of the game, a Suns employee is carrying the trophies around the stadium. I can’t help but daydream about holding it. Next, I envision a series of never-ending perfect throws and receptions.
After the game, there is another small contest in which fans attempt to throw tennis balls from the stands into hula-hoops at various spots on the field. The closer the hoop, the smaller the prize. Landing your ball in the center field hula-hoop, however, is worth $100. Mike and I take aim for the top prize. We come close a few times, but we nearly throw out our arms. It’s clear that this game is rigged. Hopefully, the NETC isn’t.
Finally, it’s time to throw some eggs.
The contest officials instruct one member of each team to stand behind the right-field foul line. Ten feet from the foul line, they stretch out a roll of yellow caution tape and instruct the other partners to cross the line. To complete one round, the partner behind the foul line must successfully complete a throw to the partner behind the caution tape. Then, that partner must successfully complete a throw back to their partner. The egg can be tossed or rolled, but stepping over the foul line or caution tape will result in disqualification.
Mike and I carefully choose our spot on the field. The main objective is to put a few contestants between us and our wives, who claim to have a secret trick that will lead them to victory. Due to their lack of practice, they really have nothing to lose, and I don’t want them distracting us. Losing to them would be a crippling defeat. Please don’t misunderstand me. I love my wife and respect everything about her. She’s amazingly talented, smart, and beautiful. But I can’t imagine the shame of practicing so hard, only to lose to someone who barely trained.
Our egg throwing neighbors are a pair of 10-year-olds and an 8-year-old and his dad (or possibly his Little League coach). I like what I see. Of the 20 teams, most of them are small children. It all seems innocent enough until the dad/coach next to us speaks to his young partner.
“OK, buddy. Don’t be too upset if we don’t win again this year.”
What? How is this happening? In an effort to get away from our wives, we have positioned ourselves right next to the defending national champions! And one of them must be a precocious phenom who will probably win the next World Egg Throwing Championship. We’re just a pair of speed bumps en route to his reign of global egg flinging domination. Flustered, I drop Mike’s second practice throw. The egg doesn’t break, but it’s clear that I’m rattled. Determined to overcome this adversity, I tell Mike that the drops are out of my system.
We trade in our practice egg for the real deal. The first few throws are perfect. As the officials move the caution tape back 3 to 5 feet after each round, some of our shorter competitors start dropping their eggs.
In the fifth round, at a distance of roughly 30 feet, I notice Carie and Jodie walking off the field. They had a nice run, and I am truly proud of them, but I breathe a deep sigh of relief. We won’t be losing to our wives. Even better, our biggest competitors are now our biggest cheerleaders. Well, our only cheerleaders.
The defending champs fall in the next round. I guess that kid isn’t a future world champion, after all.
Mike and I remain perfect and the field thins out. By Round 9, it’s down to just two teams. Our final opponents are older than us. One of them is a Little League coach. Half his team is here, cheering him on and yelling, “Drop it! Drop it!” every time we make a throw. We match each other in Rounds 9 and 10.
In Round 11, at a distance of 62 feet, Mike throws me a perfect strike. Our competition counters. This is where I make my colossal error. My throw is far enough to barely get over the line, but not far enough for Mike to get in proper position without stepping over the line. Forced to make a shoestring catch, the shell cracks and Mike is clinging to a fist full of yolk. For weeks, we’d been talking about the one bad egg that could ruin our dreams. I just threw it. I can’t watch. I turn around and walk deeper into the outfield. My only hope now is that our opponents will also break their egg.
I turn to watch a perfect throw and catch. The receiver raises his arms. They are the champions. Not us. They are taking trophies home. Not us. It’s all my fault. I’m the weak link. Not Mike.
But wait. Mike is pointing at the foul line. The wives are screaming. “His foot was over the line! His foot was over the line.” A contest official verifies their claim. We’re still alive!
So, now, I scream. “It’s a toss-off!”
(Later, after reviewing the video, I see several instances where our competitors stepped over the line in earlier rounds, meaning we should have never even gotten to this point.)
