Since the dawn of time, the world's greatest scholars, poets, philosophers, priests, politicians, and popes have agonized over one undying question:

How can we make baseball less boring?

Major League Baseball Commissioner Rob Manfred thought the answer was the pitch clock. Legendary slugger Barry Bonds found juicing up and drilling dingers to be a compelling answer. (Put him in the Hall of Fame!) Hell, even the professional translator to current phenom Shohei Ohtani needed some extra skin in the game to give a shit. 

They all tried to make America’s pastime a less passive experience. They all failed, in one way or another. Bonds’s legacy is forever tainted, Ohtani’s translator will probably go to jail, and we’ll address Manfred’s L later. And, for Minnesota Twins fans, that undergirding tedium has been exacerbated by the utter collapse of the 2024 season, a catastrophe made worse by penny-pinching ownership. Watching baseball in Twins Territory has been miserable for the past month. 

This situation may seem dire, but fear not. I have a solution to the tear-inducing boredom that is Major League Baseball, a solution built on excess: the 9-9-9 challenge. As in, one person consuming nine beers and nine hot dogs during nine innings of baseball. Here’s where we’ll insert a perfunctory disclaimer: THIS ENDEAVOR IS DUMB, DANGEROUS, AND DEGENERATE—DO NOT ATTEMPT TO REPLICATE IT!

With that out of the way…  

A test of both heart and stomach, the challenge first presented itself to me via TikTok at the beginning of the summer.

The 9-9-9 has been around since at least 2004, per this ancient ESPN article, long before the introduction of the pitch clock, an invention that exists in direct conflict with the heart of these trials. With videos garnering thousands of views on YouTube and Tiktok (sometimes even millions), the 9-9-9 couldn’t help but grab the attention of journalists with a pension for gorging on grilled meats and grainy brews. Bleacher Report, a teetotaling reporter for the Houston Chronicle, local radio stations, and the aforementioned ESPN have all covered the rejuvenated phenomenon, some of them decades prior to this one, so I’m right on time.

Determined to subject myself to the 9-9-9 challenge for your amusement, I ventured to the first baseball, booze, and bratwurst-based event I could find: St. Paul Saints vs. Iowa Cubs at CHS Field this past Labor Day.

Icarus

In need of a chauffeur, I recruited the best binge-drinking reference I could find: my dear friend and fellow journo Noah Mitchell, author of Racket’s first foray into stunt-drinking journalism. Now retired from his own degrading era of undergrad overindulgence, Noah has graduated into the stiflingly sober professional world. He would act as wise counsel and, at times, emotional support on my journey. Also the idea for this article was his brainchild—thanks, buddy! (And to be clear: I’ve already attempted the 9-9-9 challenge under non-journalistic circumstances, all for the love of the game.)

The first pitch was set to sail at 4:10 p.m., but we arrived at around 3:30 to get a feel for the ballpark/battlefield and pre-purchase some supplies. This turned out to be a great decision, as immediately upon entry we were drafted to participate in some on-field antics between the second and third innings: Noah and I were to compete against one another in a sort of sumo-relay-thing. This would prove a barrier to my completion of the challenge—we were away from our seats for the entire second inning, valuable face-stuffing time squandered in the name of gameday shenanigans.

Soon it was time to begin. The first pitch was thrown at 4:11 p.m., and the first dog (an $8 Saints Dog) was in my tummy by 4:12. I was off to a hot start, and frankly (hot dog word), I needed to be. I spent the next 10 minutes or so working through my first beer. Which means I now have to bore you with math.

Technically, I wasn’t about to drink nine beers. Technically, I was about to drink six. Before you click away in disgust, hear me out. A beer, in my mind, is a 12-ounce can, not a 20-ounce cup. After consulting an expert on the matter—the guy behind the counter of the nearest beer and hot dog vendor—I decided that 180 ounces of beer would at best lead to a challenge failure and possibly my removal from the stadium. So we settled on six (deeply Minnesotan) Michelob Golden Lights, each coming in around $15, I learned later from my bank statements in the cruel light of day.

Anyway, back to scarfing processed meats.

