New Champ Emerges From Pumpkin Wars

So many major league records have been squashed this summer.

First Babe Ruth. Then Roger Maris.

Now Bob Critchfield’s Great Pumpkin streak at the Spokane Interstate Fair.

Say it ain’t so. For 11 straight seasons, Critchfield, 74, wallowed in that singular glory that comes with nurturing the region’s portliest pumpkins.

Then, from out of left field, came Dave Jensen. The upstart Spokane produce manager raised this year’s winning Sasquash in just a pint-sized backyard garden.

As an added bonus, Jensen’s 16-year-old son, Aaron, captured the fair’s junior division with a 462-pound entry.

“We’re the Griffeys of the pumpkin world,” says Jensen, 42, who began growing pumpkins as a hobby eight years ago.

Jensen’s champ weighs in at around 600 pounds, or roughly two Rosie O’Donnells. Unfortunately, a more specific tonnage can’t be revealed. Fairgoers can still win a prize by guessing the vulgar vegetable’s precise weight.

A fair wouldn’t be a fair without the freaks of the vegetable world.

Potatoes resembling Nixon. Tomatoes swollen bigger than volleyballs. Sunflowers tall enough to sign NBA contracts … But when it comes to sheer horrific shock value, perhaps only Jerry Lewis blubbering in a telethon will top a mutant pumpkin.

Understandably disappointed at being bested by Jensen, Critchfield accepted defeat like a true professional.

“It shouldn’t be in the fair,” he complains of Jensen’s pumpkin. “It has four holes in it. That pumpkin will be rotten in 10 days.”

Jensen’s winner does have a few stress cracks near the stem. But after checking with the Northwest Pumpkin Growers Association, Jensen was told his entry was legal because the cracks don’t “penetrate the seed cavity.”

Sounds like something out of the Starr report.

Critchfield claims he has some pumpkins still in the field that dwarf Jensen’s pride and joy. He plans to keep them hidden until a Northwest competition.

There are snakes in this pumpkin patch.

Jensen accuses Critchfield of spying on his pumpkins when he wasn’t home. “I go to everybody’s place,” explains Critchfield, adding: “He’s a very poor loser.”

Critchfield says Jensen sabotaged him two years ago at the Fred Meyer store where Jensen manages the produce department.

According to Critchfield, who sells pumpkins commercially, the store agreed to buy one of his Goliaths for 50 bucks. The deal went sour, he says, when Jensen put one of his own pumpkin brutes on display. “Bunch a damn crooks,” mutters Critchfield.

“The only difference is that I gave my pumpkin to the store,” interjects Jensen.

Boys. Booooys!!!

Perhaps the sheer difficulty of growing giant pumpkins is what pushes otherwise reasonable humans over the sanity cliff.

Pumpkins must be carefully cultivated in cubic yards of cow manure. They must be sprayed with more fertilizer every day. Tents must be built to shelter them from too much sun.

Like thirsty vampires, Jensen’s demonic gourds sucked water at a rate of 300 to 600 gallons per day.

And despite all the tender loving care, disaster can strike. A few days before the fair, Jensen’s biggest pumpkin sickened and began to rot like a beached whale.

“I shed a few tears, man,” says Jensen, standing reverently over the bug-ridden corpse.

“He calls them his kids,” adds Aaron, rolling his eyes at his father’s pumpkin obsession.

You have to be a bit crazy to chase the world pumpkin record of 1,061 pounds.

How crazy? Jensen and his wife, Lloydeen, will celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary in October. He’s taking her to a pumpkin weighoff near Seattle.

“Sometimes I’m afraid of what I might turn into,” muses the pumpkin man, in a moment of selfrealization. “It’s scary.”