After noticing the Anyone Can Enter branding on our shirts, I overhear one of our competitors grumble that Mike and I must be getting paid for this. My bad throw aside, we do look the part of professionals. But seriously? Come on guys. There’s no swoosh on our shirts. I consider setting them straight. But why bother? If these guys want to think that we’ve got corporate sponsorship, let them think it.
Each team receives a new egg. In our final practices, Mike and I had trained for this exact situation. We weren’t preparing for a toss-off, but we were confident in our throwing/catching ability from this distance. After making it to 80 and 90 feet a few times in practice, we wanted to see how much farther we could throw an egg if we started at 60 feet instead of 2 feet. All the impact from those short and medium tosses jeopardized the structure of the egg, we figured, making it harder to complete long throws after so many shorter ones. The strategy worked. On the Friday night before the NETC, we each completed a throw of more than 120 feet.
In another twist of good fortune for us, our competitors commit another costly mistake. Their first throw lands 15-feet short of the receiver and bounces end-over-end, kickoff style, into his hands. The egg is still intact, but it clearly takes a beating.
Mike throws me another perfect, high-arcing egg. I make another perfect catch. The opponent near me is up. His throw can’t look any sweeter. It’s long enough and it’s right on target, but that egg has just been to hell and back. It probably isn’t going to survive a landing in a dumpster full of pillows.
SPLAT! The egg breaks in his hands! All we need is one more throw and catch.
My mind is completely empty. Nerves? Nowhere to be found. Pressure? Totally absent. A crowd of 20 people remaining, many of them small children heckling Mike? Invisible. It’s just Mike and me out there, playing catch with an egg in his front yard. Just like we’d practiced dozens and dozens of times in the past two months. By this point, we’re totally over our road trip feud. Who cares if Julius Peppers would make a good soccer player? All that matters now is that we can be national champion egg throwers.
With one deep breath, I deliver another strike to Mike. The Little League hecklers are nearly in his back pocket.
“Drop it! Drop it! Drop it! Drop it!”
Undaunted, he welcomes it with another soft landing in his cushioned hands and flips it to the kids.
It’s over! We are national champions! I am shocked, and I don’t want to disrespect the runners-up. Just a minute before—just for a moment—they thought they were national champions. So, for no good reason, I walk up to the opponent on my side, shake his hand, and say something sort of weird.
“Congratulations,” I say, even though I am the victor, not him. I have no idea what I am saying. I am dehydrated and possibly delirious. Next time, I think, I’m hiring a water boy.
Minutes later, Mike and I are each holding our own national championship trophies. Assuming you exclude all those participation trophies you receive in youth sports just for showing up to the games, and unless you count the sportsmanship award (which was actually a plaque) I received my senior year of high school (for setting records in both interceptions thrown and sacks taken) or the trophy I made (the one and only time I won our Fantasy Football League), this is the first trophy I have ever actually won. It feels good. No, it feels incredibly awesome.
The only thing that might make it better is a champagne bath and President Obama on line 1.
President Obama: Congratulations, gentlemen. Your country is truly proud of you today. You have performed with great courage, honor, and integrity. I look forward to hosting you, your families, and your friends for a steak and egg dinner in Washington sometime soon.
At least, that’s probably how it would have gone.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
In the parking lot, Carie turns to me. “So, do you want to know the secret tip or not?”
She’s been dying to tell me.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “What is it?”
“The people who set the Guinness World Record said they shook up an egg for two hours so that the yolk would thin out and wouldn’t slam against the sides of the shell.”
“Oh,” I say. “Did they ever win a national championship?”
I don’t actually know the answer to this question. I don’t care. All I know is that Mike and I are national champions, and we didn’t need a secret tip to make it happen. We didn’t even need a coach. All we needed was practice.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
On the 6-hour trip home, our heads swell with pride.
“What a great week for Raleigh,” Mike says. “First, John Wall is the No. 1 pick in the NBA Draft. Now, we win the National Egg Toss Championship.”