Heading into the second inning, I was on pace and prepared to compete in the gladiatorial arena. But I wasn’t prepared for how heavy sumo suits are, and thus, I found myself rolling around on the ground while trying to tackle Noah as 6,008 fans watched on. By the time I made it back to my seat in defeat (Noah, it turns out, is very agile), it was the bottom of the third and I was struggling for breath. I was behind, and I couldn’t fully catch my breath until the fifth inning. And so were the Saints, who were down 8-1 by the time we returned from our sidequest. A bad omen to be sure. 

I started scarfin’ again, but my body began rejecting the meat tubes I kept forcing into it, turning my stomach and making me gaseous. Around inning five, dog three, and beer four, I became distracted by Muddonna, the pink pig mascot of the Saints. What does this pig twerking atop the Saints dugout have to do with their moniker or baseball generally? Not a clue. But Racket co-owner Jay Boller once called her “kinda sexy,” and I want to get paid for this project so, sure, the pig is hot.

Now both hot and bothered by my massive consumption and bargain-bin Miss Piggy, my greatest challenge would be understanding the flow of concession lines. I stood in line for about an inning and a half to get to a kiosk and order food, only to be told that the kiosk wasn’t being used and I was in the food pick-up line. Was this my fault? Certainly. Was I upset? Indubitably.

This brings one of the greatest villains of our story into frame: Rob Manfred has ruined my life. While great for speeding up the pace of play on the diamond, the pitch clock was horrible for respecting the real sport taking place in the stands. Noah said this was a good thing, that it brought greater stakes to our beautiful game of dog digestion and beer slurping; but he wasn’t participating, so his vote doesn’t count.

Behind on dogs by two innings and about on pace for beer, I was determined to make my stand. I knew the dogs would likely be my downfall, so finishing the beer became the primary objective. Around the eighth inning, my fate was all but certain. My stomach churned, the taste of salty dogs soured in my mouth, and my motivation cratered.

I could only muster a measly five hot dogs. I finished all 120 ounces of beer, the equivalent of 10 12-once brewdawgs for all you math majors, but I couldn’t drown out my shortcomings. In Las Vegas that same day, Joey Chestnut ate 83 hot dogs in 10 minutes. That’s 8.3 dogs per minute, or dpm. My dpm was only 0.025. 

Why even try?

Stung by failure, I needed to redeem myself. And this time, I was going to the big leagues. If I couldn’t succeed under the bright lights of Target Field, why succeed anywhere?

Prometheus

I knew I would have to prepare far more professionally for my second attempt. So I started the way any true competitor would: Training (aka getting drunk) on the night before the game. No athlete competes without first warming up, after all. Yet even more worrisome than my pregame routine was the day itself: Friday the 13th. I’m not a particularly spiritual man, but I can't deny this was troubling. Perhaps a Freaky Friday situation with Mr. Chestnut could save me this time around. 

It seemed fitting that Byron Buxton would be returning to the Twins lineup for the game. (Funnily enough, he was on a conditioning rehab stint with the Saints on my first attempt.) Like Buxton, I was looking for redemption from my last outing. Unlike Buxton, I’m not a generational five-tool athlete with a frustrating history of injuries. There may also be some other differences.

I rode to Target Field with “Kid A” on the radio, trying to out-think my headache. Not the ideal pump-up music for one of the greatest athletic endeavors of my life (who can deny that this would be a feat of physical strength?), but it was strangely calming.

“Maybe that’s all life is: Radiohead and baseball,” Noah said, perplexingly. 

I’m still not sure what that means, if anything. In the moment, though, it was exactly what I needed to hear to start sucking down franks. I was a broken man, and the proverbial eagle was ripping out my innards and replacing them with dread. Noah’s observation offered solace. I could begin.

Unfortunately, I would almost immediately miscalculate my wiener metrics.

There are two types of Twins Dogs: the original Twins Dog and the Twins Big Dog. Not knowing that, I started out with three Big Dogs. Per Schweigert’s website, the OG is 220 calories and the Big Dog is 340, not including bun. (Neither should be confused with Hormel’s eternally mourned Dome Dog.) In my research, I discovered the Original was listed at 2,200 (!) calories. Concerned by the implications of these false figures, I contacted Schweigert’s sales manager, Dan, who informed me that my numbers were correct and the typo would be fixed.