Later, we plot our egg throwing futures. We wonder aloud which of us will be the first to sign an endorsement deal. I realize that no matter what I eat for breakfast the next day, it will be a breakfast of champions. Because I’m a champion. Therefore, I could eat cat food and call it the breakfast of champions.I decide, however, to avoid this idea.
“So, Mike,” I say, “are we going to come back next year and defend our title?”
“Maybe,” he says, “or we could retire. Go out on top.”
Then again, there’s always next years World Championship in England. It would be a shame to retire without a world championship title to our names.
Those 12-year-olds better watch out.
We did it! In a field of 20 teams at the National Egg Toss Championship in Hagerstown, Md., Mike and I each completed throws of more than 60 feet in a toss-off to win the national title.
More details to follow soon.
We just strolled into Municipal Stadium in Hagerstown, Md., where the 2010 National Egg Toss Chapionship will commence after the Hagerstown Suns play the visiting Hickory Crawdads. We arrived in the bottom of the fourth inning to find many fans leaving the stadium with the Suns down 4-0.
There are literally dozens of fans here. That’s it. Okay, maybe more like 300. But no more than that. Many of them were streaming out the front gate when we arrived.
My Uncle Jim, who lives in nearby Frederick, is here with us. He asked a few of them why they weren’t sticking around for the egg toss.
“The what?”
So maybe we won’t have an audience worthy of most national championships, but I’m fine with that. The less competition, the better.
The National Egg Toss Championship is unique among most national championships. Unless you can name one in which some of the opponents are sleeping together.
In a few hours, Carie and I will say goodnight to Mike and Jodie and we’ll retire to separate rooms in a Baltimore hotel, like proper married couples.
But shortly after the Hagerstown Suns wrap up their game against the Hickory Crawdads tomorrow afternoon, we’ll all take off our wedding rings. The move will be equally functional and symbolic. Functionally, it makes no sense to throw eggs with a piece of metal attached to your hand, no matter how precious the metal may be.
The symbolism is probably more meaningful.
Once the egg toss starts, the only partner I’ll have eyes for is a 5-foot-10 father of two who mows grass for a living and thinks formal attire is a collared New York Giants shirt paired with a fitted Mets hat. Likewise, I imagine that Carie will feel the same way about Jodie, her egg tossing partner. Yesterday, in fact, I spotted a particularly cocky exchange between Carie and Jodie on Facebook.
Jodie Rivers Hepp: National Egg Toss Championship this weekend… Carie and I might get to see our husbands cry when we take them down.
Carie Page: I have big news on this front…. a friend of mine gave me a sure thing tip today. And I’m not telling the boys!
Jodie Rivers Hepp: new egg strategy- nice carie!
Enraged, I immediately started to respond. I nearly fired off, “Here’s a tip, sweetheart: learn how to catch.” But I knew better. The last thing we needed the night before a 6-hour road trip was an all-out war. Hours later, I settled on a more democratic response.
Jon Page: I’ve got a great tip for you ladies. Find a bookie and bet next month’s mortgages on Jon and Mike.
The thing is, Carie might have a lucky streak going. We’re at a Baltimore Orioles game right now, but we came here early so we could watch the US-Ghana World Cup game with our good friends Dave and Diddy. Against my advice, Carie wore a Pittsburgh Steelers shirt into Baltimore Ravens territory. Miraculously, however, midway through the US game, two complimentary chicken wing baskets were delivered to our table. Minutes later, our waiter appeared. He seemed furious. In a bar full of screaming fans, he had to yell at us.
“Who here is from Pittsburgh,” he demanded.
All eyes turned to me.
Cowardly, I pointed to my wife and her incriminating shirt.
“That’s awesome,” he said, excitedly. “Where exactly are you from?”
Again, all eyes returned to me.
“Ummm. My mom is from Pittsburgh, actually,” I said. “She’s from Wilkinsburg.”
“Cool. I’m from New Kensington. That’s why I gave you guys the wings.”
I just hope I’m not as much of a coward tomorrow. And I hope Carie takes me back once this thing is over.
To read more about our intra-marital egg tossing rivalry, click here.
Behind every great champion, there is a greater coach. The Green Bay Packers had Vince Lombardi. The UCLA Bruins had John Wooden. Bill Russell had Red Auerbach. Michael Jordan had Dean Smith and Phil Jackson. Rocky Balboa had Mickey.
Unfortunately, Mike and I have no coach for Sunday’s National Egg Toss Championship.
I know what you’re probably thinking: You throw the egg. You catch the egg. Who needs a coach for that? It’s true. Egg tossing is quite simple—when you’re practicing in your friend’s front yard for an audience that includes a three-year-old, a chocolate lab, and various confused neighbors. But who’s to say what it’s actually like to compete for a national championship in egg tossing? Surely, the past five winners of the National Egg Toss Championship do, but they’re hard to track down. Mainly because the Hagerstown Suns, the Class-A Minor League team that runs the contest, doesn’t keep records for egg tossing with the same diligence they display for baseball stats. And, yes, I realize that this might be a tip-off that the National Egg Toss Championship isn’t quite on the same level as the Final Four or even the National Hollerin’ Contest. But it’s still a national championship. You can’t argue against that.
Then again, at least I could turn to some former champions for advice before competing in the Hollerin’ Contest last week. Up until this week, the best advice I’d received from anyone about egg tossing came from the President of the World Egg Throwing Championship—a similar event taking place across the pond in England on the same day as the National Egg Toss Championship. Unlike its American counterpart, the World Championship features multiple egg-related events and boasts a history of egg throwing dating back to the Middle Ages. While President Andy Dunlop was nice enough to answer some questions for me, he seemed more interested in making witty jokes at my expense than offering actual advice.
Unfazed and without proper guidance, Mike and I persevered, maintaining a rigorous schedule of two practices each week. Soon, the hard work paid off. Each time out, we consistently completed throws of more than 60 feet—more than we would have needed to win the event last year. But then I competed in the Hollerin’ Contest, where I learned how pivotal a role experience can play in a national championship. Each of the participants who placed in the Hollerin’ Contest were former champions. While I was simply happy to complete my routine without vomiting on stage, the top three competitors had polished strategies. Furthermore, they seemed to have a mental edge. That’s exactly what Mike and I needed for the National Egg Toss Championship.
Having exhausted my options in the egg tossing community, I decided to broaden the scope of my search for an egg tossing mentor. Honestly, all we really needed was a mental mentor. And then it hit me. A great coach is a great coach, no matter what sport he or she is coaching. So instead of chasing after egg tossing coaches, I set my sights on the three greatest current national champion coaches that came to mind.
From Duke University, four-time NCAA champion/Olympic-gold-medal-winning basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski.
From the University of North Carolina, two-time NCAA champion basketball coach Roy Williams.
And from the University of Alabama, two-time NCAA champion football coach Nick Saban.
(I left Urban Meyer off the list because he obviously hates the media.)
I drafted a short, simple e-mail and immediately sent it to each coach’s media contact. Here’s what I wrote:
Dear (Media Guy),
I have a rather odd, yet entirely genuine request for you. I’m on a quest to compete in at least one obscure/wacky/ridiculous event each month. Along the way, I’m blogging about the entire experience.
I’m writing you because I have a question that I think Coach Krzyzewski/Williams/Saban can help me with. Like I said, I realize this isn’t exactly a normal request. But you’ve got to admit, this might be fun for him to answer. For starters, I guarantee that no one has ever asked him this:
Coach, I’m getting ready to compete in my second national championship in as many weeks. Last week, I fell short in the National Hollerin’ Contest. This weekend, however, I think I have a good shot at the National Egg Toss Championships. My partner and I have been practicing for weeks, but I’m afraid we’ll crack under the pressure come game day. As someone who’s won multiple national titles, can you give us some words of wisdom?
Thanks.
Was it a long shot? Sure. After all, I’m not a five-star recruit, and these guys have no obligation to respond to a schmuck like me. On top of that, consider the fact that there are beat reporters at reputable newspapers covering these coaches’ actual sports—not egg tossing—who would trade a month of pregame complimentary buffets for just one exclusive interview. But that’s exactly why I liked my chances of getting an answer. While Joe Q. Reporter might have been looking for answers about a possible recruiting violation, I was asking a single innocent question about a popular breakfast food. What was the harm in that? I imagined it would be a great question to ask while the coach was on his way from his office to the practice field, or on the golf course.