You’re welcome, American consumer. Don’t say a journalist never did anything for ya.

By the time I realized my mistake, I’d already eaten all three Big Dogs. The rest of the hot dogs I purchased were originals, but the damage was done. Consummate professional that I am, I powered through this error, no matter how much it would slow me down. With the previous dog-devouring failure in mind, the primary objective pivoted to eating the dogs as fast as possible, using the beer to wash down when necessary, and chugging the remaining beer at the last moment. It was a risky plan, but risks must be taken to achieve greatness. Wayne Gretzky or Michael Jordan or somebody said that. 

I finished the Big Dogs in the second inning, and I maintained the one-dog-ahead pace for the rest of the game. I was falling off pace for beer, but as a University of Minnesota student, I figured I would be able to make up the difference in the back half. 

Then the burps came.

Noah looked worried. There was a little-league softball team sitting in front of us. In the splash zone.

It was the seventh inning. I had just taken the first bite out of dog eight and, while trying to wash it down with beer, knew I was in trouble. I consulted my chaperone, and we came to a swift conclusion: It was time to pull the trigger.

I made my way to the restroom behind Section 325, walked into an open stall, and emptied my innards of all processed meats from the same hole they entered. I returned wobbly and bleary-eyed, but the expelled meat paste only gave me so much room to work with. I finished the eighth dog, and I knew it was over. If you were wondering, this left me with a dpm of 0.06.

I finished two of my last three beers, handing one off to Noah (in fairness, he did buy that one) and waited for the post-game concert from Chris Young, the Nashville country star behind "Drinkin' Me Lonely" and "Gettin' You Home (The Black Dress Song)." Then we remembered that Chris Young blows, so we went home. 

Umm... Narcissus (?)

Praying to my porcelain god early Saturday morning, the cost of my adventures weighed heavy. My stomach was in shambles, my bank account was ravished, and my spirit was—and remains—shaken to its core.

Figures from my bank statement and credit card balance put total expenses around $366, though that’s a rough estimate (I’m a journalism major for a reason). Surprisingly, most of this was spent at the Saints game, but that can be chalked up to seating. We spent extra to be behind home plate at CHS, but went with $18 nosebleeders at Target Field.

Regardless, I’m eating ramen for a while.

If you plan on punishing your body for 9-9-9 clout, consider Dollar Dog Night at Target Field. The beer is going to kill your wallet either way, so you might as well save where you can. Especially with the average dog coming in around $7 or $8. 

But also, again: Never attempt this. 

I ingested roughly 5,200 calories across both excursions, 2,200 at the Saints game and 3,000 at the Twins. While I didn’t eat all day the first time, I drank excessively the night before the Twins game, gobbled a bunch of chicken tenders in the morning, and went out after, so I was packing on the pounds that weekend. 

A part of my warped brain still believes that, given another opportunity, I could get the job done. The rest of my brain never wants to eat another hot dog. 

I suppose I was much like Buxton that night. He put up a great effort, hitting a home run in the bottom of the fifth inning to tie up the game 1-1. Still, the Twins went on to lose 8-4. Two attempts, a great second effort, but inevitably, failure. Really, I’m just like the face-planting 2024 Twins. 

The big lesson of all this? Overindulging in beer is way more fun than overindulging in hot dogs. Next time I go to a baseball game, I might just limit it to the 9-9 challenge… or, more realistically, the 5-9 not-really-a-challenge. 

As a guy who only passively follows baseball through headlines, notifications from the MLB app, 20-year-old home run highlight reels (free Barry!), and pretending to know what my dad is talking about when he brings up anyone on the Twins who isn’t named Royce Lewis or Byron Buxton, this made baseball, dare I say, watchable. Was I upset when the Twins got an out too quickly, thus hastening my hedonism? A bit, but at least I cared. I doubt many people at those games cared as much about what was happening on the field as I did. 

Should you put your body, wallet, and soul on the line to make baseball interesting? Again, no. But I did, and it was fun. I might even go to another baseball game some day.