Alabama Media Guy: OK, Coach Saban. Before you tee off on the back nine, here’s something to think about. A guy from North Carolina needs some advice in preparation for the National Egg Toss Championship.
Coach Saban: Well that’s easy, Media Guy. Each play has a history and a life of its own. How is that play going to be remembered? If you’re focusing on that play and what you have to do that single play, usually you’ll do pretty good on it.
It would literally be that easy. I hoped.
So much for that.
Alabama Media Guy was the first to respond. Coach Saban, he said, was on vacation for the next couple of weeks. Upon his return, he said, “I’ll have quite a few things to go over with him. To be honest with you, I don’t think this one will make the cut.”
Fair enough, I thought. I’d heard that Saban has never been much of a media darling, anyways. Surely, however, I might have some luck with Coach K and Coach Williams. They are, after all, right in my own backyard here in the Research Triangle Park.
Again, I was wrong.
According to Carolina Media Guy, Coach Williams is apparently “on the road until August,” where I’m led to believe he has no access to phones, e-mails, or old-fashioned snail mail. Coach K has an even better excuse, as he is preparing the U.S. basketball team for the World Championships.
Alas, it appears that Mike and I face an uphill battle to join the ranks of the Packers, the Bruins, the Russells, the Jordans, and the Italian Stallions.
So be it. The truly great champions don’t even need a coach.
Now that I know what it feels like to get achingly close to winning a national championship, I’m not taking any chances with my next title shot.
If only I had been more prepared, maybe I could have won the National Hollerin’ Contest last weekend. I don’t want to be wondering the same thing after the National Egg Toss Championship on Sunday. That’s why Mike and I took egg throwing practice on the road tonight.
We’ve been fortunate to perform quite well in Mike’s front yard, but we needed to test our skills in a new environment. Since the National Egg Toss Championship will be on a baseball field (at the Hagerstown Suns’ stadium), we practiced on a nearby softball field. And since the Maryland Egg Council will be providing the eggs and we don’t know what kind of state they’ll be in, we practiced with eggs at room temperature (we have previously been practicing with eggs straight out of the fridge).
I’m happy to say that both variables did little to affect our performance. Just as we have in most of our recent practices, Mike and I consistently achieved throws of more than 60 feet, which would have been good enough to win last year’s contest by 20 feet.
However, I worry that there’s something we’re forgetting. Some mental strategy we’re overlooking. Some secret eggistential wisdom we’re missing.
Just in case there is something we’re forgetting, I recently requested some advice from several national champion coaches. With any luck, they’re reading this now. Coach K, Coach Williams, Coach Saban: Mike and I can’t wait to hear from you guys.
My delusions of grandeur began weeks after attempting my first castrato soprano holler in the comfort of my own home and days before mounting the rickety steps to the stage at the 42nd National Hollerin’ Contest in Spivey’s Corner.
Maybe, I thought, I could actually win. Maybe my picture and quotes would adorn the front pages of small-town newspapers scattered across eastern North Carolina. Maybe I’d even receive the coveted invite from David Letterman to appear on The Late Show. Or maybe I’d hold out for Conan O’Brien’s new show in the fall. Sure, I was a long shot, but I’d done my homework. I knew that hollerin’ was much more than a battle of vocal decibels. As an ancient form of communication, I knew that hollerin’ was once a vital part of life. Long before e-mail and telephones, hollerin’ was a lifeline to the neighbors and it provided a diversion while working long, hot hours on the farm. And I knew that the people of Spivey’s Corner—a sleepy crossroads, miles from nowhere, where the contest takes place on the third Saturday every June—had little respect for those who disrespect their heritage.
I had mastered the distress holler, a short but loud ambulance-like sound used as a cry for help. I was pretty good at an old time expressive holler, a minute-long song-like series of falsetto hoots and yodel sounds. And I was ready to bring something new to this contest: the N.C. State fight song and a soulful rendition of Jesus Loves Me. If only some of the former hollerin’ champions decided to skip this year’s contest to stay out of the 90-degree heat, maybe I actually had a shot at winning.
The day of the contest arrives, and with less than an hour until game time, the announcement of the judges gives me two promising signs. One of them is an N.C. State graduate. Another is Gregory Jackson, a four-time Hollerin’ Contest champ. That means there is one less former champion competing. But it doesn’t help ease my nerves. I’m confident in my routine, but not my poise on stage. My previous stage experience includes several pre-voice-change youth choir shows and an eighth-grade play in which I successfully portrayed my Southern-drawled, Coca-Cola-addicted math teacher, Ms. Thornton. In the former, I blended in with the crowd. In the latter, I wore a dress, chugged a 3-liter Coke, and produced a 3-second-long burp. Each of these events, however, lacked judging and local media coverage.
As the Conch Shell Blowin’, Whistlin’, Junior Hollerin’, and Teen Hollerin’ Contests come and go, pressure builds in my stomach. I sneak to the parking lot to find some solitude and clear my thoughts. Unfortunately, a fellow competitor, who parked next to us, is also at his car. And he’s in the mood to chat. About everything. Especially the story of his life. My pithy responses are an ineffective means of deterring him.
“Yeah, I gotta’ wear these hot boots because I broke my furnal bone,” he says.
“Interesting,” I say.
“I was supposed to be at a memorial service today for a friend, but I figured I’d come holler, instead.”
“Gotcha.”
“You see that girl walkin’ round here in the green dress? Boyy-ee, she was sumpthin’ else!”
“Must have missed her.”
“Yeah, my ex-wife has cancer. I take care of her. We’re still real close.”
“That’s great.”
This drags on for at least 10 minutes. Don’t get me wrong, my new friend seems like a great guy. I’m just not in the mood to banter. I decide that it might be a good idea to join the audience again and watch the Women’s Callin’ Contest. I’m pleased to hear that none of them perform any of my hollers. After the Women’s Contest, the emcee asks the men to gather behind the stage. Calling it a stage, by the way, is doing it a favor. It’s actually a hollowed-out tractor-trailer car.
I don’t recognize the first few contestants. But the former champions trickle in.
First, there’s four-time winner Kevin Jasper. The winner of the contest in 2009, Jasper was the first person I contacted for hollerin’ help. Three weeks earlier, he advised me to listen to some of the old time hollers on the album Hollerin’ and to throw a hymn into my routine. Many of the contestants holler Amazing Grace, he told me, so he stays away from it. Instead, he often hollers How Great Thou Art. Best to stay away from that one, too, I thought. He also mentioned that he would probably do an old time holler that he once performed over his father’s grave. I decided not to ask about that holler, assuming that I’d hear it in due time.
Jasper greets me with a welcoming handshake behind the stage. Moments later, I notice Larry Jackson, a seven-time winner, and Tony Peacock, a one-time champion. I recognize them both from news stories and videos I’ve seen online. They introduce themselves and offer me luck. I now realize that I’ll need plenty of it. For I am walking in the footsteps of hollerin’ royalty. So much for my hopes for a weak field.
I walk to the corner of the stage to peek at the crowd. As the first contestant performs, I pretend that it’s me. And then I hear it. The point of no return.
“My friends, help me welcome to the stage, from Raaaaa-leigh, North Carolina, contestant six zero two, Mr. Jon Page!”
Somehow, my legs confidently carry me on stage. Behind a tinted pair of aviator sunglasses, I find Carie and my dad, the only two familiar faces I know in this audience of strangers scattered across the lawn on folding chairs. While I’ve practiced my hollers for hours, I never wrote a script of what I was going to say between them. I figured it might be best to wing it. I take a deep breath and start talking before I even reach the microphone.
“Hello Spivey’s Corner! I’ll tell you what, it’s a pleasure to be here. This is my first Hollerin’ Contest and I thought I would be nervous, but you people are far too beautiful for anybody to be scared of. Now if I had been in trouble, I could have done a distress holler that goes like this: wuppp, WHEWWWW-EWWWWWWWW…”
I’m off without a hitch.
I transition from my distress holler to my old time expressive holler. Considering that I only started perfecting it 5 days before the contest, it goes incredibly well.
Next, I inform the crowd that my own expressive holler will be the N.C. State fight song. I don’t get much of a reaction from the announcement. I start to worry that there might be more University of North Carolina fans in this audience than State fans, but I start, nonetheless. Halfway through, I make eye contact with a woman in the crowd who is clearly displeased. It’s probably because of my hollerin’, but I chalk it up to an upset stomach from too much barbecue. Either that, or she’s a Tar Heel. I finish the fight song to a smattering of cheers. In an unplanned move, I raise my arms and make the Wolfpack wolf-chomping symbol with my hands. “Yeah, Wolfpack,” I say. “You know what I’m talking about.” I feel like an idiot for saying, “You know what I’m talking about.”
Finally, I close with what I call something we can “hopefully all agree on,” and I belt out a soprano rendition of Jesus Loves Me that would make Justin Timberlake jealous.
Two more contestants give it their best, and then it’s Jackson’s turn, and he’s clearly a seven-time national champ for a reason. At one point in his routine, he performs a holler in which he is hollerin’ as he breathes IN and OUT.
Jasper is next, and he’s incredible. I’m enjoying the artistry of his hollerin’ too much to notice that my dreams of placing in the contest are evaporating. Also, I start to feel like a jerk.
“The last holler I’d like to do, and I’ll do two of them, is a holler that I did over my father’s grave last summer with my mother,” Jasper says. “She asked me to do it because I’d done it the year that he passed, after his funeral. And I’m going to do a part of Mr. Floyd Lee’s Old Timey Holler.”
Wait a second, I think, Floyd Lee? I know that name. Why do I know that name? Oh no! I know that name because he’s the guy whose holler I mimicked for my expressive holler! This is the holler Jasper did over his father’s grave? Seriously? Why didn’t I just ask him that in the first place?
My embarrassment is magnified when Jasper starts hollerin’. There’s no way to properly quantify how much better his version is than mine, but I’d start by guessing that it’s 50 times better. At least.
Finally, Peacock impresses the audience with a variety of hollers, including his own personal creation. I realize it will take a miracle to win. Jasper confirms this when he approaches me behind the stage.
“Jon, congratulations. You did a great job,” he says. “I really hope you come back again next year because you really have potential. Now, you might not place today. There are three national champions here, after all.”
Yeah, tell me about it, I think. But, wait… what did he just say? Did he just say I did a great job? And he’s telling me I should come back next year? Before I can say anything else, the emcee invites all the contestants on stage and announces the winners.
Jackson is the second runner-up. Jasper is the runner-up. Peacock is the champion. And I’m going home empty-handed.
Or am I?
Behind the stage, Jackson echoes Jasper’s sentiments. So does Peacock. The newly crowned champion of the National Hollerin’ Contest is congratulating me—and he’s the one holding the trophy!
I start to think these guys are simply messing with me, that this is nothing more than some sick, twisted form of hollerin’ hazin’. I’m chatting with my friend from the parking lot when I see Gregory Jackson, the aforementioned four-time champion judge. He locks eye contact with me from 20 yards away. His face is void of expression as he plots a direct path towards me. Perhaps he is preparing to do what Jasper was too nice to do: tell me that I’m an inconsiderate jerk for stealing Jasper’s old timey holler. I feel like a weak prey being stalked by a great hunter.
Jackson puts one hand on my right shoulder. He shakes my hand with the other. Circulation is temporarily halted in my fingers.
“I just wanted to tell you personally what a fine job you did,” Jackson says. “You showed us a lot today. Keep practicing and please come back next year.” My new friend from the parking lot is still standing next to me, but Jackson has yet to acknowledge him. “Seriously, Jon. You’ve got it, and I think you have great potential.” Finally, Jackson looks at my friend. “And you … too. Come on back.”
Minutes later, a teary-eyed spectator thanks me for hollerin’ Jesus Loves Me.
It hits me. I really wasn’t as terrible as I thought. Sure, I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t bad. And these hollerin’ champs weren’t hazin’ me, after all. So what if I wasn’t going home with a trophy? I was taking something more valuable: some hard-earned respect from the kings of hollerin’.
And maybe my dreams of hollerin’ fame weren’t so crazy. Maybe they were just a year early.
Contestants 606 and 602: four-time Hollerin’ Contest champion Kevin Jasper and rookie hollerer Jon Page.
Contestants 602 and 607: rookie hollerer Jon Page and National Hollerin’ Contest Champion Tony Peacock.
Special thanks to Kevin Jasper, Tony Peacock, Larry Jackson, Gregory Jackson, and all the other competitors at the Hollerin’ Contest. They are truly talented, genuinely great people. I hope to holler at you guys next year.
Now that I’ve competed in my first National Hollerin’ Contest, I feel adequately qualified to pen a first timer’s guide to hollerin’. As I see it, there are 10 basic steps to go from hollerin’ mess to hollerin’ success.
1. Respect your hollerin’ elders. When I first told people I was competing, many of them assumed that the hollerin’ contest is a shouting match. Far from it. Hollerin’ is possibly one of the oldest forms of communication in the world. Before telephones, hollerin’ was the only way to let your neighbors know that you were OK, or that you needed help, or to let your girlfriend know that you were half a mile from her house. Otherwise, she might not clean up for your arrival, and she’d stink of tobacco. So each holler is as different as the message it carries. Some hollers are as intricate as opera songs, so don’t show up simply expecting to scream, like some folks have in the past.
2. Buy the album Hollerin’. It’s going to be your hollerin’ bible. Without it’s nuggets of wisdom, you don’t stand a chance.
3. Listen to the album, lots. Listen to it in your car, at home, at work, wherever you can.
4. Practice, lots. Practice in your car, at home, at work, wherever you can. Learning some of the more complicated hollers takes time. And energy. And the patience of your spouse. Or roommate. Or neighbor. Or dog. You’re probably going to be really bad, at first. Hell, you might be really bad by the end of it, too, but you’re going to be really bad at first. Even if you’re a decent singer, learning some of the hollers is like learning a new language. To make it easier on myself, I broke one 45-second holler into seven smaller parts using an audio editor. Then I listed to one section at a time, over and over and over until each individual track sounded like static. In time, however, it all started to make sense.
5. Practice more.
6. Develop your routine. Once you’ve got a few weeks of practice under your belt, it’s time to start piecing together your routine. In the National Hollerin’ Contest, you’ve got 4 minutes. If you go longer, you’re disqualified. There seems to be no official standard that the judges are looking for, but you’ll be safe if you talk about the history of hollerin’ and throw in a hymn.
7. Practice your routine in front of a few trusted family members or friends. Performing for actual people is a lot different than performing in the car or the shower. Plus, your friends might be able to give you some helpful advice.
8. Congratulations! You’re nearly ready to compete in the National Hollerin’ Contest. But make sure you’ve got the following before leaving for the contest: giant sun umbrella, sunglasses, hat, chairs, cooler full of water, sunscreen. Summers in North Carolina are hot. And there’s no shade at the Hollerin’ Contest, so you should be prepared to battle the sun.
9. Keep practicing. Just because you’re already at the contest doesn’t mean you can’t practice a little more.
10. Have fun. If you’ve followed steps 1-9, then you’ve got a decent chance of making a respectable showing at the Hollerin’ Contest. Just don’t take yourself too seriously. You’re probably not going to win your first competition, so you might as well enjoy yourself. At least, as much as you can in 90-degree heat.
So it turns out I’m not a national champion in hollerin’. Or a runner up. Or a second runner up.
I could care less.
Competing in my first National Hollerin’ Contest was worth every minute of practice over the past few weeks and every drop of sweat I lost in Spivey’s Corner on this hot afternoon.
More to come soon, including a video of me in action.
